The Jersey Shore burns in my memory.
My best childhood memories are there, amid the
cots, chairs and foldup kitchen table in the room my parents would rent every summer at a pink-walled two-story hotel in Sea
Isle City.
The best year of my life --1994 -- was spent there, in a yellow house with a wraparound
porch in Manasquan. In the morning, I'd run to the beach, a mile away, and then back and forth on the asphalt boardwalk, days
I thought I could run forever, the shimmering surf at my side.
I've lived all over New Jersey,
but keep returning to the Shore, despite the traffic, the crush of people, the McShoreMansions and all the maddening qualities
that seem guaranteed to keep us home.
But we all keep coming back.
There is something about all that water, and sand, and sky, that beckons.
To an 8-year-old
kid from Trenton, the Shore's appeal was undeniable. There was the car ride through the mysterious Pine Barrens, and the roadside
markets, and the sudden whiff of salt air, and the initial thrilling glimpse of ocean.
In Sea
Isle, we'd pick up doughnuts and sticky buns from the local bakery, spend the day on the beach, and if we behaved ourselves,
my two brothers, two sisters and I would be rewarded with a night out -- and spending money -- on the spectactularly lit,
seemingly endless Wildwood boardwalk.
Even today, when I walk on the world's greatest boardwalk
(sorry, Atlantic City), I feel a little twinge, a mixture of wonder and loss.
After spending
seven years in Manasquan in the ¥'90s, I moved to Hunterdon County, to a house in the woods, minutes from Route
78.
It was an idyllic setting, but I missed the Shore, and moved back, to the modest house where
I now live, outside Tuckerton.
The house, fronting Great Bay, is not much to look at -- call
it a cigar box on pilings -- but the view is spectacular: marsh and water and the endless circling and squawking of shore
birds. At night, with the only lights those of Atlantic City in the distance, it's so quiet it's almost spooky.
Which is not, of course, the Jersey Shore experience millions of us face each summer. Epic traffic jams on the Parkway
on the way down, and you're in a bad mood by the time you hit the Driscoll () because you know you should have left two hours
earlier. Then you hit Spring Lake, or Belmar, or wherever you're going, and you drive round and round the block just hoping
for a parking spot in the same ZIP code, and then you realize you didn't bring enough quarters, and your 4-year-old has to
go to the bathroom. .Â¥.Â¥.
And when you finally stagger to the beach, weighed
down by backpacks, coolers and lawn chairs, you discover it's packed, and there's bad music blasting from a thousand boom
boxes, and the sand is desert-hot, and you have to step around discarded soda cups and fast food wrappers -- are these the
same people who throw stuff out their windows on the highway? -- and a slice of pizza is three bucks, and the water is foamy,
or greenish, or both, and when you leave late in the afternoon and return to your car, there's a ticket on the windshield
because the parking meter expired just two minutes ago, and the Parkway is jammed all the way home and you wonder somewhere
around Red Bank, or Sayreville, whether it was all worth it.
Of course it was; you'll be back,
because a true Jerseyan always returns to the Shore.
It's 127 miles of sun-splashed beach and
uneven tanlines; bikinis and boardshorts; suntan lotion and cheap sunglasses.
It is where high
schoolers and college kids have the time of their lives -- and their parents relive their youth.
Many
of our most cherished memories are Down the Shore -- summer romances and teary breakups; stolen kisses and whispered I-love-yous;
backyard cookouts and dusk-to-dawn parties; fishing off the pier with your kid, just like your dad did with you; sausage sandwiches,
zeppoles, funnel cakes and custard; the Himalaya arcing into the great warm American summer night.
The
Ferris wheel turning and turning, to echo Jersey beach boy Bruce Springsteen, like it ain't ever going to stop.
The ocean, eternal and enigmatic.
I remember being told as a kid that if you waded into
the surf on a Jersey beach and kept swimming, you'd end up in Egypt.
Call it urban myth, Jersey
Shore style.
I remember trips to Seaside with high school buddies, and 20 years later sitting
outside a Brielle restaurant with the girl of my dreams.
Even today, I can still feel the faint
breeze that warm August night, and how she looked, and what we said to each other.
Over the years,
I jumped at any newspaper assignment involving the Shore; it was my turf, the place I felt most at home.
I rode roller coasters from Keansburg to Wildwood for one story, my knees shaking all the way.
I covered lifeguard competitions and sandcastle contests and the incomparable Ocean City Baby Parade, the most colorful
event in any Jersey Shore summer.
I spent a day at the state's only nude beach -- Gunnison in
Sandy Hook -- wearing nothing but a notebook and a smile.
I've eaten my way up and down the Shore
-- crabcakes at Bahrs, hot dogs at the Windmill, Reubens at Kelly's, soft-shelled crabs at the Circus Drive-In, burgers at
the Boardwalk Bar & Grill, cheesecake at Charlie's Cafe, Italian ice at Strollo's, doughnuts at Ob-co's, clams at the
M&M Steam Bar, pizza at the Baltimore Grill, soft-serve at Kohrs, and so on.
I spent an entire
summer at the Shore for a book, hanging out with everyone from arcade owners, beach cleaners and bail bondsmen to lifeguards,
surfers and bikini contest hopefuls.
That last part was tougher than it sounds.
I can't imagine Jersey without the Shore, or life without the beach.
I don't have to
be on it, but I have to be near it.
When I drive over the Driscoll next week, I'll feel like
that 8-year-old again. There will be that sudden whiff of salt air, and all that it promises. The ocean, near. The sheltering
sky, just ahead. Another Jersey Shore summer, beckoning.
Peter Genovese may be reached at
pgenovese@starledger.com or (973)
392-1765.
