My first memory of this place was when I was four years old. In the year 1994, a few weeks of the summer were spent learning how to fish off the dock, building sandcastles, and avoiding the strange jelly creatures that had washed up on the beach.

I have a vague recollection of dipping my tiny toes in the water, and even though it was freezing, I was angry that my parents wouldn’t let me swim. Luckily, I was easily distracted. I found entertainment in the form of poking jellyfish with a stick.

Consecutive summers passed as I grew up on that same spot. Our cottage, handed down through generations of family, sat silently across the road from the beach and watched, waiting to serve as shelter whenever I needed it.

Flash forward twenty years later and I’m showing one of the most important people in my life the place where I spent so many formative years. I watch as he clamours over mountainous rocks, mesmerized by the ten foot high waves that come crashing in. I leave him to his amusement while I examine tide pools and cracks in the rocks, reminiscing of the days where finding an old piece of rope was like finding treasure.

The salt air does more than clear my sinuses, it reminds me that every once in a while, in our world where constant change is welcomed and accepted, some things actually do remain the same. The fishing sheds, the docks, and (to some extent) the beach, have remained consistent in comparison to my memories.

The only thing that is different from the experience existing in my memories is me. My past visits to Hunts Point involved a naive and desperate search for the next form of stimulation and excitement, and disappointment when these couldn’t be found. When the sun no longer shone on my skin, I looked for warmth; when the tide rolled in, I longed for stretches of sand; when the darkness came, I ignored the stars.

Now I know better. I know the value in each moment, because these moments will eventually turn to memories as well. I feel the goosebumps rise on my skin as I wade through the water, and count the stars as they come out.

I do this, because I now realize that this place holds real-life magic. It has this transcendent power to shift the past seamlessly into the present. It captures moments, the sounds and smells, which remain even when abandoned by the people who love it most.

I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I can hear the wharf calling my name again already.