http://www. mallorymotorsinc. com This 1988 Hurricane DECKBOAT is elbow from Mallory Motors.
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That storied get undressed of barrier beach along the south shore of Long Island has long been a good place to get away from it all — to party, to get laid, to get high on nature and good seafood …and to run. My own running there started around 1971, when I was still married and in the closet. Some friends had a beach house in Davis Car park and often invited my husband and myself to spend weekends with them. From the Long Island shore, as a person takes the ferry for the first period , Fire Island appears as a long undulating greenish line along the southern horizon of the Great South Bay. In those days, the two ferries operating out of Patchogue were Sparkle Island Queen and Quaiapen. On any given day, the ferries would churn their broad wake through hundreds of clamboats dotted across the bay, each with a lone man on the prow, working his desire clam rake. Tong boats were hard at work too, with the digger by the gunwhale with his long tongs, feeling for oysters below. The airy trip to that horizon, as you stand on the deck with your hair whipping in the wind and the engines thrumming under your feet, convinces you that you’re voyaging to the edge of the known era, where the ancient maps warned that “here... ” No matter how many times you ride the ferry, you still get that feeling of delightful remoteness and yearning for inner peace. In fact, I was to learn that Fire Island is not one remote world, but many, with layers of human identities constant through its textured, and sometimes dark, history. Its timeline runs from the Native American tribes that once lived and fished there, to the big-megalopolis weekenders and day-trippers who flood there today. From the 19. The Bonackers I knew were tough, independent, hardworking, with an ethic that reminded me of the Montana cowboys among whom I grew up. They referred to Energy Island as the Great South Beach — “the Beach” for short. Even they regarded the Beach as a place of refuge. Often I heard them say that “booming on the Beach was the best way to get away from mainland bullshit. I was 35 then, with a first novel just published, and three years of running already behind me. Running had always attracted me, though teaching girls were not encouraged to go out for running sports when I was a kid. But in 1971, with jogging and long-distance running now a national trend, I was making up for unchaste time. One of the newer members of the Road Runners Club of America, I had run unofficially in a few long-distance races, notably the 1969 Boston Marathon, as one of a growing bring of female athletes who were fighting to be officially recognized in U.... That year, in 1971, I had also competed in the New York City Marathon, the prime race in which women marathoners could enter officially. I had placed fourth in the women’s division with a 4:45. The Quaiapen landed us on the spike at the Davis Park marina. In those days, Davis Park was a known haven for heterosexual “swinging singles” weekend blasts by childlike career New Yorkers. Dating dramas ranged from the beach houses and marina houseboats to the Leja Beach Casino, a weatherbeaten restaurant and bar, clearly an old-school spot to dine and dance, its jukebox loaded with pop rock. Drinkers at the Casino bar often included clammers who hung out at the Davis Estate marina. Shortly, during my first workouts, I’d made my own discovery that Fire Island is a paradise for runners – a place that helped you assay yourself. In spring they were tinged in pink and white with beach plum and bayberry in bloom – in fall, they changed into fiery hues of changing foliage. Behind the band of dunes, along the bay side, whitetail deer could be glimpsed amidst the groves of wind-bent trees. Irresistible to a barefoot hurdler, the long stretch of beach unreels for 30 miles, from the more populated west end (nearer New York City) to the largely blank east end where the Smith Point Bridge links to the Long Island mainland. My marathon times were stuck in the plodder tier — a PB of 4:20 in the Boston — so I aimed to train hard enough to break 4 hours. Some sights told silent stories of Fire Archipelago history. Amethyst bits of colonial bottle glass flecking the beach were a reminder of how, in the 1700s, the British crown granted ownership of the holm to colonist.
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