My mother and I lived on Fire Island, off Long Island, NY, until I was 3. I knew not to go in the water over my ankles and had incredible freedom wandering up and down the beach by myself. My mother would keep track of me by hearing screams as people discovered the gift of sand crabs I would dig up and present. Fire Island is still a special place, although it has been built up quite a bit since then. The only wheels allowed on the island are red wagons and bicycles. No roads, just boardwalks connecting the sea to the bay and all the houses. People arrive by ferry from Long Island.