Trips Home on Old Montauk Highway

The summer air of Old Montauk Highway is always ripe with memories as I drive along the water, heading for our warm-weather haunt. From 2 to 23 I traveled this rolling road with my father in the driver’s seat, just as he had when he was young. My own son accompanied me from that point on, igniting old memories while making new ones with yet another generation.

My father and I adored each other, but at the same time we were rarely sure how to coexist. I scared him more than the Army ever had, with my rebellious nature and refusal of any and all parental guidance. He survived Vietnam, and yet I stirred a fear inside of him and I knew it. He always said I broke him in a way that going to work each day in an armory never could. And while these summer trips never broke me of my headstrong personality, they were a time where we could draw lines of peace in the sand, both steadfastly agreeing to re-engage our battles another day.

Each summer my brothers, parents, and I would pile into my dad’s Camaro, itching for the beach and the sense of belonging that Montauk always held. The trip was truly unpredictable in length; some days taking us as little as 2 hours, others as long as 5. Always feeling both too long and not long enough, we passed the time singing songs and watching 27 East pass us by, daydreaming about the coming days. Until we hit the fork in the road. Once we bore right onto Old Montauk Highway, we were thrown instantly into the land of weekend getaways and summer days in the sand. We were almost there, and the closer we got, the more the world around us reflected it.

The road was hilly, and as you descended one hill and ascended the next, the oncoming scenery remained a mystery; sudden glimpses disappeared as quickly as they appeared as the Camaro flew, almost recklessly, up and down the undulating terrain. Along the way, my father regaled us with repetitive tales of his summers spent along this route in Hither Hills, pointing out his childhood campsite as we passed through; his family tradition that had inspired mine.

To the right, the water lapped enticingly on the shore, calling me towards the place that had always felt like home. To the left, beautiful houses sat side by side on perfectly manicured lawns, inviting visions of my family in one of them, living my dream of a future along those shores. Occasionally, towns popped up seemingly out of nowhere on the two-lane road. Then, without warning, our destination would appear as suddenly as the other towns had come and gone. The veil of dreamlike wonder lifted as we tumbled out of the Camaro and piled into the cottage. And as I grabbed my bag and charged inside with my brothers, one thought always came to mind, and to this day still does: “I belong here.”

Each summer, I return here, and as I plan each trip I long for the drive down this road. While the ultimate destination is Montauk, the trip there holds its own magic in my mind. Time often feels suspended along the quiet, hilly street, as each new trip bleeds into the past and I remember my father and these memories I hold all the more dearly for his absence. But the allure this path holds is not just in the vacations and escape or family and memories; Old Montauk Highway has always felt more like the road home than the road away from it.