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Flynn on Flynn’s

By Brendan Flynn, Ski and Boating

Hello, 2L. I have to admit, I have been suffering from a serious lack of motivation in regard to submitting my first… submittal? Thank you to our very own Ian Lanz for lighting a fire beneath me with his debut. Not only an owner of the only full leather leisure suit mine eyes have seen, fellow below average golfer, but also a surprisingly informed Hawaiian PGA Tournament activist.

I do some things. Two of these things are ski and boat. Probably because neither take much effort. Gravity drives one, and good old fashioned horsepower, the other. Given the time of year I find it easy to decide which of my passions to start, what I’m sure will be a hateful relationship, with for my 2L debut.

Boats. I love them. Come to think of it, it’s the culture that I really love. Cool breeze, salty air, mixed drinks, beach bums, tan girls, the list is as long as my vocabulary is short. I dig chicks. Chicks dig boats. I love day drinking. Spending an afternoon on the water with the sun shining down and a cool buzz is truly unbeatable. All this is great.. but what I wish to divulge is the trashy grind party that is Flynn’s Fire Island Reggae parties.

Rocket fuel.. Not only means to outer space, but also a frozen concoction that will get you to stagger toward the dance floor to rub on some strangers while the semi-okay reggae beats through your insides. Last I remember, the 30 something I found myself falling in love with was probably 20 lbs. overweight and most likely the ugliest of her small group of ugly friends. I cared not, as several Rocket Fuels turned this never would happen into a ‘sure thing.’ As evening turned to dusk I found myself wondering if I had the wits about me drive across the Great South Bay from Flynn’s Ocean Bay Park to Flynn home, Long Island.


Waking up face down in the sand with the morning tide change on the verge of taking me to sea, I felt an overwhelming sense of pure regret. Not only had my reggae love-monster thrown me, literally, to the fishes.. But my only transportation home had it’s anchor ripped from the bay bottom landing several beaches away. Friends lost, lover never had, boat gone, and half dressed I forced myself to my feet in order to gain some sense of location.

Two hours later, boat found swaying on a sand bar I began my trek back to the mainland. Sun rising to the East and cruising at a cool 20 knots.. I knew the following Sunday would bring me back to Flynn’s.

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