Where Flatbush stops and Brooklyn juts into Jamaica Bay before abruptly ending a waterway away from where the Rockaway begin, there is a place which used to be known as Barren Island. It’s not an island, anymore, as it’s adjoined to the mainland by the Marine Park Golf Course and the Belt Parkway, but it certainly feels isolated and barren, way out there on the water. Today it is better known as Dead Horse Bay, or Bottle Beach, names which, despite their strangeness, have very literal inspirations – namely, a former area glue factory and tons and tons of bottles from a landfill capped over 100 years ago.
It’s a place to trek to and sit in awe of Brooklyn’s battered coastline, a place which is still wild and untamed and within walking distance of Jacob Riis Park.
In the 1930s, though, the area was a different world, one totally unrecognizable as Brooklyn and more similar to a scene out of a Steinbeck novel. Land is endless, the people small in comparison, Barren Island as a whole a pastoral scene of another world.