By Kate Stockrahm
With construction happening nearly everywhere one can walk downtown this summer, I decided to spend a recent afternoon break at a place that always feels light-years away from the noise and dust of the city: Bluebell Beach.
Google describes Bluebell as a “lakeside park along the Flint River Bike Path featuring a sandy beach, a splash pad & shade kites,” but as I was walking past a couple on the way from the park’s mostly-empty car lot, the gentleman turned to his companion and said “I bet there’s a ton of seagull shit in that water.”
Both descriptions feel correct.
But honestly, at least for me, that’s part of Bluebell’s charm.
It’s part escape, part exactly what you’d expect of a public, man-made beach from the 1970s. And that’s its particular magic.
Sure, you won’t arrive to see pristine white sand and lapping turquoise waters, but also, what a delight to have the option of sand and water at all so close to Flint’s northeast border.
And yes, there will be teenagers testing out how many times they can say the f-word while out of mom’s earshot, but there will also be a soft breeze and a free, sun-soaked bench to read from for however long you want.
And before this veers into an odd pseudo-promotion for Bluebell Beach, I should admit why I have a particular fondness for this Genesee County enigma: it’s one of my first memories of moving to Flint.
A view of Bluebell Beach, a public park bordering northeast Flint, on a late May afternoon. (Photo by Kate Stockrahm)
It was a very hot Fourth of July weekend in 2021. I’d just come back home to Michigan from New York City two weeks before, and I knew absolutely no one in Flint except for the folks (my new colleagues) who had kindly invited me to join their beach-side picnic.
Hoping to be viewed as a good addition to the team, I went to the store and picked up some sunscreen, snacks and pre-cut fruit, paper plates and disposable forks — even a few pool floats printed in classic summery patterns like palm fronds and bright pink flamingos. (What the heck, they were on sale.)
Haul secured, I drove the 15 minutes — “15 minutes!” I’d thought. “I can visit this place whenever I want!” — to Bluebell and found my party happily gathered around the one grill left open in the hubbub of holiday beach-goers.
This was a good day of introduction to Bluebell.
All the pavilions were full of families and music and laughter. The blue and white sun shades lining the beachfront provided much-needed respite to the lucky few who had arrived early enough to secure them. The sun shone high overhead, and even though the weather was hot and sticky, we were having too much fun trying to figure out how to blow up those stupid pool floats without a pump to notice.
Me and my soon-to-be friends spent all day munching on Koegel’s hot dogs (“the only brand you should ever buy here,” one of them told me) and potato chips, learning about each other and intermittently napping as we floated in the lake’s deep green water, listening to children’s shouts of “Marco Polo” nearby.
It was absolutely fabulous, and I cherish that memory to this day — long after all of those friends have moved on from Flint.
So, given my affinity for the strange, wonderful lakeside park, it may not surprise you that I couldn’t help myself as I overheard that couple’s seagull dropping discussion.
“It probably is full of shit,” I said, laughing with them. “But on a hot day, you don’t mind so much.”
The man paused and thought about it.
“You’re right,” he said as he and his companion began walking down toward the water. “It won’t kill you.”
Ah yes, I smiled, another glowing review of Bluebell Beach.
This article also appears in East Village Magazine’s June 2024 issue.
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