It’s a mythic place where every summer, thousands upon thousands of queer people (and only the strongest of allies) take the plane to the train to the bus to the ferry, to gather with sisters and strangers and escape the onslaught of heterosexuality that comprises day-to-day life. The Pines-a queer hamlet on the larger Fire Island, though the names can be used interchangeably-is a gay mecca. We’re all headed to the same place: Fire Island. A man in a White Claw hat who looks like he got lost on his way to Greenwich asks a stranger if he’s on the right ferry. ![]() A beefy, tattooed man sits arm-in-arm with a person who could be his son, but is most likely not. A musical-theater ensemblist loudly recounts performing at a dinner theater in Santa Fe. And even in the waning days of summer, even if it happens to be a sun-kissed Monday morning in September, you’ll find yourself riding with a procession of queer people. To get to the Pines, you have to take the ferry.
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