“Moving to California is a lot like living in the future,” my friend Peter said to me, as I was fresh from the trauma of moving from Sag Harbor to Marin County one year ago. 

Though Los Angeles runs through both sides of my family for generations, our relocation to Northern California couldn’t have come as more of a shock. The early days of moving felt a bit like trying on a foreign country for size — learning new ways of dressing (Patagonia and Birkenstocks) and socializing (make plans but don’t commit too forcefully). Also, fragrance is forbidden, and recreational cannabis has replaced the evening cocktail.

Since graduating from college, I’ve moved about a dozen times now. In my next lifetime, I vow to come back as a minimalist. Mostly, I’m tired of hanging and then rehanging all my artwork. 

I’m as attached to the watercolor paintings by my grandmother that adorn my walls as I am to the hundreds and hundreds of books that have followed me from coast to coast, their spines newly arranged in a different order each time. I never feel quite settled — like I am home — until those things have been put away, breathing familiar life into unfamiliar spaces. 

We last called Sag Harbor home, and our return trips to the East End last summer and fall filled me with a deep and wonderful feeling of nostalgia. The shifting, magnificent light, the seasons, the warm ocean you can swim in, our friends and their growing children. 

I feel as at home in Sag Harbor as anyplace I’ve ever lived.

Some say that after a cross-country move it takes a solid year to fully settle into new surroundings. Or maybe it’s a decade. Regardless, it’s the traditions we take with us, wherever our destination. 

I come from a small, insular family, and it never feels like Christmastime until my father and mother and I are again sleeping in the same house. Last December, our first Christmas in Northern California, was a year of beginning again. My mother’s holiday cookies and flaky pie crust held up just fine. Yet the magic of Christmas morning felt like we had suddenly swapped hemispheres. The balmy, foggy air. The fragrant eucalyptus trees that would never change color and lose their leaves. 

Looking back now, it didn’t feel like we had fully arrived in California until we decorated our first Christmas tree. 

I’m a latecomer to Christmas. For years, when it was just my husband and me living on the Upper West Side, he would dutifully purchase a tree from a nearby lot on Central Park West, hauling it into our 14th-floor apartment and stringing up a few sets of drugstore lights as I sat idly by, thinking only of the hassle of soon dismantling it. 

But slowly I’m coming around. 

Last Christmas, our two children, Theo and Violet, settled on a whimsical, six-foot-tall evergreen. Once home, going into the garage and dusting off our box of decorations moved me, unexpectedly, to tears. Unwrapping the intricate ornaments that my grandmother had hung on her tree in Hollywood those many decades ago, interspersed with others from my own Southern California childhood, next to the ones that our children had made in Sag Harbor, their glitter and sequins still attached. 

Finally, an outbreath. A feeling of coming home. The twinkling white lights. The angel holding court above the dozens of ornaments that together tell the story of our family. The same ones our children will eventually inherit. 

A wise former therapist used to talk in terms of how many summers he had left. He promised to relish each and every one. In our many conversations over the years, he has gently nudged me to do the same. We’re here and then we’re not. Best to dive into the ocean whenever the opportunity presents itself.

And now another December is here. I’m still not used to warm Christmas days spent in only a T-shirt. I’m also unsure on which coast we will permanently reside. But in the middle of finding our way, I vow to make the most of this holiday season — recreating traditions that ground us in our past while also embracing our new community of friends.

Come January, in the spirit of starting over (and with the freezing cold, shark-infested Pacific Ocean in such close proximity), I will keep my East End brethren in mind when I take my first Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day, swapping East Hampton’s Main Beach for Stinson Beach, outside Bolinas.

Amanda M. Fairbanks is a former reporter at The Star.

   Monday is Memorial Day, a time when East Hampton’s Main Street stops for a brief half-hour as veterans and others march to show their support and appreciation for those who have died in the nation’s armed conflicts. Flags come out, old uniforms are unfolded, speeches are delivered at the war monument at the side of Hook Mill.

    While our country is not at peace, this year marks a gradual turn. Troops are coming home from Iraq, and there is optimism that the drawdown of forces in Afghanistan will occur as scheduled.

    In the aftermath of the death of Osama bin Laden, increasing calls have been heard from the left and the right, however, to accelerate the removal of our troops from Afghanistan. Richard Lugar, a Republican senator from Indiana, said earlier this month that the fighting there was sacrificing too many lives and costing too much. President Obama had set a July deadline for wrapping up combat operations, but support for such a hard withdrawal date appears to be wavering.

    The Afghan war has been the longest in U.S. history. On this Memorial Day, as we think of long-ago losses and those of a new generation, Americans might reflect on whether the time has come to finally bring the troops home.

    The Facebook revolution, writ small, hit East Hampton Town last week in advance of a deal to award beach food concessions to a couple of out-of-town vendors. In a sequence of events unprecedented for their speed and the number of people who became involved, word got out that the longtime-favorite Ditch Witch and Dune Dog snack trailers in Montauk were to go and newcomers were to take their place.

    Montaukers took to the Internet with haste. From a start late in the evening on May 18, a Facebook group to save the Ditch Witch grew on from dozens to hundreds — and to over 1,300 by this week. Fans posted the e-mail addresses of town officials, and sent messages urging the town board to do something.    

    Online comments were overwhelmingly negative. Many repeated a common theme: Too much of Montauk was changing, and changing much too fast — taking its soul away, one woman wrote. “What the hell is up with East Hampton Town?” a man wondered. “Apparently nothing is sacred,” another wrote. Plans were hatched for a Sunday rally. Others suggested petitions or boycotts. In an insulting reference to the town supervisor, one person wrote, “Hey East Hampton: Disney called, and they want Goofy back.”

    By midday last Thursday, the town board got the message, convening an emergency meeting and tossing out the system by which it had made ill-fated decisions on handing out concessions. It was, in brief, the speediest public outcry we have seen, as well as the fastest official capitulation ever.

    The Ditch Witch and Dune Dog affair points to a new reality in government. Thanks to the power of the Internet, hundreds of people can mobilize in an instant, organizing and speaking out far more rapidly than governments can move to contain the damage of an idea gone wrong. People who might never attend a town board meeting or write a letter can make their voices heard with a few keystrokes. As chaotic as it may be, this is a good thing for democracy. East Hampton Town officials, at least this time, paid attention.

    East Hampton Town’s elected officials have the misfortune of finding themselves in power as a potentially devastating lawsuit over beach access nears a trial date. Defending a cherished right against a group of determined — and well-financed — vacation-property owners would be a challenge for any administration, but the current difficulty is compounded by the fact that the town Republican Committee has accepted sizable donations from one of the lead plaintiffs in the suit.

    Kenneth Silverman of Amagansett and Manhattan gave the East Hampton Town Republican Committee $2,050 as recently as October, well after the suit in which he is an important player came to public attention. (Mr. Silverman also made a $1,000 donation to the Wilkinson for Supervisor campaign in 2007, as did a Catharine Regan, who listed the same Park Avenue address as Mr. Silverman’s, according to the New York Board of Elections.)

    During a recent meeting, the town board was challenged on how vigorously it was or was not defending our beach-access rights. After Democrats in attendance characterized the plaintiffs as a group of “thieves and robbers” poised to steal away a cherished common ground, Mr. Silverman defended his motivations. Then, to the surprise of many, the supervisor and board members offered Mr. Silverman lavish apologies for his reputation’s having been thus besmirched.

    Civility is always welcome, certainly: The board has been repeatedly criticized in the past for a lack of it when addressing anyone it perceives to be an adversary. So this remarkable solicitude toward an actual, legal adversary raised both eyebrows and questions of partiality.

    The Town of East Hampton is a co-defendant, along with the East Hampton Town Trustees, in the lawsuit. No one could argue that Supervisor Bill Wilkinson has been outspoken in the town’s defense; and he named a then-inactive town attorney as its counsel in the matter. This rather watery response is in stark contrast to other high-stakes cases, in which the longstanding policy has been to obtain qualified outside lawyers expert in municipal litigation. As of today, the supervisor has also allowed the cash-strapped town trustees to take the lead in defending against a suit that could be both historic and precedent-setting (and that certainly will be remembered passionately at election time).

    Meanwhile, as is its wont, the board has insisted that its work on the matter must be conducted behind closed doors, and it has kept mum on what actions it may have taken. All this is doing nothing to dispel the impression that it is not dedicated to the defense. Mr. Wilkinson, who says he is personally devoted to the principle of beach access for all, has made the right noises about being in it to win it, but any demonstration of that commitment has yet to emerge.

    The town board is charged with fighting in our name, with all its strength, to preserve our rights, whatever cordial relationships its members might maintain in either their private or public lives.

    The Republican committee needs to dispel the impression, right or wrong, that a warm relationship with one of the plaintiffs is coloring the board’s defense. They should immediately return Mr. Silverman’s donations. And the town board should quickly adopt a resolution proposed by a new group, Citizens for Access Rights, committing the town to fully funding the fight.

There are 35 Middle and Near East countries on a map offered as a free test on the Internet by Rethinking Schools, an organization dedicated to progressive education that publishes a magazine of that name, as well as books designed for, in the organization’s words, “educators who want to enlist students in thinking deeply and critically about the world today.”

Someone forwarded the map to me a few weeks ago, and I took the challenge.

Eventually, through a process of elimination, I managed to drag the names of most of the countries to their proper places on the map, but it wasn’t easy and I was daunted by most of the former Soviet Republic nations, especially those whose last syllable is “stan.” (I was reminded, perhaps inappropriately, of the hilarious “New Yorkistan” map that was on the cover of The New Yorker a few months after 9/11, with Central Parkistan, et cetera.) It was hardly a brilliant showing of geographical knowledge.

That access to the Internet has played a significant role in the stunning emergence of a democracy movement in the Middle East has been widely acknowledged. That the Internet can help educate those of us who don’t know nearly enough about the countries of that region has been less discussed.

Is it possible to have informed opinions about revolution in the Middle East without even being able to identify its countries on a map?

I am quite sure that the general electorate cannot do so, and I’d wager most members of Congress can’t, either. We are stuck with having to rely on what we are told by the White House, the State Department, and those pundits we like because they represent our political persuasions. Given that this country, our allies, and the United Nations are dealing with war and peace — life and death — it is unfortunate that so many of us are in the dark.

A conversation this week with an East Hampton High School teacher put my mind at ease, at least to some degree, about the higher awareness level that is being encouraged there among teen­agers. First of all, the teacher scolded me for suggesting that placing countries in their proper locations on a map meant very much. He called it a game best played by sixth graders. By contrast, he said, New York State’s curriculum on the Mideast is a good one, designed to promote an understanding of each country’s history and resources. If today’s students are able to digest much of what is being taught, he said, they will be able to “intelligently interpret what’s going on.” I hope he is right.

But for those like me, whose schooldays are over and who need remedial help, there is still the Internet. A quick Google search will turn up a number of Web sites with educational games on the Mideast. And the Rethinking Schools map is fun.

Comments that Americans have all but forgotten about the great outdoors are every­where these days, from children’s television to the White House Council on Fitness. An e-mail newsletter from the Renewable Energy Long Island group brought notice this week of a new effort to get people off their duffs and doing something to connect with nature.

In an online promotional challenge, the makers of a well-known ale will give cash donations to several environmental organizations to mark Earth Day, which is April 22. All the online public has to do is agree to make such vows as “I pledge today to look at trees that aren’t coming out of a copy machine” or “I pledge to trade my BlackBerry for my barbecue.” Onward the statements go, essentially advocating a national day of office hooky, which, if you think about it, is not such a bad idea.

For every digital agreement, the beer company will give $25, up to $2,500 apiece, to the American Solar Energy Society, Engineers Without Borders, Rails-to-Trails, and the Wild Salmon Center. (I voted for the engineers.)

That I like this particular brand of beer notwithstanding, the promotion caught my attention. I can report from my own household that the kids sometimes need strong encouragement to put down the electronic devices and go outside.

I am guilty, too. Whole workweeks can go by during which my sum total of fresh air and weather awareness comes from rushing out to feed the chickens in the morning, herding the kids into my pickup truck, and walking across the Star parking lot. Feeling guilty perhaps, I park the truck at the farthest end of the lot; that way, I have a few more steps both ways. I did get out a lot more when I used to take one of our dogs to the office most days. Dogs have a way of demanding that — or else.

Earth Day falls on a Friday this year and during a week that the kids are on spring break. I might just take the beer company’s suggestion to heart and pack a picnic and forget about the office for a day. If you need to get in touch with me, I’ll be at the beach.

I have read with interest articles about Matias Pulgar Alfaro cooling his heels at his cousin’s home in Springs while the Springs School District, which has denied his request to attend East Hampton High School, and his guardian’s attorney wrangle over whether he is, in fact, a resident of the district.

To be so, apparently, he would either have to be in his parents’ care (they have returned to Chile from Springs) or in the care of a legal guardian. His cousin, Silvia Rea, says she is his legal guardian, but a Family Court judge has yet to say so. In the meantime, the boy, who would be a junior, is dangling while everyone argues about whether he should be allowed to avail himself of a gold-plated East Hampton High School education. 

One of those commenting on the article, which appeared on the Patch.com Web site last week, raised the specter of European kids flocking to distant relatives’ homes in Springs so they, too, could get educated here. I doubt it. If it were Montgomery County, Md., where my eldest daughter teaches, which has the top schools in the country, maybe.

And speaking of my daughter, who moved here from suburban Pittsburgh so that she could spend the second semester of her senior high school year with me, I was reminded the other night that I never had custody. It had been denied to me when, years before, I had asked their mother, from whom I was divorced, that we share it. (Had we done so, I might have been eligible for affordable housing here.)

But that was then. No sharp-eyed school attorney, alerted to possible fraud by a budget-conscious complainant, ever challenged me. “Graves is a parent, yes, but his wife denied him legal custody. . . .” 

In fact, Emily, blond, blue-eyed, and a drop-dead cheerleader, was welcomed at the high school with open arms!

That’s not all. For a time, Mary and I harbored at our house at Harbor View a “foster daughter” (also blond, blue-eyed, and irrepressible) whose father had reneged on his care-giving responsibilities. We said, “Come live with us,” and she did. No formal papers of any kind. We were not her parents, we were not her relatives, we were not her legal guardians. She continued going to the high school. Nobody said a thing. She’s done well too. Soon she’s going to law school.

Of course I know, now that I’ve confessed to fraud in two cases, that what I say may not be deemed worthy, but I think it’s a crock. Let the kid go to school, while, in the meantime Ms. Rea fills out, in the words of one commenter, “el maldito certificado.”

As one of my friends always reminds me whenever I begin to moan about school taxes, “It’s your turn now — somebody did it for you.”

I recently read that Tiger Woods is selling his yacht, Privacy, for $25 million. He bought it as a wedding present for his wife, Elin Nordegren, for a mere $20 million. He offered it to her in their divorce settlement, but she declined. Perhaps there were too many sequins and boa feathers and sticks of Orbit gum and bikini bottoms left on it from the lady friends he was entertaining while still married? He has downsized to a $3 million yacht named Solitude. From Privacy to Solitude. That’s so, like, Buddhist, which is what he said he is in one of his mid-scandal, well-scripted press conferences.

When he purchased the yacht, he never set foot on it during renovations. But his then-fiancée was very involved in the decorating, choosing white silk fabric for the walls and cherry wood handrails for the staircase. Christensen Shipyards builds about three Tri-Deck fiberglass motor yachts per year, leaving them 40 percent unfinished so their clients can tailor the interiors to their own taste. A project manager was happy to report how pleasant Elin Nordegren was: “She was a quick decision maker, no haggling!”

So I was thinking, hey, if I had $25 million to spend on a mega yacht, I could keep it moored in front of my little 250-square-foot camp at Lazy Point. I guess I’d have to ask the trustees’ permission, but how could they object to such a magnificent display, plopped down in the middle of the channel, affording me a splendid view of Hicks Island?

Tiger Woods has been quoted as saying he bought the yacht as a sanctuary from the media. Well, I could use it as a sanctuary from Route 27 traffic, fresh air, and outdoor life in general. 

Here is what my new fantasy motor yacht has: a 29.5-foot beam, a pair of 1,800 horsepower MTU/Detroit Diesel motors (oops, sorry, delicate shellfish population of Napeague Bay!), two 99-kilowatt Northern Lights generators, fluid capacities for 12,000 gallons of fuel (glug, glug!), 2,000 gallons of water, three Sea-Doos, two kayaks, and two Vespa scooters. No longer any need to dip my toes into that pesky saltwater! On the deck is a large bar, an eight-person jacuzzi, a station to fill scuba tanks, and an inflatable decompression chamber. One of the twin cabins has been converted into a workout room with a treadmill, exercise bike, and free weights. So rather than take a leisurely bike ride down Shore Road, greeting my neighbors, I can cycle in air-conditioned comfort on my slightly used mega yacht. Oh, and there’s an elevator.

I worry a little bit about seeming ostentatious out there at Lazy Point where most of the houses are small, the boats used for fishing, and the neighborhood low-key. So I should probably toodle over to Sag Harbor where my yacht can mingle with the Combses and Joels and Mottolas. Better yet, maybe I could get some fellow mega yacht owners to join me, perhaps Andrey Melnichenko and his Philippe Starck-designed 390-foot yacht, A. Maybe Roman Abromovich and his 500-foot Eclipse (which burns 691 gallons of fuel per hour at cruising speed) would like to break bread at the Beacon while on his summer vacation. It’s too bad Mikhail Khodorkovsky can’t join us. He’s in jail and his yacht is just bobbing around in St. Bart’s. We’ll just have to raise a glass to him, as our yachts are tied together, watching the sunset through our bullet-proof, U.V.-deflecting, tinted windows in the air-conditioned comfort of our floating, moneyed, luxury wombs.

So I’m saving up my pennies for this purchase. I usually cash in my spare change at the CoinStar machine at King Kullen and just use it for groceries. But now I’m thinking big. I’m dreaming mega . . . I just want my Privacy.

—

Laura Donnelly is a food writer at The Star.

In close to 15 years living full time in East Hampton, I have come to love this community. I can’t think of a nicer place to live or raise a family, despite the fact that other areas might offer a more affordable lifestyle or have fewer people “from away” telling the locals what can and cannot be done. Although 15 years relegates me to being a very recent transplant, my love for our natural environment, endless beaches, and the sport of surfcasting has quickly aligned me with the traditions here and made me want to fight to keep them.

The latest attack on those traditions is an ongoing lawsuit waged by Napeague landowners to wrest a stretch of beach from control of the East Hampton Town Trustees and in turn from public use. The suit brought against both the trustees and the town board has been in the works for nearly two years, yet many of us are just hearing about it now. A judgment is coming down to the wire, and unless there’s some out-of-the-box thinking and quick action, a very dangerous precedent regarding privatization of public beaches may be set.

Six months back, there were rumors about Napeague property owners complaining that beach drivers were speeding in front of their beachfront properties, coming too close to beach users. There were more complaints of noise, beach fires, and dogs walking too close to their properties. At that time I wrote a letter to The Star speaking out against beach privatization. After my letter was printed, I was contacted by News 12 Long Island and interviewed for a short TV story that also included an interview with the attorney for the Napeague property owners. 

His statement “We don’t have a problem with people on the beach . . . only vehicles” made me think the suit was focusing mainly on the beach driving issue. But, according to a report in the March 31 Star, the suit may now be largely a “no trespassing” issue.

Was this suit ever really about beach driving? Or was that just a ploy to distract the public from seeing the true agenda? Many now believe that the suit simply amounts to a land grab by a small group of elitists with the aim of increasing the value of their beachfront properties while disenfranchising everyone else.

Just this week we were told the Napeague suit is hinging on obscure records dating back more than 100 years, records that may or may not have validity. Everyone, including the trustees, probably assumed that Napeague was safe under the protection of the Dongan Patent, so it is indeed troubling that after 129 years it’s only now coming to light that a fellow named Benson bought the disputed sand in 1882, which might mean that the trustees actually do not control this particular beach. 

If there’s even a chance that this is true, then it’s a travesty that so little information regarding this lawsuit was made available to the beachgoing public. Because surely with more information there would have been a greater uprising earlier on in support of the trustees and other town officials to defend against the lawsuit and to protect beach access — which is for many the primary benefit of living here and, for visitors, a top attraction.

Access to our beaches accounts for millions of dollars spent by visitors in motels, restaurants, shops, gas stations, movie theaters, etc., to say nothing of all the millions spent buying houses. This is an important point, not to be glossed over. Aside from those of us born and raised here and those who have chosen to make their homes here, visiting fishermen, surfers, swimmers, joggers, sunbathers, beachcombers, and countless families enjoy our beaches and contribute to our economy.

Even though the lawsuit now seems to have moved beyond beach driving, as an avid fisherman I’d still like to speak to that specific issue. Beach drivers contribute millions of dollars to local coffers. Fanatical anglers come for 20 or more weekends out of a 34-week fishing season, bringing families and spending a few hundred dollars on each trip. Some buy over $350 worth of beach-driving permits annually and bring buddies along who also spend cash freely. And during the “fall run” fishermen from all over take lengthy vacations here, putting big bucks into the pockets of merchants. Surfers, sea kayakers, and other sports enthusiasts also need vehicle access to beaches and spend plenty of money here. 

With regards to safety, after 70 years of beach driving here you’d be hard pressed to find one serious incident in which a beach driver injured a beachgoer!

East Hampton needs to take a page out of Southampton’s book. People there roared like lions when someone attempted to privatize a beach, while in East Hampton, for the most part, we’ve been squeaking like mice. 

We need to become a giant squeaky wheel if there’s still time to get the grease that will let us save Napeague. Shouldn’t we be asking for clarification of the issues in this case? Why not a Town Hall meeting, with plenty of advance notification so hundreds of stakeholders could ask questions with the press present? Conjecture is not good, in fact, it’s dangerous, so we need to hear the facts now. How about getting the town board and the trustees together in one room so we can help both bodies act in concert. With anything less than immediate action, this nightmare of beach privatization will become a harsh reality.

Here are just a few questions that should be on the agenda at a Town Hall meeting: Has anyone besides dueling lawyers been speaking or negotiating with the plaintiffs? What is being negotiated, if anything? Is the judge siding with us so far? Can our lawyer win this precedent-setting case without negotiating? What role are the town supervisor and town board playing in this drama, and are they acting in concert with the trustees? If our attorneys can’t win this suit, what other strategies might the town employ to put pressure on the plaintiffs to capitulate?

Several months back, a trustee quoted in The Star mentioned the possibility of having the disputed portion of beach condemned. Would that be a possible last-resort tactic that could serve to lower the value of the plaintiffs’ properties, the threat of which might prompt them to drop their suit or make major concessions?

When a lawyer representing the plaintiffs calls for a no-trespass motion, as reported in The Star, it sounds ominously as if even beach walkers and sunbathers would be prohibited from accessing the sand above the high-water mark, so prepare to get wet!

On Napeague do we allow ourselves to be herded like sheep into restrictive, narrow, and damp areas close to parking lots? Do we encourage a nightmarish precedent that could possibly lead to the loss of additional public beaches in the near future? Wouldn’t we all be ashamed of ourselves if the legacy we passed down to our children and grandchildren were to have allowed the privatization of our town’s beaches?

My October letter to The Star sparked more than 80 phone calls and e-mails from not only concerned fishermen but also, amazingly, from sympathetic non-fishers and non-beach drivers who felt the tradition of riding along the beach to enjoy a family gathering, surf, or enable a disabled person to have a day on the sand was an integral part of what makes the South Fork so special.

Old Mr. Benson, who we are told may have purchased Napeague 129 years ago, has long since been dead and buried. If we could dig him up and magically get him to speak, maybe he’d say, “What kind of curmudgeon do you think I am? Of course I’ll allow my neighbors to walk and drive on my beach.” 

In the movie version of this calamity, our lawyer would discover Benson’s great-great-grandson still living here and in possession of a legal document scribbled by his great-great-granddad. Over closing music, we’d hear his dying words granting free beach access to the people. “Let them have their traditions, yes, let them walk, swim, fish, and pull their carts on the beach if that’s what makes them happy.”

But this is not the movie version. East Hampton is at a crossroads. Do we bury our heads in the sand, or do we draw a line in it?

After years of trying to pretend there was no problem, and letting potential solutions drop, Sag Harbor officials under a new mayor have gotten serious about potential health risks at the only bathing beach within village limits. Call it a creek, dreen, or drainage ditch, the short water course that empties onto Havens Beach is at last slated for a long-overdue pollution-cleanup effort — though not until next year at the earliest. 

The Suffolk County Health Department had ordered Havens Beach temporarily closed to swimming more than once over the years, for fear of bacterial contamination. But it was not until tests showed human and animal waste in the water that the powers that be really committed to doing something about it. 

Work on a tentative plan for a series of catch basins, filters, and a restored wetland could begin next winter if money is found. Happily, environmental remediation of this kind can win federal and state funding. The East Hampton Town Board and the town trustees should lend their support to the effort right away, too, as Havens Beach lies within the town limits, and any improvement in water quality there would pay indirect dividends for Northwest Harbor and beyond.

The Sag Harbor Village Trustees are to be commended for taking on this challenge and vowing it see it through.