Not long ago, an intriguing image appeared on my phone—an unexpected scene of Manhattan’s Twin Towers rising behind a beach where people lounged as if on a tropical escape. Could this have been real?
Today, standing near Battery Park, where the Twin Towers once stood, it’s hard to imagine a sandy shoreline ever existed there. The area now pulses with modern buildings, sleek promenades, and the steady rhythm of city life. The harbor’s waters lap against the carefully designed waterfront, offering views of the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
Yet history tells a different story—one of an accidental beach that once existed in the shadow of the World Trade Center. In the mid-1970s, as workers excavated the foundation for the towers, they inadvertently created a temporary stretch of sand along the shoreline. Though unplanned, Manhattanites quickly adopted it as their own. Sunbathers sprawled out, volleyball games sprang up, and readers found solitude by the water, all beneath the looming skyscrapers.
This hidden retreat became known as Battery Park Beach, a beloved escape for those in the know. Suellen Epstein, a lifelong Tribeca resident, fondly remembers it. A 1977 photograph captures her basking in the sun with her boyfriend.
“The sand wasn’t soft or pristine—it was rough, uneven, untouched by the ocean,” Suellen recalled. “But we didn’t have the means to go to the Hamptons. Any sunny Sunday, we’d be out there. It was our getaway.”
For her, the beach felt like an oasis, offering moments of quiet solitude amid the city’s chaos. She remembers days when she and her boyfriend had the entire place to themselves.
But Battery Park Beach wasn’t just a hidden refuge—it also became a stage for activism and art. On September 23, 1979, it hosted the largest anti-nuclear rally in history, drawing over 200,000 people to the southern tip of Manhattan. The event featured performances by Pete Seeger and Jackson Browne, as well as a passionate speech by Jane Fonda. It marked a shift in the national protest movement, turning attention from the Vietnam War to nuclear energy concerns after a major accident in Harrisburg earlier that year.
Creativity also thrived here. In 1980, the public arts group Creative Time transformed the space for Art on the Beach, showcasing installations by emerging artists. Sculptor Nancy Rubins built a towering 45-foot piece from discarded objects like lampshades and hoses. “It was humbling,” she said. “I was young, and the site was enormous.”
Another striking project was Wheatfield – A Confrontation by Agnes Denes. She planted two acres of wheat near Wall Street and the Twin Towers as a powerful statement on environmental and economic disparities. Growing crops on land valued at $4.5 billion, she aimed to highlight food scarcity, waste, and ecological mismanagement.
Yet, like all fleeting things, Battery Park Beach eventually disappeared. By the early 1980s, development reshaped the area, giving rise to Battery Park City. By 2000, the last traces of the beach were gone.
Then came September 11, 2001, altering the landscape forever. Looking at photographs of sunbathers beneath the Twin Towers, there’s an undeniable poignancy. What once seemed like an ordinary, carefree moment now feels like a relic of another era.
One viewer reflected, “This picture has it all—life, death, youth, age, stillness, anticipation.” Another simply said, “So much could be said, but I’ll just look and cry.”
These images serve as reminders of time’s passage and the inevitability of change—often in ways we never could have imagined.
