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The crab shack along the East Marion Causeway on a recent cold morning. (Credit: David Benthal)

On the night of our first dinner out early in the 2020 reopening, my wife and I couldn’t help but notice a particularly striking sunset in the rear view mirror behind us as we headed east for a nightcap in Greenport.

Instead of making the usual right turn into the village, we hung a left, hoping to catch the final remnants of it over 67 Steps Beach.

As we approached, we quickly realized that we weren’t the only ones who had this idea. Nearly a dozen cars were parked along the roadway. The individuals who shared in this experience with us posed for selfies with the complex scheme of natural colors — like every sherbet flavor mixed together — and the Long Island Sound behind them. We took in the beauty and returned to our cars and headed off on our own separate adventures.

It was one of those very pandemic moments where nature brought us all together. And there’s no better place — nearby anyway — to do that than on the North Fork.

This body of land that stretches along the Peconic Bay from Riverhead to Orient is one often marked by change. Those of us who care about this place spend a lot of time worrying about its future. This is not a new thing. If you crack open a month’s worth of issues of The Suffolk Times from the 1970s or ’80s, you’re guaranteed to find some story where someone is expressing concern over the threat of overdevelopment, changing demographics and other forms of environmental or industrial distress. This is not just a 2000s thing.

There’s a magic to this place that can be felt in its rocky beaches, its calm waters and fertile soil. It’s simply different from every other place around it, even if it’s all just part of one big island. It’s an allure that bonds all of us together; not just the people born and raised here, but those of us who discovered the North Fork through our travels (or in my case, nearly two decades telling its stories).

To get to know this place is to love it and feel a sort of gravitational pull toward it.

When we launched northforker a decade ago, it was in large part to tell stories that would engage and inform people just discovering the North Fork, whether as a new resident or a visitor. The great balancing act has been in making sure that content does not take away from the experiences of the people who call themselves locals and that they could also enjoy our website and magazine. It’s ultimately for everyone in a way that our newspapers, and the politics that define how they’re perceived, never could be.

And while this publication has, by design, always had an eye toward the future, we could not have predicted how fast it would arrive. A pandemic-fueled shift in the real estate market and the way New Yorkers work has brought change to these communities that feels very permanent. The pressures of affordability and long-term stability are very real for many here, in particular for our youngest and oldest adult residents. In the past two years the names and faces have changed along with the costs of goods and services. There’s no denying that. It would be futile to argue that all this change has been for the better. 

When people comment that “this place is not the same,” it’s an erosion of a sense of community they’re most likely responding to.

But there is another way of looking at this latest evolution of the North Fork, one that gives more optimism over what lies ahead. That would be to focus on the ways the North Fork is still very much the same and the importance in protecting that.

The greatest achievement of the powers that be in Southold Town comes from how successful they’ve been — and continue to be — in preserving land. The vast open spaces and protected woodlands and waterways are what separate it from much of the rest of Long Island. You get a sense as you travel east that you’re moving not just across land but through time thanks to how a way of life has been largely protected here. In this future, we can still see the past.

It’s an appreciation of this natural world that ultimately unites all of us and defines the North Fork. 

To illustrate this essay, we asked David Benthal to photograph a sunrise rather than a sunset. He settled in bright and early at what happens to be a favorite location for myself, and I believe many others, on the North Fork: The Orient Crab Shack. We hear often about how the sunsets are to never be missed on the North Fork, but our body’s natural cycles prevent us from almost ever seeing the sun rise here.

Experiencing a sunset can be both meditative and transformative. In those quiet moments we are comforted by the great choices in life that lead us to that moment. There’s a sense of accomplishment in the completion of another day, an appreciation of the company we keep and the beauty that surrounds us.

A sunrise signals a new day. We don’t quite know what lies ahead. That can be uneasy. And yet, it’s just as beautiful.

Sometimes we just need a reminder that the sun also rises. And in the unknown there’s also hope. 

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