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I spent my boyhood years in a suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. The nearest body of water was­ still is­ Lake Erie. My grandparents had a house right on the lake, as did my aunt and uncle; thus it was a fixture in my life. When I was five or six, I learned that there was daily ferry that departed Cleveland for Detroit. This sounded exotic to the extreme. Detroit must indeed be a fabulous place if it warranted a daily ferry taxiing to its bosom. For a time, taking this ferry to Detroit was my highest ambition­ already the theme of escape to El Dorado.

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At age ten, I was relocated to Cincinnati, and my body of water was now the Ohio River. The romance of an inland river is completely different from a Great Lake. It snaked around the southern coast of Ohio, had pretty bridges going over it, flooded every spring. When I got my driver's license, I'd pick up young men at the bus station or on the street­ some often hustling for small amounts of money; all I had­ and we'd drive down to the waterfront and have sex in the car. One of my distant relatives had written a series of boys' adventure stories­ collectively known as The "Seckatary Hawkins" series, sort of like the Hardy Boys but set on the banks of the Ohio River (they used an abandoned house boat for their club house).

I was 16 (1964) when I saw my first ocean. I had gone to New York to do the World's Fair and have sex with men in Times Square, which I quickly did­ that fresh Mid-Western aggressive cocksucker lure, always works. One boyfriend and I took the Staten Island ferry back and forth (cost a nickel then), and secretly held hands under our coats. I am not much of a romantic, but the ocean plays a role in one of my dramatic love scenes. I had met a beautiful blond sailor from California. His name was Ron. He had worked as an illustrator at the Disney Studio before joining the Navy. On an impulse­ and with the help of a friend­ we decided to spend the July 4th holiday in Ogunquit, Maine. We took the bus up and snuggled with each other in the seats­ I'll save my erotic adventures on vehicles for a sequel to this piece, "Transportation." The following night, Ron and I walked the beach. The sky was clear and dark. The moon, which, for the sake of the story, we'll make full, had risen. We were both barefoot and walked arm in arm. We talked and talked. We were the only people on this stretch of beach. The waves of the ocean gently rolled onto the expansive beach. For some reason, Ron said: "Let me show you something." With one foot, he started tracing out an image in the sand. In just a minute or two, he had drawn the familiar profile of Mickey Mouse! I was so amused I kissed him. We walked further up the beach and had a quick tumble in some bushes. As we walked back, we observed that Mickey's image had been washed away. The relentless tides. Our idyll ended. Ron got back into his Navy whites and went back to his ship­ he brought me along and I watched as all the sailors got piped on or off, whatever it is they do with all those sailors. I was in heaven. (A year later, and by pure serendipity though it almost seemed divinely scheduled, I was in a hotel and I ran into Ron again. We promptly hit the sack. Ron was the only blond California sailor in my life.)

A decade later finds me on Fire Island for my first (and as of yet only) visit. One of the leather/Levi groups was having a "run" there. I had a standing invitation from a dear friend to visit him and his lover at their Pines home, so there I was. One night, there was a big do at the Botel, the swank gayola disco on the island, and I got all decked out in one of my fancy outfits and my friend escorted me to the event. The doorman checked me out and turned me away. I was ahead of the curve­ uniform nights at gay joints would only come years later. Timing is all, especially in Gay Life. To console me, my friend took me for a beer at another joint in Cherry Grove where we ran into two guys in their sailor whites (memories of Ron!) who had also been turned away from the Gay Dance at the Botel. My friend split to head home. I chatted with the swabbies a bit longer. After I left, I walked through Judy Garland Memorial Park looking for a little action. Everyone was AWOL. This was not turning out to be my dream vacation. So I took a literary bent. I headed out to the Atlantic Ocean side of the island. I knew poet Frank O'Hara had a fatal encounter with a moving vehicle on this beach and that Margaret Fuller, on her return from Italy with her spouse and baby (and manuscript on the Italian Revolution) had died when her ship had broken apart in a storm just off this beach. Since I wasn't getting into the Gay Dance, and no bodies were available in Judy's park, I thought I'd have a sexual encounter with my fellow writers. I pulled off my motorcycle boots and parked them safely on the beach, rolled up my trouser legs, and strolled into the rolling surf. I was alone on this beach­ just me, the ocean and history. I pulled out my cock and had a good wank, shooting my seed into the sea. The ocean didn't say "Thank You"; it just kept rolling along.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com