Coney Island

I grew up by the ocean. To me, the smell of salt air was more than just a summertime feature but a comforting part of an eastern breeze year-round. I knew how to tie a cleat before I could tie my shoes. The rhythm of the tide accompanied the give and take of childhood.

A month ago I chose to transplant myself to New York City in search of a new life. Most painfully, this new life, with all its excitement and adventure, is removed from the salty air I once called home. So now when the concrete gets to be too much, I take the subway the half hour to Coney Island where I can feel a little bit of comfort along with an amazing cross-section of New Yorkers. On the boardwalk, English isn’t the first language you expect to hear; instead there’s a mix of a hundred different voices and tongues from all over the world. As I hear them speak words I don’t understand, I am reminded that they, too, are transplanted, and perhaps they come here too to find a bit of home. —Megan McCormick