We slowed and pulled up to the Stillwell Avenue station.  It was quiet, but the long ramps and wide walkways spoke of a time when throngs of people speaking many tongues walked out from the dark subway station into the hustle and bustle of Surf Avenue.  Our visit felt more like seeing a ghost town, the windows boarded up and metal shades locked tight to protect shops and attractions from the harsh Atlantic winter winds.  I had driven to Coney on my last visit, so I did not get to see the unfurling of the island from the station.  Despite at times having the appearance of a place whose time has passed, Coney still feels alive and vibrant.  In its own way the island is the fabric from which we are all cut.  Yet, many do not like to acknowledge the let-it-go feeling the places gives you, instead focusing on the ghost-like state of Playland or the frightening appearance of the Himalaya, ride parts and carriage advertising “The Smallest Horse in the World,” on Stillwell Avenue. 

          We started our trip by paying homage to the Thunderbolt and the Kensington Hotel.  It was hard to brush back the tears as I looked around to tell exactly where the link to the past had stood and saw only freshly plowed earth.  It was difficult to tell a masterpiece had once stood there.  Sitting along the fence I noticed three, three-bench cars, waiting for N.A.P.H.A., A.C.E., or someone with a love of history to get off their butts to save them.  But, bureaucracy appears to still run deep in the coaster community and thieves are slowly picking apart the only memory of the Thunderbolt we have left.  We walked around to the Surf Avenue side of the fence, past Playland, and I thought I saw the remnants of the vertical Thunderbolt advertising sign.  I was afraid to enter, as there was a security guard there to keep out all trespassers.  A cruel twist of fate that people can destroy something that cannot be replaced and not get punished, but the people who wish to walk down memory lane are kept out of the “dangerous” empty field. 

          Surf Avenue.  The Bishoff & Brienstein Carousell was still closed, so my father and I headed towards the Cyclone.  It looked merely to be made of steel and wood, not capable of eliciting the screams of millions over years.  The first drop was still impressive, appearing to fall into hell itself before somehow managing to pull up into that famous fan turn.  There were piles of wood sitting next to the coaster; so at least the park is taking good care of her. 

          Astroland had all of the Enterprise cars removed, the Viking ship covered, the Breakdance was wrapped for the winter as an old, Huss sign with a red background sat lazily under the ride’s structure.  The rides grinned eerily at me, not as instruments of play, but rather, as simple machines doing a job.  The Wonder Wheel exemplified this as it sat, stripped of cars and waiting for spring.  It seemed to be a holdover, built almost like the subway; but for such an odd purpose.  That’s what amazes me about Coney; at its most popular it was how the masses survived those long, hot New York summers.  It was, as one reporter said, “a summer safety valve.”  But now, with the shutters drawn tight and the winter locks on, I was hard-pressed to tell Deno’s Wonder Wheel Park from the cold, hard steel that held the city together.

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Adam Sandy, Copyright 2001.