It's not your everyday event at Jones Beach

I think of summers gone by. The days when you take the parkway forever south to Jones Beach until the trees, buildings and streetlights recede from view, replaced by water and cabin cruisers, scrub grass and sand.

Make your way past the bathhouses and bus stops. Then the water tower, that impersonation of a pencil waiting for a giant to write. A sort of right turn but not quite. Then return to the straightaway.

Until you reach Field 6.

Any newbie to the beach would have turned in at Field  4, known for that large parking lot leading to a walkway tunnel that record producers would kill for, given its remarkable acoustics. And the collective “ah” of the crowd when the passageway opens onto civilization: flower beds, flags, a boardwalk smoothed to perfection by thousands of flip-flops and the drips of soft-serve ice cream.

In spring, stroll on the boardwalk for the Bethpage Air Show. In fall, the path leads to charity walks with music by the Hofstra University Pep Band, playing its tunes with orchestrations for brass, woodwinds and rhythm sections. That’s the legacy of Field 4.

Not so for Field 6.

Field 6 is where the late-summer Friday afternoon sun fights hard not to fade. It is the destination in which “done for the day” swimmers walk a straight line from the beachfront to the parking lot.

Bare feet dodge cars, sunburned hands pop the doors of SUVs to load sandy belongings into the cargo area and sandy children onto the rear passenger seats.

Yet, as sundown approaches, unlike the crowds that use Field 6 as their surf oasis throughout the day, one group situates itself to the left of the rubber catwalk that stretches down to the ocean, but they do not use it. For my fellow worshipers and me, it is not time for swimming. It’s time to pray.

A designated spot is chosen to set up portable microphones and speakers. Add a battery-operated set of Sabbath candles and a guitar player or two.

Congregating in chair setups of their own making, the faithful are curiosities to the swimmers and sunbathers heading home, as well as to the arriving seagulls.

The prayer pamphlets are already soft and damp as if they breathed in the sea air. The crowd — usually about 35 to 50 people — is ready, orienting to the east. We warm up with some meditative breathing and a nigun, a wordless melody sung by this reverent community.

Then it is just like Shabbat and not just like Shabbat at all.

We read, recite and reply responsively in English and Hebrew. We flip pages, sing familiar tunes and hear a short sermon with a water theme. We acknowledge a single God and pray for peace. We offer a prayer for healing, and mourners recite a prayer for the departed.

Three times every summer, this all occurs amid an endless sky, the softness of sand, swooping birds and the ocean tide. We share a heightened awareness of natural beauty and our place in all we behold.

We partake of challah and juice boxes. Bagged snacks and cookies are handed to the children by Sisterhood volunteers. Elders hold side discussions about upcoming committee meetings, anticipated vacations and the High Holy Days.

And then, there it is, nature’s benediction — a sun that slowly sets while embracing a cooling breeze. Welcome, Shabbat.

Reader Lauren Lev lives in East Meadow.