Hookversary 2026
This year’s anniversary of Hook’s passing was spent walking the oceanside beaches of Sandy Hook near the Atlantic Highlands of New Jersey from North Beach to buck-naked Gunnison Beach to the Southern Beaches E, D, C, B, A.
In his high school and college summers of the 1970s, Allan Hook was a lifeguard on the Sandy Hook shores, a peninsular island full of stretches of barrier beaches which extend off the Fair Haven / Rumson town where Hook spent his childhood. Many were the rambunctious stories told by Hook of thriving, teenage boys slowly morphing into adulthood while flaunting their taut, young bodies to budding teenage girls. Think: Summer of 42 but worse yet innocent because of their testosterone-fueled adolescence.
Not all of these boys became Sandy Hook lifeguards, but the official lifeguard group photographs are in a storage unit in Austin!
It made sense to make the trek from my new home base of New York City, where I have been living off and on since last October in what I believe to be the coolest, albeit shabbiest, 850 square foot railroad-style apartment in Manhattan.
Life in and out of NYC will have to be another post, because today and all of yesterday and all of every day, will be about “reflection and reverence.” This is what I say to the young waiter at the Mule Barn Tavern near the Sandy Hook Lighthouse and the Seastreet Ferry drop off point direct from the Battery Park departure of downtown New York.
A four-hour round trip ferry ride in and out, and I remained in a state of remembrance and acceptance, beginning with an order of fish and chips at the tavern along with the locally famous Mexican lager from Birdsmouth Beer. The fish and chips were a hat tip to Cambridge (UK not MA), and the lager a hat tip to Meh-hee-ko and to me for returning to the past for a day.
I ask the young waiter if the beer glass is for sale after sharing the purpose of my ferry trip: to walk the Sandy Hook beaches on the day of the Hookversary where a teenage Hook lifeguarded away hot summers. And I continue sharing that if Hook had not been an entomologist he probably would have been an ornithologist, and I point to the picture of a bird on the glass.
“And it has the words ‘New Jersey’ on it,” I say, “his home state.”
My eyes implore with fake sadness because I really want this cup, and because I am happy today, content to stay in retreat with Hook for this annual pilgrimage of the heart. Turns out that New Jersey is raising their children right, because this waiter said that the restaurant did not sell the glasses but if there were a way for me to buy one, his manager would surely make it happen. He was gone longer than I expected, but when he returned to my table it was with a clean, fresh glass straight from an ice-cold refrigerator.
“The manger would like you to have this glass,” the waiter says, “compliments of the restaurant and in memory of your husband.”
How can one not love New Jersey? And Bruce Springsteen lives here, too. I once mocked his Super Bowl performance and Hook quickly clipped back, “We don’t make fun of the boss in this house.” I liked that version of him: tough Hook, standing up to his wife in her prime. He had so few demands: respect nature, respect Bruce, respect him.
But there I was walking alone on that first stretch of beach starting from the lighthouse and heading past the naked beach first. There were so many penises that I was thankful I remembered to bring my umbrella, first to block out the sun then to block out the flaccidity.
“Seriously, honey, you never mentioned all these penises. I sure hope they have sunscreen on them because that is some thin skin. A sunburn could peel the skin right off!” and on and on and on I talked to Hook as I walked.
The Garden State of New Jersey hides her beauty until you’re inside of her, and yes that is a pornographic description of Hook’s home state. He would approve, but her luscious greenery was only one of the alluring parts for Allan. His entire youth, between scouting and fishing, was spent along the shores of his home state. And as I walked and waded and wandered, talking as often to the oddly muscular-looking east coast seagulls as I did to my dead husband, I ask Hook how he could leave all this beauty. Then I remember my first winter in New York City when I realized that my lack of winter footwear, a winter coat, and basic winter clothing would be the last time I spend a winter season in any state that had snow that fell more than once a year.
Hook left New Jersey after college and eventually yesterday, I did, too, after exhausting my legs and feet, breaking the toe strap on my new OOFOS flip flops, while forgetting to apply or bring sunscreen to protect my face and neck and chest. My cheap umbrella blocked out flesh but could not block out the intensity of the sun reflecting off the Atlantic, once again damaging my triangle of truth.
For yesterday and for this entire month and for all days, I think of Allan Hook, youthful lifeguard, naturalist boy, science academic, wasp man extraordinaire, fishing groupie, and street hockey friend to all. The boy from New Jersey learned to love nature through his mother, and I learned to love nature through him.
Dr. Hook keeps showing up in people’s dreams, always the rascal. St. Edward’s University and the Wild Basin Preserve offered a beautiful memoriam on September 3rd via their Instagram and LinkedIn socials. I am not cool enough for IG but here is the LI post:
- LinkedIn: September 3rd – Dr. Allan Hook
- IG: <if you have the link, please drop in the comments>
Last year at this time, I wrote that I would do a post about the Hook Fellows. That post and another about life in #NYC, why I am not permanently living in the #UK, and where does #ATX and #MEX fit into all of this are forthcoming. Until then and in memory of Allan William Hook aka Al Hook aka Dr. Wasp aka Dr. Hook aka Doofus Brain aka “Hook” … and in memory of Austin music legend, Toni Price, who passed in October 2025. From her Hey album and Hook’s musical score at his memorial, and a nod towards where I am today:
Tumbleweed by Toni Price (click to hear)
Well, the price
of oil went to hell
This town dried up like a desert well
No one left anymore but a few old men
And the tanker trucks just roll on past
Grass grows tall on the railroad tracks
I’m tired of hearing those stories
about way back when
And I know
that’s the way it always goes
Yeah, I know,
that’s the way it always goes
Oh, tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
Tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
So I sold my couch and my easy chair
Cut off all of my long grey hair
Packed up everything else in Chimbrel Lea
And when someone
asked me where was I goin’
I tore the map up, I flipped a coin
And it landed somewhere along
the long ways away
And I know that’s the
way it always goes
Yeah, I know,
that’s the way it always goes
Oh, tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
Tumbleweed, that’s the way it
always goes
Yeah, that’s the way it goes
Everywhere a wild wind blows
Oh, tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
Tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
Oh, tumbleweed,
that’s the way it always goes
Yeah, that’s the way it goes
That’s the way it always goes
Writings By Rosemary 