Her hair danced in the racing gusts that came in from the open windows and her tongue drew back as she took another drag from the cancer stick that laid between her lips. “I just found out there’s no such thing as the real world,” she screamed at the top of her lungs to the John Mayer CD playing in her one-disc stereo as her car flew down Route 24, heading right towards Westhampton Beach. This has been her favourite town since she could remember, and for a valid reason. In the summertime, the sun reflected off of the windows of different stores that kids frequently ran in and out of. Then, as night fell, the lights would shimmer as decks and patios, full of people, sounded with music and the pinging and panging of glass and silverware. Yet, in the wintertime, everything stopped. It was as if the whole town had froze under the chilly temperatures. Cars were hardly parked out on the street, just the Volvo Stationwagon of the old woman going in to get her mail. The only people that would be dancing in the streets of Westhampton Beach in the winter would be the occasional crew of miscreant pals. But the best part of Westhampton Beach never stopped nor stood still, no matter what how frigid the air around it became. The best of Westhampton Beach was down a long, straight road.

In the summertime at the ocean, naturally, there would be swarms of sunbathers, soaking up the sizzling sweetness of summer. Men with sunglasses and Nerf footballs; women with string bikinis and digital cameras. Older folk with sunblock and younger folk with tanning oil. And kids everywhere! Building sand castles, splashing in the green-flagged waves. At night, the sunbathers magically turned into stargazers. People would bring out the sketchy red party cups, or their prized-possession telescopes and enjoy their lives under the twinkling dots in the sky. In the wintertime, this action did slow, certainly, but unlike the town, it did not stop. Hardcore surfers would run out to the crashing waves, wet-suit clad and insulated with adrenaline. Young couples would walk along the shoreline, holding hands and shivering in the brisk wind. Photographers came and took advantage of the winter’s cool, crisp and clear-as-glass air. At night, the stars were less hazy, so much more brilliant and vivid. Bonfires and marshmallows, although illegal, were pulled out and for miles one could see the dotted blazes along the shoreline. The ocean never stopped, not even in the winter. This was the beauty at the end of Dune Road.