Born in Brooklyn. Made for the sun.

I grew up on the beaches of Brooklyn—Coney Island, 1990s.
Beautiful women in bikinis, skin glistening from the iconic orange gelee—IYKYK.
Italian men, dark as espresso, gold chains gleaming on sunbaked chests.
Speedos. Baby oil cut with iodine. Reckless confidence.

We spread out an old bed sheet—floral, faded, full of stories.
Stuck an umbrella in the sand like we were seizing land.
And someone always had a sandwich from the local deli—a hero:
chicken cutlet, fresh mozz, roasted peppers—
still warm, wrapped in butcher paper, oil spots bleeding through.
Nonna yelling “Mangia!” while she shooed away the seagulls.

Then that voice—raspy, familiar—
followed by the ding of a bell:
“Ice cream! Ice cream! Get your ice cream!”

Marlboro smoke in the air.
Mixtapes spinning in the cassette deck.
And the sound of kids laughing in the waves.

The Cyclone rattled and roared in the distance.
The Parachute Jump stood tall—
part landmark, part welcome sign. Summer starts here.

When the day was done,
Mom sprinkled our feet with baby powder.
Puffs of white in the wind.

Sea salt in our hair.
Skin warm to the touch.

We loaded up the Pontiac.
Took Stillwell Ave to L&B for pizza—
thick Sicilian with the sweet sauce
and spumoni ice.
The good life.

That’s where COCOJO was born.
We lived in that rhythm.
In that radiance.
In that realness.