For the past two hundred years, summer in New York has best been spent by the water. “Circumambulate the city,” Melville writes in “Moby-Dick,” and you’ll find “thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries.” It’s true: all stripes of New Yorkers (not just men, Herman!) amble along the city’s promenades, eyes fixed on the water’s rippling surface. Frequently—and here’s another thing Melville didn’t mention—a good number of these coastal strollers have a refreshing drink in hand. Back then, maybe a hip flask with a dram of whiskey; now, you’re more likely to see a canned cocktail or brown-bagged beer. It’s no surprise, then, that with the arrival of summer also comes a wealth of seaside watering holes, from beachy burger shacks to boat bars.

Illustration by Patricia Bolaños

Perhaps the oldest of these is Frying Pan, a cherry-red, hundred-and-thirty-foot vessel that the Coast Guard used, from 1930 to 1965, as a floating lighthouse. Now, however, it remains docked on the Hudson River, near West Chelsea, operating as a full-service bar and restaurant. Recently, one newcomer took in the midtown skyline as he feasted on a steak sandwich: a mouthwatering stack of rib eye, caramelized onions, horseradish aioli, and ciabatta. Afterward, he sauntered over to the beer garden and sampled the saccharine Mermaid’s Nectar, a hibiscus-tea mocktail mixed with guava purée and lime. To his starboard side, a group of frat guys had ordered a bucket of Heinekens and were starting their Friday night early.

A couple of miles south, things were much quieter (and pricier) at Grand Banks, a schooner turned oyster bar docked at Tribeca’s Pier 25, with views of the Statue of Liberty and the Freedom Tower. Under a collection of string lights, the riverine reveller sampled the Oysters Champagne, topped with shishito mignonette, cucumber, and shiso. A pair of middle-aged financiers sitting nearby recommended the L’été Sans Fin, a sweet, funky orange wine that nicely balanced out the appetizer’s tartness. They placed their own orders with the bartender, who smiled approvingly. “I took one look at your facial hair,” he said to one, whose salty Teddy Roosevelt ’stache was framed by a thick goatee and ill-fitting Wayfarers, “and I said to myself, ‘that’s a guy who eats kale every day!’ ”

Over at Fireboat, a repurposed F.D.N.Y. firefighting vessel from the nineteen-sixties, moored in the East River off of Brooklyn Heights, the vibes took a more Caribbean slant. The newcomer dug into a juicy jerk-chicken sandwich as he marvelled at the ship’s fire hoses, which were now dispensing beer at non-emergency velocity. The Governors Island ferry passed by periodically, rocking the ship in its wake, and the guest, sea legs shaking, decided to leave halfway through his Mariner, a summery, gin-based cocktail made with elderflower, matcha, and lemon.

He made one last stop at Rippers, a burger joint located on the Rockaway Beach boardwalk, near Beach Ninetieth Street. The screech of guitar feedback echoed from a makeshift stage outside, where a punk-rock band had just launched into their set, a fitting accompaniment to the bar’s kaleidoscopic selection of beer. A distinct piratical energy hung in the ocean air; the first-timer wouldn’t have been surprised had Blackbeard walked in, plunder in tow, and ordered a round for the bar. But night was setting in, and all he found were some ragtag surfers shaking sand from their hair in a sand-dollar-size mosh pit. Out beyond the shore, the sky had turned a wash of pink and gold—a celestial curtainfall soundtracked by the thwack of a snare drum, and the mellifluous burble of yet another pint being poured.

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