On a dingy dock next to a petrol station on Manhattan's East Side, I am squinting at the sky and indulging in some plane-spotting. I spy a tiny red speck descending rapidly towards the East River, and seconds later it makes a subtle splash before motoring towards the jetty. Despite the scruffy surroundings of the 23rd Street quayside, the ultimate in luxury travel has just landed.
As Thursday afternoons go, this is shaping up to be one of the better ones. If my one-night jaunt to Shelter Island in the Hamptons – the summer playground of New York's wealthy and well-heeled elite – were not glamorous enough, I am flying there Bond-style, in a seaplane belonging to the hotelier André Balazs.
The swish new seaplane service launched this summer, StndAIR, offers a truly jet-set option for those heading to the Hamptons. Rather than waste precious playtime on a four-hour, bumper-to-bumper drive, a three-hour train journey or coach trip, plus a ferry crossing, StndAIR whisks weekending New Yorkers from city to sand in VIP style, in just 45 minutes or less.
The Cessna 208, Caravan Amphibian has just eight passenger seats, plus one each for the pilot and co-pilot. But in spite of the small numbers, I still hope there might be at least one eligible millionaire among my fellow fliers. My plan is to position myself beside him and spend the 45-minute flight flooring him with my charm and wifely credentials. What could make for a better story for our first-born son and heir than us having met on board a slinky red seaplane to the Hamptons?
It is probably a given that most of my fellow passengers are at least relatively solvent. At $495 each way, StndAIR is no budget option, but if you have a house in the Hamptons, you're not exactly on the breadline. The service offers several scheduled flights each week to East Hampton (where Steven Spielberg, Jay-Z, Billy Joel and many more A-listers have holiday homes), and on to nearby Shelter Island, plus a charter service to Montauk and other islands further afield like Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard.
But in the spirit of accessibility, Balazs has also introduced its quirky Flight Board system, where passengers can bid for seats on a flight from as little as $29. The first passenger to sign up pays $29, the second $95, the third $145, and so on. The final seat costs $375, and only if the flight is full will it leave. You can even check out the Facebook profiles of those who have already booked. It might feel a bit gimmicky, but if you end up flying there for a dollar less than the Hampton Jitney coach costs ($30), why the hell not give it a whirl?
I am flying on the regular 5.30pm departure, and thanks to epic faffing, I am the last to board, so I find myself in the middle seat in the middle row. In contrast to the young suitor I had hoped for, I am sandwiched between Rob, a portly middle-aged golf fan, sweating nervously in his shorts and smelling slightly of garlic, and Robert, a sixtysomething in a chequered sports jacket and yellow tie, who owns an insurance company but looks like an ageing academic. In the row behind me, a pair of thrusting thirtysomething city types might have passable husband potential, but one is surgically stuck to his BlackBerry, while the other falls asleep instantly, with his mouth open.
In the front row, Keith (mid-30s, good-looking, claims to work in finance, but seems far too much fun), dashes my hopes by showing me a picture of his wife and baby, who are eagerly awaiting his arrival in the Hamptons. The remaining two seats in front are taken by an expensive-looking fortysomething couple who smooch like amorous adolescents for the entire flight. They briefly break off their tonsil tennis to sip champagne, run their fingers through each other's highlights and caress their BlackBerrys. I locate the sick bag in the seat pocket in front of me just in time.
Thankfully, there are plenty of other sights to admire, and flying at between 1,500 and 2,000ft, even those as short-sighted as I can almost pick out people below. The Manhattan skyscrapers loom like Lego bricks from the densely-packed 13-mile metropolis, as we head over Queens, which quickly gives way to thick woodland. Within 10 minutes of leaving New York we are soaring over sandy coves, bobbing boats, lakes and inlets. "He's taking the scenic route today," Robert tells me with a twinkle, revealing that he's off to his weekend house in East Hampton. He has tried other seaplane companies, "But none has quite the style of StndAIR," he says. "The others don't have glamorous foreign fashion models greeting you as you board." That reminds me: Sabrina, the German beauty who checked us in gave us a cooler of rose wine to enjoy. Rob, Robert, Keith and I crack it open and toast the start of a sunny weekend.
The style of StndAIR (and the leggy lovelies it employs) should hardly come as a surprise. Hungarian-born Balazs owns some of America's slickest and most successful hotels – the Standard and Mercer in New York, three more Standards in Los Angeles and Miami, and the legendary, louche Chateau Marmont in Hollywood. His hip hotels have become major hot spots, with bars, restaurants and riotous party rooms at the centre of their respective cities' nightlife scenes. The man himself is a regular fixture on the New York society circuit, and has dated a bevy of notable blondes, including Uma Thurman, Cameron Diaz, Daphne Guinness and Courtney Love. He's currently stepping out with America's new favourite funny girl, comedienne, author and TV presenter Chelsea Handler. And he's also the proprietor of Sunset Beach on Shelter Island, where I am heading for a more barefoot take on Balazs glamour.
Throughout the surprisingly smooth ride – quieter than a helicopter, but with a satisfying roar from the propeller – Robert helps me to locate myself: the Connecticut coast is away to our left as we sweep along the north coast of the Hamptons, past Oyster Bay, Stony Brook and Baiting Hollow. When my phone rings, I am forced to say (with unbearable smugness): "Sorry, I can't hear you. I'm on a seaplane to the Hamptons. Can I call you back?"
The flight goes by in a flash and all too soon we are approaching East Hampton airport, with my fellow passengers playing Spot My House. As we descend, the scale of the properties becomes more apparent, vast villas with pools, paddocks and tennis courts, nestling in acres upon acres of forest. On the tarmac (the Cessna can land on water or solid ground), amid the rows of private planes, all the other StndAIR fliers disembark. In the evening sunshine, without a cloud in the sky, we set off again, this time on my own private seaplane to Shelter Island. We are flying so low, I can almost make out the Rolexes on the wrists of those sunbathing on their yachts. My only complaint would be that the flight doesn't last nearly long enough – five minutes later, Shelter Island is in view and Rick, the captain, is steering us directly towards the water. It is 6.30pm, the sun is just starting to set, casting a gentle golden glow over the shore. We land directly in front of the beach and I jump out into the shallows.
Sunset Beach is a dramatic departure from Balazs' slick city affairs. With just 20 rooms, all whitewashed wood and laid-back luxe, it's a cross between an old-style motel and a beach house, albeit a very well-appointed one. Open only from May until early September, the 20 rooms fill up fast, with fans returning each year to enjoy its mellow vibe.
The bedrooms, all of which have large verandas facing the ocean and the sunset, are bright and light, with white sofas and striped curtains. There are all the mod cons – flatscreen television, Wi-Fi, iPod docking station – but it would be a crime to choose TV over a game of pétanque or ping-pong outside. There are complimentary Kiehl's beauty products and Balazs' own-brand rose wine, the same hue the sky is slowly turning. I feel each vertebra uncurl and throw my phone into my suitcase as I head off to the bar.
Guests and non-residents alike hot-foot it here for food, drink and sunset views. The restaurant and bar marry high-end Balazs service with a relaxed, low-maintenance attitude – it's a simple, two-storey, chequered-tablecloth affair. This summer, the arrival of Frenchman Loic Larteau as executive chef has brought a menu overhaul and a strong Gallic flavour to the already highly rated food. I sample the salmon tartare ($15), shaved artichoke salad ($15) and a gargantuan grilled lobster ($42) with claws the size of my own mitts.
On weekdays it does a decent steady trade, but it is weekends when the bar and restaurant come into their own. On Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons the locals park their boats out front and wade ashore to party to the sounds of Patou, the hotel's flamboyant French DJ.
It's all much more low-key than I was expecting – Shelter islanders call it the "un-Hamptons". Sated on lobster, red wine and friendly company, I eventually sidle past fire pits, lavender bushes and twinkling Chinese lanterns, and climb gratefully into my beachhouse bed.
After breakfast in the seafront brasserie, I redouble my efforts to locate the elusive eligibles. The hotel provides bikes free of charge – along with other activities like horseriding, kayaking, golf and fishing – so I set off on two wheels, determined to spot one. Around the seven-mile-long island, I speed by golf courses and waterfronts lined with shimmering cruisers. I pass vast, gated, Gatsby-style villas and gleaming modernist mansions. Every second car is a classic convertible, and the only other sound along the shady lanes is the thwack of tennis balls behind high hedges. Sadly, the island map does not pinpoint where the single and moneyed reside.
Back at Sunset Beach, a lovely young man called Benji sets me up with a lounger and umbrella right by the water. He even fetches some lunch for me from the restaurant. Could I be treated any better if I had recently got hitched to a prematurely-balding British prince? No.
A cheeky snooze in the sand and a swim, and it is sadly time for me to pack up my private beach party and head home to the city. Leaving paradise isn't easy, but thankfully I have a return seaplane journey to soften the blow. The flight back does not disappoint either, with the New York skyline hazily hoving into view in the evening sunshine. We approach the city from the north and fly so low over Midtown that as we descend we almost brush the glittering Chrysler Building and the Empire State.
When we touch down on the East River, I am still shaking sand from between my toes; 45 minutes just doesn't feel long enough to pass between two such different worlds. As we disembark, I spy a familiar face getting on – comedian and television chat show host Jimmy Fallon. Successful, handsome and funny, he'd be the ultimate eligible … were he not already happily hitched. But it's a steamy Friday night in New York City, and with the (un-)Hamptons still in my hair, the hunt goes on.
