AT HOPE & MAIN: BAR BEACH YEARS LATER, A CLEAN PARADISE

Bar Beach, a town of North Hempstead beach on Long Island, N.Y., was located on the Long Island Sound, not the ocean. Its convenient location was appealing for recreation.

At peak season, on weekends, the ocean beaches were inaccessible. If you weren't on the Parkway by 9 a.m. sharp, headed toward the ocean beaches, you would most assuredly be sitting in traffic. In addition, your selection of parking lots would be limited. More than likely, West End II would be where you'd end up and that was like being shuffled off to Siberia. West End II was a beach with inexhaustible natural beauty; however, the hike down to the shore was at least half a mile, at high tide.

In what seems like another lifetime, I'd stay up late and wake up late when it came to weekends. Realistically, Bar Beach became the only available option. You would not have to sit in traffic to get there, and the parking lot rarely closed, filled to capacity. My sister-in-law and I only went to the beach to sunbathe anyway. Swimming in the Long Island Sound was not at all appealing. There were no waves like the ocean and since the sound had little motion, it was more likely to become contaminated. And it was.

The key image that comes to mind when entering the gates at Bar Beach is power plant. And I mean that with a capital P. Yes, it was a three stacker. The power plant was located directly across from Bar Beach, on the opposite shore. Medical waste did wash up on the shore, and litter was an issue. My sister-in-law and I frequented the beach for just a few seasons. Eventually the pollution just became too intolerable.

The ocean beaches on Long Island, in contrast, are by far, a real treasure. However, changing attitudes in an ever growing population took away some of their natural beauty. As a child and even as an adolescent, I don't ever remember litter being an issue on the beaches. You didn't do it. As Long Island's population grew, so did the percentage of ignorant people. I remember sitting next to some fellow beach-goers who were eating chicken. They left their remaining chicken bones and trash in the sand, then got up to leave. Being utterly repulsed and almost feeling violated, I asked them about what they planned to do about the mess they were leaving behind. Conveniently, they didn't speak any English. This incident and others forced me to be an "off-season beachie."

Off-season opened up entirely new possibilities for recreation that I'd never been aware of. In early fall, the shoreline was inundated with sweeping terns, flying in formation, at what seemed like the speed of light. Due to the changing climate, from summer to fall, the shoreline would take on new formations as fast as the wind would blow. Literally. The new sand formations changed in accordance to whichever way the wind blew. This was the flipside of the flat shoreline, typical of summer. When the wind piled up sand at one end, depressions in the landscape were the result on the other end. Tide pools would form, and kids would be amused for hours, catching little fishes, other sea creatures and collecting shells. I missed the summertime recreation at the beach, though.

Years later, I decided to give Bar Beach another chance. I guess I'd been worn down by peak season displeasure. I wanted my children to enjoy some of the activities I'd enjoyed as a child. I didn't expect much. To my surprise, the water was actually clean, and by golly, it didn't smell. You could see to the bottom if you waded in, but only up to your hips.

It had been a decade since my last visit. After grilling the locals, I'd found out that the town had gotten tough on the power plant and that it was forced to clean up its act. No more two-headed fish here. It seemed to have worked.

Bar Beach became the beach of choice. At that time, for toddlers, it was a vast wading pool -- the answer to any mother's dream. Kids could be entertained by building sand castles, catching critters, frolicking by the calm water's edge or playing in the playground. My husband would barbecue while listening to the ball game, and we'd sit by the shore. Bar Beach became a regular item on the agenda even though I still preferred the ocean. We'd managed to find our own little paradise.

One of my fondest memories of Bar Beach is actually a fish tale. On a particularly warm evening, my daughter, Teresa, and I decided to take a walk along the beach. I noticed something strikingly different when we first approached the shore. Pleasure boats were anchored along the otherwise roped off swimming area. The bluefish had come in. As we walked along the shore, we came upon people fishing fast. This was no leisurely thing going on. These people were casting out, reeling in, disengaging fish from the hooks and casting out again. Many of the bluefish were strewn along the shoreline, for there was no more room in the buckets. The pleasure boats were reeling the blues in at lightning speed since they didn't have to cast as far out as the people along the shoreline. This surely was work, not a hobby.

I was mesmerized just watching all this action. Fishing as a sport was occurring right before my very eyes. I climbed up onto the lifeguard stand because it was my favorite spot to sit after hours. The view was spectacular. My daughter was not entertained for long. She decided to wander along the shore a bit. That was OK. I kept her within sight and there seemed to be no crazies around. They were all too busy fishing. A park ranger approached me and began to educate me of the dangers of bluefish. It seems they have a pretty sharp mouthful of teeth and had been known to take off small fingers and toes if they got hungry enough. I jumped off the lifeguard stand and ran as fast as my feet would carry me towards Teresa, ready to snatch her up. "Don't worry, Mommy, I'm only trying to catch one of the fishes," she said.

I suppose there's always something you need to be concerned about. Without question.