Clams, boats, and sunset
An unassuming fishing town that gradually won me over
Fifteen years ago, I was living in New York City and had just lost my job at an architecture firm because of the recession. I found myself falling back onto my hobby - photography, to meet ends’ needs as the city never sleeps, never stops draining my bank account.
Through some online searching, I found a few clients out on Long Island. This wasn’t the city’s familiar boroughs—it was where the skyline disappeared, and city blocks gave way to strip malls. It was so far from the city that I had to rent a Zipcar every time I went for a photography job.
It felt like any other suburb in the country, the total opposite of a busy city. I never really understood why New York socialites were so drawn to this appendage of landmass.
Initial visit
After I left the City, I didn’t think much about Long Island.
That changed a few years ago when one of my longtime clients started working with a PR agency in a quiet, one-street town on the island’s north shore.
The first time I filmed an event there was in late summer 2020, when COVID travel restrictions were still around. I booked a room at the TWA Hotel at JFK and drove a rental car for more than two hours to Northport.
“Here we go again,” I thought. I drove along the Grand Central Parkway and then through narrow, busy streets. It took me over two hours to get there, while most New Yorkers were still in deep slumber before sunrise. After filming the morning part of the event, I had to rush back to Lower Manhattan in my BMW 3 Series rental.
It was a quick job, and the town didn’t leave much of an impression on me.
Return to Northport
Two years ago, the PR agency arranged a project for my client that required a few trips over time for documentation. Unlike my Zipcar journey in Mini Coopers, nor my fast-paced one-day production, we flew in on a Cessna Citation right at the heart of Long Island. As soon as we stepped foot on the tarmac, we convoyed into town in unmarked SUVs.
There were no sights of skyscrapers, no dragging pelican cases onto the rental car shuttle bus. The entire process was seamless and expedient.
Flying on the corporate jet meant I could travel light. I kept my handheld camera setup out of its case, just resting on the floor of the empty seat across the aisle. My Leica M240 with a Voigtlander 35mm f/1.4 Nokton Classic SC II was worn around my neck.
The local agency arranged for us to stay at the historic Northport Hotel, a 26-room boutique accommodation at the beginning of Main Street.
After work, I would take my Leica for a walk down the once streetcar-operated Main Street, now left behind the traces of the unused track still embedded in the middle of the road.
There’s a bar called Rocking Fish just two blocks from the hotel. Their sign read “happy hour oyster,” and that was all I needed to see.
I ordered a cold local pint and a dozen raw oysters. I was the only one at the bar, so the waitress and I had a nice chat on that slow summer afternoon. The AC was lackluster, but the cold beer helped. I asked her about the Little Neck Clams on the happy hour menu, and she told me they were a local specialty, even better than the oysters.
Taking her advice, I ordered half a dozen clams, half a dozen oysters, and another cold pint.
That was probably the best choice I made all day. The clams were big, meaty, and packed with saltwater flavor. I usually liked cooking small clams, but the North Shore Little Neck completely changed my mind about eating them raw.
After my third beer, I knew I should keep moving before I got too inebriated. The sun was lower in the sky, but it was still uncomfortably hot outside.
I occasionally stopped and fired off a frame until I made it all the way to the waterfront.
It was a working dock mix with leisure sailboats moored off the shoreline. Towers of metal cages were drying out in the sun; I suspected that’s where those clams met their demise.
Speaking of melting away, the narrow ice cream parlor Lics is famous there, a perfect pit stop halfway back to the hotel.
After a day in the sun and a few drinks, I collapsed onto the thick mattress and soft comforter, feeling both tipsy and dehydrated. I slept straight through until morning.
Perfect timing
15 months had elapsed, and it was time to return to Northport for the second part of the documentary.
This time, there was no fancy jet. I had an upgraded seat on a CRJ900 to LaGuardia, then picked up a pewter gray Hyundai rental for the hour-long drive to the little fishing town.
I was in a bit of a rush. After quickly dropping my luggage at the Northport Hotel, I drove east for another 40 minutes, hoping to catch the ferry at Port Jefferson.
I sped along the narrow Long Island roads and made it to the ticket office just ten minutes before the ship cast off into the Long Island Sound.
The ferry was old but had its own charm. The main deck had a big air-conditioned lounge, filled with the smell of diesel that seemed to have been there as long as the vessel’s lifespan.
At the bow, there was a separate bar room. The smell of fumes was even stronger there, or perhaps it was the sticky floor covered in dried booze. There was a person puking on the floor, not because of the high seas, but from a day of drinking.
The trip across the calm waters to Bridgeport, Massachusetts, took about an hour. I’d visited the industrial town a couple of years earlier for another project.
I met up with a model and took some photos, all while keeping an eye on the clock so I wouldn’t miss the return ferry at sunset.
The ship left just as the sun was barely above the horizon. The water glowed with fiery amber, and the sky faded into deep magenta.
The breeze cooled the ship’s deck as it accelerated into the twilight. Only a few people remain on the exterior deck, soaking in the mesmerizing sight, of course, with a strong scent of diesel.
By the time we got back to Port Jefferson, it was completely dark. The chicken sandwich I bought on the way over hadn’t been satisfying, but luckily, there was a seafood shack right across from the ferry pier.
Remembering my last visit, I ordered half a dozen Little Neck Clams without hesitation—they were even bigger than the ones at Rocking Fish. For the entrée, I got a generous portion of seafood paella.
What looked like a tourist trap turned out to be a great seafood spot at a fair price.
On the second day, while I was filming, I received a string of messages on Instagram from someone in North Carolina—a model I’d known for a long time, though we hadn’t worked together yet. She saw my story and asked, “Northport?” By coincidence, she was a local visiting family for the summer.
I had dinner obligations with clients that evening, but we agreed to meet up afterward.
The PR agency hosted a dinner at the Northport Hotel restaurant. It was another seafood feast, starting with raw bar towers. I ordered seafood mafaldine for my main course. People on the north shore really know how to prepare seafood—fresh ingredients, proper seasoning, not just the fried seafood southern gimmick.
Dinner went on for ages, but I finally got out by 20:30. There was still a hint of blue hour left, so I met up with Kelsey outside Rocking Fish. It was our first time meeting in person, and we got to know each other as we walked to the pier, hoping to catch the last bit of twilight.
My Leica M240 was pushed to its limit, even with the fast Summicron 35mm f/2 and Summarit 50mm f/1.5. I tried to find the little streetlight on Main Street without casting harsh shadows on Kelsey.
Even though it was well into the evening, summer on the north shore was as unforgiving, hot, and humid as it could be. Although it was nothing like a July day in New York City, which I would endure for the following few days, for leisure.
Northport in Spring
After a long, cold winter, spring comes late and gently this year.
I am due for yet another trip up to Northport, this time back on the Cessna Citation.
This year, I made a major upgrade to my main video camera. Even with the ease of flying private, the fully built C80 was a lot to handle. So instead of my Leica, I chose a compact Canon G7 X Mark III for a still camera.
To balance out the convenience of the Canon, I packed my Hasselblad 501CM with a CFe 40mm lens in my backpack. I’d brought my M240 on the last two trips, but I hadn’t shot a roll of film in the little fishing town yet. That’s why I brought the Hasselblad this time.
The first day was packed with production work from the moment I arrived, followed by social hours and dinner with clients. And yes, there were more seafood towers and mafaldine.
The next morning was my only chance to walk around with my Hasselblad. It was just after 8:00, and the sun was already blazing. The town was quiet, except for a few early runners.
The calm water reflected thin strips of clouds, and the smell of decaying sea life still lingered in the air. A few fishermen were coming back with their morning catch.
I stood on the pier with my heavy medium format camera around my neck, sweat starting to drip down. It was quiet and beautiful. In that moment, I understood why people from the City love coming out to this far end of Long Island.
This little one-street town on the north shore moves at its own pace of life; you would never guess it was just a stone’s throw away from the City that never sleeps. It takes you out of the crowded streets, the rats-infested subway, and the steady window unit hums. It’s a gentle reminder to slow down, take a breath, listen to the seagulls, have a cold beer, and enjoy a dozen Little Neck Clams. And perhaps, trade your digital camera for analog film, to match the slower pace of Northport.