A Summer in Fire Island—Spent Working, Not Shacking Up

Welcome to Beach Week, a celebration of the best place on earth.

Getting to Fire Island, a thin, 32-mile-long barrier island off the southern shore of Long Island with protected beaches, maritime forests, and seasonal resort communities, is a feat. Cars are only allowed on its western tip (or by special permit), so the island’s boardwalk-linked hamlets are primarily accessible by ferry or boat only. Most weekends during the peak summer season, you’ll see visitors lugging their belongings onto the island in totes and sturdy beach wagons. The secluded nature of the place is partially what allowed it to become a safe haven for queer communities dating back to the early 20th century, and the site of what’s been referred to as "America’s first gay and lesbian town" within the neighboring hamlets of Cherry Grove and Fire Island Pines. That privacy and natural beauty drew modernist architects and wealthy homeowners in the midcentury, and in the years since, Fire Island has continued to be known for its increasingly expensive real estate—most of which includes luxury vacation homes that sit empty until the weather warms up. But when the weather does warm up, Fire Island’s hotels, restaurants, shops, and bars need workers. Because the locale isn’t particularly quick to commute to, many employers offer paid housing for their seasonal staff, a transient workforce comprised of adventure seekers and in-betweeners.

Last summer, Ricky Najjar, a 32-year-old professional wrestler, DJ, and events producer based in Los Angeles, took a job as the bar manager at a hotel in East Hampton (another beach area toward the tip of Long Island) after being approached by the hotel’s general manager on a job search site. The role came with accommodations—"the biggest house I could ever imagine," Najjar told me—a shared room inside that house with 25 other employees. But by Memorial Day weekend, Najjar had grown dissatisfied with management, so they packed a bag and absconded to Fire Island for the weekend without any idea where they’d spend the night.

Najjar landed at the famous Fire Island Pines Resort, a wood-paneled commercial hub with a nightclub, hotel, restaurants, shops, and pool deck, within the namesake enclave of about 600 beach homes and rentals. Within a few days, Najjar moved into a shared room in the resort’s staff house, a bare-bones, converted barn called the Ranch. From June through October, they worked a variety of jobs at the Pines—manning the smoothie shop, running the gym, serving and bartending, cashiering at the Canteen, and working the nightclub door, among other duties. A self-identified workhorse, they clocked 60-hour weeks and loved every minute of it—"I did not have to go out," they say. "Like all of New York came to me."

Fire Island’s reputation as a queer beach party destination (further popularized by the 2022 Hulu rom-com) is part of what draws some people to seek out seasonal jobs in exchange for housing—there’s a desire to be in the thick of it, able to experience the queer party scene and be enmeshed in community, without the inaccessible price tag of most of the island’s real estate. Daniel Figueroa, a 46-year-old fashion designer, has a foot on both sides of Fire Island’s worlds of seasonal workers and homeowners. He’s been vacationing on Fire Island for eight years and shares a bungalow in the Pines with two close friends just steps from the harbor—he has the place to himself during the week, and they stay there during the weekends throughout the season. But last summer, Figueroa found himself unmoored when he was laid off from his role as creative director of a womenswear brand after 10 years at the helm. He’s since started creating his own designs again, experimenting with beadwork, upcycling women’s denim, and making funky festival wear (his dream would be getting the financing to create his own clothing line.) Still, several weeks ago, when Figueroa came across an Instagram post advertising summer jobs with housing at the Pines, he didn’t give it serious consideration at first. But with the encouragement of a friend, he figured, why not? He’d be out there anyway.

"I mean, it’s island life. So, you know, overall, it’s like, okay, it’s fine."

Unlike in summers past, this year, Figueroa’s focus isn’t attending parties. When I spoke to him the day he’d arrived to the island for the summer, he told me he’d be working shifts at the resort’s general store in exchange for weekend housing and treating the role as a networking opportunity. The shop has a prime location steps from the restaurant where Fire Island’s High Tea and Low Tea traditions are observed daily, so everyone passes through. "Now I get to enjoy both sides," he says.

Figueroa, who has lived alone for many years and owns a one-bedroom in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, does anticipate sharing a bunk bed with a roommate in the 25-person staff house with a communal kitchen and shared bathrooms will be an adjustment. He’s looking at this experience as an opportunity and an adventure; he’ll make new friends and feel buoyed by his community. The shop owner is even allowing Figueroa to sell some of his original designs there. "It’s just funny, because I never thought at this stage of my life I’d be doing that, but it couldn’t be a better setting," he says. "I mean, it’s island life. So, you know, overall, it’s like, okay, it’s fine."

About five miles to the east, another corner of the island—the Fire Island National Seashore and Watch Hill marina—attracts visitors less for its community and cultural significance, and more for its rugged coastal landscapes. This vacation spot is somewhat lesser-known than Cherry Grove and the Pines, but it still draws crowds of boaters, Long Island families, and serious outdoorsy folks who enjoy camping and glamping at Love Fins, the official concessioner of the national seashore.

That’s where I find Myrna Palermo, 53, who is in her second season working at Truck in the Sand, the bamboo-paneled beach bar and adjoining food truck (brought over by barge) decorated with cutout tin turtles and fish, and signs that say Flip Flop Time and Welcome to the Beach. Love Fins developed this particular setup after their original restaurant was destroyed in a 2019 fire, and they were grateful for the open-air setting when Covid struck shortly after. Palermo, who lives most of the year in Melbourne, Florida, slings fruity frozen drinks and puts in orders of fish tacos and veggie burgers at the establishment from April through Columbus Day. "I feel like a teenager," the bartender tells her customers, two middle-aged women—friends who have been vacationing here together with their sons for 11 consecutive years—peppering her with questions about her job. Languid, barefoot, and sporting rash guards and sun hats, they want to know whether Palermo lives on the island, and she tells them her story.

Palermo has been friends with Lee Biviano, who co-owns Love Fins with her husband Doug, since they played soccer together as teens. The couple hires and houses seasonal workers like Palermo, mostly other kitchen staff, housekeepers, and cashiers, in a cluster of three modest employee houses (each for three to four people) they rent from the National Park Service, about a 10-minute walk from the marina, where the bar and general store are located. Palermo lives in the one closest to the beach, with the Bivianos, and can hear the ocean waves from her simple bedroom with a double bed and dresser. A seasoned barber with three adult daughters and a degree in criminal justice, Palermo kind of fell into the unique job after she sold her house last year and didn’t know what she wanted to do next, so Lee suggested she come to Fire Island to "figure stuff out." I watched Palermo clean the bar—which is open to the elements, meaning wind, sand, rain, and bugs are a constant menace—while on perpetual hold with the Florida Department of Education. When the season ends in October, she wants to buy a house there and pursue teaching. She’s trying to get her hands on the materials she needs to study for a certification exam.

When business at the casual counter-service spot is slow, she pulls out a set of dumbbells and does her daily exercises. After each shift (where she—and every other LoveFins employee—makes a starting rate of $15/hour plus tips), she typically takes a two mile walk on the beach to clear her head before retreating to the house on stilts with surfboards scattered along its deck. Palermo’s ex-husband was in the military, so she’s no stranger to transience. At this stage of life, she values having the choice to up and go whenever and wherever she likes. Last year, her stint at Love Fins enabled her to spend the offseason visiting family, and not working too much, just pitching in to help a friend run estate sales when her coffers ran low.

"I don’t like to make long-term plans," she tells me. "I never have, because you don’t know when you’re gonna do something, or something can come up, and then you get disappointed. I learned that a long time ago, I just go with the flow. I don’t know where I’ll be in a month."

Top illustration by Kiran Joan.

Related Reading:

Construction Diary: The Founder of a Cabin Rental Company Builds a Fire Island Retreat of His Own

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