An all-white zeppelin rose over the Floyd Bennett Field grasslands, as white as Ahab’s whale. It was unmarked by the usual advertising pollution, the first I’ve ever seen that wasn’t plugging something. The whiteness made it quite ghostly, eerie. It headed west, towards where I’d been combing the glass beach on Dead Horse Bay. Two long wires like the legs of a wasp hung backwards from the front; mooring ropes, I suppose. I imagined that Little Nemo’s father, the old mad Captain, was piloting it, on a mission of monomaniacal desperation, to moor at the spire of the Chrysler Building with a threat or salvation.
“Airship” is one of those beautiful portmanteaus, isn’t it? "Blimp," not so much.
*** Barren Island bottles, Grace Kelly’s gams.