Living in the bustle of New York City you sometimes forget that there’s so much beautiful beachfront mere miles from your door.
I’ve often written about Jersey Shore boardwalk towns, and the miles of sparkling Long Island sand that stretch out to The Memory Motel in Montauk. Bruce Springsteen and Billy Joel have so ably captured that soulful real estate in their songs.
But what of Connecticut? Its seaside towns have a magic all their own, aye and poet laureates too, though hardly as successful as Bruce or Billy.
I first became aware of the Connecticut music scene when recording in Paul Leka’s Bridgeport studio.
Paul who says you.
Leka, the son of Albanian immigrants, wrote and recorded two of the big summer hits of the 60s, Nah Nah Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye and Green Tambourine.
Okay, so they’re not Sergeant Pepper or Satisfaction, but I heard Nah Nah Hey Hey on the radio this morning, and it’s de rigueur at many sporting events.
Paul looked a bit like Jim Morrison, had instinctive musical chops, and always seemed like he was keeper of a great secret.
When I inquired how he came up with Na Na Hey Hey, he winked at me before whispering conspiratorially, “Magic, man.”
Bridgeport was one tough town in the 1970s. It wasn’t unusual to hear gunshots on its blighted streets after dark, but nothing fazed Paul. The only sounds he was interested in were those he created in his studio – or his head.
Still, he was the one who introduced me to the convivial beach towns of Fairfield and Milford.
Both of these burgs have wonderful Irish centers, Fairfield Gaelic American Club and The Irish Heritage Society of Milford. Both are social centers that promote Irish theatre, music and dance; they also provide a home away from home for many.
Fairfield may be better known because of its storied Jesuit University, attracting over 5000 students from across the globe.
But Milford - with over 17 miles of coastline – has beaches to die for. As Leka once said to me: “It’s a wonder the Beach Boys didn’t come from round here – talk about sun, surf and sand!”
Paul never mentioned that Milford reeks of history. It was founded in 1639 by English Puritans so strict and theocratic they made their Massachusetts brethren seem like fuzzy liberals.
Indeed, when the British regicides, responsible for the beheading of King Charles I, were forced to flee London, where did they go? You got it – downtown Milford Connecticut.
So strict were these Bible-thumpers they had little thought of raising the rafters with hymns like Mr. Leka’s Na Na Hey Hey. Neither did they do much lolling around on Milford’s golden beaches knocking back Margaritas.
In 1699, Captain Kidd left his mark on Milford. On the run from British authorities for pirating activities, he sailed quietly into Milford Harbor.
There he visited a friend whose Puritan niece served them tumblers of rum. This winsome pilgrim lass wrote about Kidd’s visit in great dudgeon, stating that “he doth kiss me on the lips.”
I don’t doubt it, but Kidd was in Milford on serious business. Sensing the Brits were closing in he buried his treasure on nearby Charles Island, supposedly beneath a large boulder called Hog Rock.
Not trusting his crew, the Scottish-born Kidd thereupon “thrice curseth” whomever dared to disturb his hidden loot.
The good captain hoped to use this stash as ransom for his life. He sailed out of Milford soon thereafter, but was apprehended near Boston, taken to London, tried, sentenced, and executed in 1701.
Many have tried to find Kidd’s treasure, but to no avail. Others have attempted to launch businesses on accursed Charles Island, including a casino and a Dominican Friars Retreat. All have failed. To top it all, every so often, someone is swept away by incoming tides as they make their surreptitious journey out to this mysterious island.
Nowadays, it’s a bird sanctuary from May through September, with no visitors allowed in those bacchanalian months. My feeling, however, is that Paul Leka knew more than he was saying.
So, come the Celtic feast of Samhain, I’ll be heading out to Charles Island with pick and shovel. I’ll dance The Walls of Limerick three times around Hog Rock intoning the magic words, Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye, and if I should awaken Captain Kidd’s vengeful ghost, well it was nice knowing you.
Whatever, keep on reading The Echo!
