Coney Island had three things going for it: Amusement parks, beaches boasting big waves, and Nathan’s hot dogs. As a child, I took all of that for granted. Being a kid is about being in the moment, not so much thinking about the past, and only having time for the immediate future. I was not your typical kid; I was certain the space beneath the boardwalk was my bunker and my gateway to paradise.

I was six years old and going to the beach was always a treat, but not for the reasons you might think. I hated two things that the beach offered; hot sand and seaweed. I thought seaweed was way too slimy; I avoided it like you’d avoid a swarm of bees. Hot sand burned the bottom of my feet, confining me to our blanket or a beach towel. So why did I love the beach? I could easily hide under the boardwalk where it was cool and quiet. What made it even more attractive, was the fact that it was off-limits to everyone.

I’m still not sure why my mother allowed me to sneak away and hide there. Wasn’t it dangerous? Couldn’t someone have come along and snatched me? Didn’t bums go there to take a shit? So many questions, but none I was concerned about.

I remember the first time I discovered I could easily shimmy between the boardwalk and the sand. I felt invincible and oh so cool. That’s how I felt, but I looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Nobody judged me under the boardwalk.

After squirming my way under, the first thing that struck me back then, was how the light sliced through the wooden boards. It made these diagonal stripes across the sand; I was certain this was not a common occurrence. I wondered if it was possible that this place was meant to be my place; only mine.

You might be wondering how I passed the time under the boardwalk or if I ever went there with anyone else. The thing is, time was different there; time could not be counted or clocked — time only passed above the boards.

Under the boardwalk I was a warrior; fighting off the enemy — whomever the enemy might be. Mom’s friend Vito, pow, pow, pow. Vito drinks too much and grabs my mom’s ass. Not while I’m in charge. Margie, our neighbor who stinks up the neighborhood with her horrible cooking; didn’t mean to slam that oven door down on your head Margie. Uncle Gary leaving his stink bombs all over the dining room . . . somebody keyed your car Uncle Gary, isn’t that a shame. I couldn’t be caught as long as I had my hiding place.

Nobody could hurt me, touch me, ignore me, or scream at me under the boardwalk. There was a homeless guy living under another section of the boardwalk, but it didn’t bother me. As long as he stayed in his own area, I pretended he was on neutral ground. I had my own little arsenal of weapons that I hid there. None of them could kill, but they could do some damage when provoked.

This one time I was daydreaming about a birthday party my mother threw for me. All the kids in the neighborhood were there; even kids I didn’t know. Some of the kids were fighting over who was my best friend. I knew who my best friend was, but I didn’t say anything because Vinny doesn’t know he’s my best friend. I suppose he may never know — doesn’t matter, so long as I know. Vinny could have even hid with me if he wanted to.

My mother once asked me what exactly I did when I was under the boardwalk. I told her that I didn’t do anything and that seemed to be enough for her. She just told me to be careful. I’m not sure why I needed to be careful, why would anyone have hurt me in my hiding place.

I’m twenty-six years old now. I’ve traveled to many places, I’ve dreamed, and I’ve come close to dying. No place that I have been since that time I spent under the boardwalk has ever come close to being as magical. It wasn’t the light or the temperature; it wasn’t the sound of the waves crashing close by, it wasn’t even the self-proclaimed hero I knew in my heart I was, it was the solitary fact that my mother trusted me enough to allow me to be there by myself, with myself. I’m there right now. I’m under the boardwalk, won’t you join me?

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A reminder that this story is a work of fiction. I’m having fun writing these stories; stories that live inside my head.