The Flamingo Kid Rides Again

This weekend I was invited again to my neighbor's annual court party at her cabana at the Breezy Point Surf Club in the Rockaways.

Breezy, a/k/a the Irish Riviera, is as definitively "boro" as it gets and as timelessly shabby as a summer camp. Anyone who's seen Garry Marshall's 1984 movie, "The Flamingo Kid", with Matt Dillon might be able to imagine the place. In fact, that movie was filmed on location only a mile down the beach from Breezy at a similar, although higher-end, beach club.

My buy-in for the annual invite is my sangria, which I immodestly admit has few peers. It's loaded with good wine, brandy, Triple Sec, at least six fresh fruits and a few secret ingredients. (I'll cop to one of them: cinnamon sticks). I come laden with six gallons of the stuff, both red and white.

It's too easy to take cheap shots at Breezy. After passing through the gates, it looks less like a beach club than a refugee camp with tiny, cluttered wooden cabanas abutting the parking lot. The second thing you notice is what's not there: ocean. The Surf Club is a good quarter-mile+ hike from the surf, separated by a federal sea bird sanctuary. Nobody really cares though because the action is on the cabana courts.

Overhead, passengers on final approach to JFK must take a gander at Breezy and wonder if they've been hijacked to Cuba and are seeing the infamous Gitmo. Breezy only has the basic amenities of a beach club: a big swimming pool, a tennis court and a small ball field. That's about it. Nevertheless, there's a waiting list for the hundreds of 8x16, $4000/season firetrap cabanas built on a nondescript strip of sand on the western tail of the Rockaway Peninsula.

Why? Because Breezy is a non-stop, summer long party scene.

I only visit the club once or twice a year so I could never get a handle on what the attraction was. I mean, Club Med it ain't. It was only on this trip that I finally figured it out. It's a cult, in the cultural sense. Breezy people are a congregation of like-minded people who worship this place. It's a scene where everybody knows everybody, where a party can break out any minute and where there's no shortage of what my Rhodesian buddy calls "liquid chicken" to keep spirits elevated. One Breezy legend has it that more alcohol is consumed per acre at the Surf Club than anywhere else on earth. Nevertheless, it's very much a family-oriented place. American flags fly everywhere, owing mostly to the large number of cops and firefighters who are members here.

Breezy even has its own community theme song. No court party is complete without the DJ cranking up "Hooked On A Feeling" to a mass sing-along, complete with choreography.

Even though the cabanas are rented unfurnished with minimal electric and a cold water hookup, it's amazing the creativity people have used to tart up their little shacks. Most have showers, most with tiny electric water heaters. Most have refrigerators and small stoves. I don't know how they manage this with just a 15a fuse (yes, I said fuse) but the few electrical hookups I've seen were frightening. Why this place hasn't disappeared into ashes by now is an act of divine intervention.

As always, my hangover the next day was epic. I know there were at least a dozen people who had to have crashed in their cabanas rather than brave the DUI checkpoints. But I can't wait for next year's party. I thought of a new sangria recipe I want to try.