Clean Beaches

Freedom of Speech, Like it or Not, at Sagg Main Beach in Sagaponack

By Dan Rattiner

Yesterday at 6 p.m., I got in my Land Rover and drove from my office down to the beach at Sagg Main to write a story. You can drive out onto the beach itself after 6 pm in the summertime, and I do that, driving as far as I can down the beach to get to some isolated spot.

The particular one I found on this day was off to the west of the pavilion, at a point where a sandbar is created between Sagg Pond and the ocean. There is usually someone kayaking in the pond here at this hour as this is a good dragging point. Sometimes there are surfcasters or surfers. But for the most part, if you park a good distance from anybody else, people respect your privacy. I took out a folding chair, a blanket and an umbrella and set them up facing the ocean not far from the truck. Then I opened my laptop, sat down in the chair and commenced to write an article for this newspaper. I’ve been doing this almost every day for twenty years.

The story was actually about the planet Pluto and it efforts to keep from being cast out of the solar system.

At that moment, as I was deep in thought trying to describe this controversy, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that someone was approaching me. You have to understand that I get totally engrossed in my work when I write. If people do come by, I let them know quickly I am busy writing just now. Sorry, they’ll say, and move along. It’s all right, I’ll reply.

“Hi,” this person said.

I looked up. He was a pleasant looking man of about forty-five in a bathing suit and t-shirt. I did not know him. He stood there, facing me.

“Hi,” I said. I waved at my computer. “I’m writing a story.”

In response, he sat down on the sand directly in front of me. We were going to have a meeting.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “You’re an editor, right? Somebody down the beach told me you were. I’m looking for an editor. Somebody said I ought to find an editor from the East Hampton Star or some other paper, but then they said you work for a paper. So I thought I’d talk to you. Maybe you can do something about this.”

Well, the spell had been broken. I was no longer writing. So it was break time. I was not happy about this.

“Have you ever noticed how DIRTY the beaches are?” the man asked. Actually I thought they were rather clean is what went through my mind. “I am very offended by this. People throw paper cups on the beach. People leave soda cans, chicken bones. Who is in charge of these things? I called the Village of Sagaponack and they said it was not their problem. I called the Town of Southampton and they said they have people come down to clean up. I tried to follow up, but got left on hold. Then I called back and left a message but nobody called me back.”

Indeed they do clean the beaches, is what I thought. In fact, they have a machine that they drive around on the beach and sift the sand to get any trash out. I’ve seen them.

“I want you to do a campaign to get these beaches clean. If the Town won’t do it, then we summer people have to take the lead in arranging for people to do it. It should be a citizen’s committee. What do you think?”

“I think the beaches are pretty clean,” I said.

“Well, they’re not. Every time I come out here I pick up something. I shouldn’t have to do this. These are OUR beaches. And you local people, you newspaper editors, should put together a committee to do this.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“This has been done in other beach towns. People walk around with bags and sticks. The local people make the mess. They should clean it up. It’s only fair.”

“You think it’s the LOCAL people?” I asked.

“I think its all those people in pickup trucks. They drive along and they eat a baloney sandwich and they throw the wrapper out the window.”

This was getting out of hand. “It’s not just the local people. No one group is better than another.”

“Then who else is it?”

I had an idea. “I once saw a guy driving a Jaguar roll down the window and toss a beer can into the bushes,” I said. “It WAS a Heineken.”

“So you don’t think it’s the locals?”

I was getting mad. “I’ll tell you what I DO think is a problem with trash on the beach. I wrote an article about it one time. Party balloons. Those big silver things filled with helium that say HAPPY BIRTHDAY on them. They float off, and then they come down either right on the beach or just offshore and they get blown onto shore. Animals and sea creatures can get tangled up in them. This is completely irresponsible.”

He seemed taken aback. “Well, that’s probably true,” he said.

“And these are not LOCAL people who have these parties, these are Summer People who have these parties. I know because I go to these parties. These people order these balloons and then when the party’s over they don’t think anything further of it.” I was warming to the task. “THAT’S what we need a committee for. People who come out here on weekends to stay another day, Monday, out there on the beach with plastic bags and pointed sticks. I’d go for that.”

He didn’t know quite what to make of this. So he got up. He brushed the sand off his legs. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you,” he said. And he walked away.

I’ve seen all sorts of things out at the beach. Seals, beached whales, people building giant sandcastles, kayakers, girls going topless. Biplanes dragging marriage proposal banners. Movie shoots. This was a first.