It was 4:00am and we were awake -- hardly unexpected in New York, but where we were was. Pier 6 at Brooklyn waterfront, encased by the Hudson River, was the cities least-likely tourist attraction. A rusty, steel shell of a long-forgotten warehouse was all that remained of the pier’s working days, before marine innovation deemed it useless. It was abandoned for 30 years, and we had just jumped the security fence. We were an unlikely trio. Austin bore a back tattoo and a front pack of eight that were as prominent as the beer cans forever gracing his fingertips. His eyes were as dark as his curly black hair, and he had enough volume in his North Carolinian voice to wake someone with ear defenders who had taken a sleeping pill. Em, a boisterous blonde from Kansas, was a tough, tom-boy type – the girl you always knew was in the room. I was an introverted brunette Brit on my first non-parentally guided trip, wearing a coating of confidence and attempting to adapt in the extroverted America I found myself in. Brooklyn was quiet, but we could hear the distant beat of Manhattan across the water. Even at this hour, it pulsed with action. Lights from the skyscrapers beamed like clones of Sirius, sharing their light with the Hudson’s glossy black-blue surface. The river beat her liquid mass lightly against the stale surface of the pier, acting as our soundtrack. “We jumpin’ in then, or whut?” Austin yelled in thick Southern tongue, as casually as asking where we were going for breakfast, already unbuttoning his dark blue shirt. “Well, duh, of course!” Em replied confidently, joining the stripping off process. They splashed in. My heart rate elevated. We had laughed our way to the pier with talk of this. Now, I felt myself shrink. Growing up, I wore a shirt inscribed with ‘U.S.A’ so much that all the letters had peeled around their edges. Watching ‘Friends’ on repeat, I'd dream myself into yellow cabs, seats of Broadway show’s and to the feet of Lady Liberty. This moment wasn’t like any of that. Not skyscraper view-tops or a theme-park-like-square of neon with a crystal ball that drops once a year. I untied my laces. From my vantage point, Manhattan looked polished and ready. The pier was messy and uncertain and scrappy – like me. I wanted to be as bold as those skyscrapers -- the physical manifestation of the ambitious people this city draws to it. I unbuttoned my jeans. Native Americans named the Hudson “Muhheakantuck” – great waters in constant motion. It feels the Atlantic’s tidal pulse from New York Harbour all the way to Troy, 153 miles North. It was as if it were the 24-hour liquid form of the non-stop city it surrounded. With every layer I undressed, I stripped myself of more self-doubt. I almost forgot my socks. I broke the surface of the Hudson with the force of my body, grateful that I’d worn matching underwear that day. My new friends wore ecstatic faces, their youthful smile-creases getting a full-blown workout. Brooklyn Bridge rose proudly to our right, The Statue of Liberty to our left. Lady Liberty’s torch shone brighter than ever. Manhattan’s skyline was boxy, grey and grand. Light crept on the buildings hinting at morning. The water felt dense and unclean, but we didn’t care. We were in the world’s greatest city, with a billion-dollar view and zero entrance fee. I eventually grabbed the rough edge of the pier and jumped upwards, scraping my skin on the concrete, forming evidence of our endeavours. The others followed in similar style, pulling dry clothes onto drenched bodies. Em’s eye make-up ran down her face like sweat on a marathon runner. “That was the best thing I’ve ever done!” I beamed. A “Me too!” chorus rang from the others. My jeans started sticking to my moist legs and a grime crust formed in their lining. Layers of dirt would be easy to get off, and the other layer, the one that no longer served me, would remain in the Hudson. Between the Brooklyn brownstones behind our backs, the sun was rising. This one, like Pier 6, was just for us.