Down the Shore

          Here we are experiencing a wonderful time in Beach Haven, New Jersey. A town on Long Beach Island which is, in reality, an eighteen-mile-long sand bar. Just ask anyone who survived Superstorm Sandy.

          Or, in regional Jersey parlance, we are at a grammatically incorrect locale simply called, “down the shore.”

          Not “down at the shore.”

          Not “at the beach.”

          Not “by the ocean.”

          Just “down the shore” and it fits just fine, thank-you.

          You need to be from New Jersey, specifically northern Jersey, to really get this, but we will forgive you if you are not from these parts.

          Just don’t mock our colloquial ways of speaking!

          New Jersey may be one of those places that you love to hate, can’t wait to leave, and at the same time, can’t get enough of. It is one of those proverbial places that are a “state-of-mind.”

          My daughter, Lorelyn (the one in Colorado and who will never move back) holds onto her Jerseyana-isms like they were precious heirlooms, which in her mind, they are. She has two tee-shirts that she wears out there. The first has ‘Welcome to New Jersey, now get out!’ emblazoned on it. The second says, ‘New Jersey, only the strong survive’. Someone once asked her about it and her reply was, “If I have to explain it, you can’t get it.”

          Going ‘down the shore’ has been a family ritual ever since my grandparents bought a house right on the bay in Beach Haven West. I spent as much time as possible there when I was a kid. A kid that was (and still is) enamored with life down here, especially if that life were to somehow have a boat entwined in it. Back then, there were no age restrictions for operating a small, private motor vessel, so here I was in Fifth Grade with my very own fourteen-foot boat with a three horsepower Johnson outboard firmly affixed to the transom.

           Talk about young-boy nirvana!

          I loved that motor so much that on the days that it wasn’t in use (rainy) I would spend as much time with it as I could wiping it down and polishing it with my special cloth.

          But that was 56 years ago.

          This is 2021 and…… nothing has changed.

          I was fortunate enough to go on a boat ride yesterday.

          Not just any boat ride. A boat ride in and around my old bay-side stomping grounds, or ‘waters’ if you prefer.

          Again…… nothing has changed.

          Thankfully!

          The face-full of spray from the bow plowing into the wake of a passing fellow boater, the wind giving you the much envied ‘boat hair’ look, and the familiarity of the channel markers and back-street lagoons made for a much-needed time-machine experience.

          We are down here for a week due to the generosity of my sister Kathy, and her husband Denny. They rent a house here every summer for a week and invite us to tag along.

          Not only us, but their three daughters and their respective families, and my daughter, Heather, and her family.

          All together we have seventeen peeps living under this roof, all very comfortably because the house is one of those old Victorian places from the turn of the century. Constructed of local oak, harvested from over in the Pine Barrens, it is as strong and permanent as it possibly can be.

          And large.

          Not just regular large, I mean big large!

          The kind of large that has a full third floor, (not a re-constructed attic) complete with bath up there. All in all, there are 151 bedrooms and 126 bathrooms (or something like that, I’ve lost count!) in this place.

          Anyway, you get the idea.

          We are very comfortable and having a great time.

          Especially for us. Travelling around in the motorhome does not lend itself to spending a lot of time with family. So, this kind of time is, in every sense of the word, priceless.

          I am pausing the writing process for a while because the kids came downstairs and are headed to the beach to watch the sunrise. It’s a tad cloudy out and it all depends on what is sitting on the horizon. When Heather came downstairs a little while ago she asked me (the meteorologist-soothsayer) if it was still a go. I gave her the thumbs-up because when I got up earlier I could see some stars, so I hope that it’s still good enough for viewing. Otherwise, there will be some cranky teenagers stalking the halls later!

          Sunrise Report upon return.

          (Pause for Sunrise Expedition)

          Success!

          Walking up to the beach my expectations were diminished substantially, but like I said before, it all depends on what is sitting on the horizon. Luckily, when the first arc of that nature-nourishing orb poked its head up and peeked over in our direction there were just a few clouds arranged there for dramatic effect.

          “Ta-Da”!!!

          Never underestimate the power of a well-placed cloud!

          Our activities down here tend to fall into a routine of sorts. That is, if something that is done annually can be classified as a routine!

          Each family unit is responsible for a dinner which makes that time of day either very relaxing or very hectic, depending on one’s status of the day. The days/meals run the gamut from grilled chicken and steak to tacos. Our contribution to this annual Festival of Feasts is BBQ’d baby-back ribs with a side of fresh scallops.

          I believe that a word on the scallops would be appropriate here.

          Luckily for us, the best scallops on the planet seem to live off of the Jersey coast and are harvested daily and landed at the fishing port of Barnegat Light. It is there that we procure these delectable morsels of delight, as fresh as can be, and just dying to be sacrificed to the Pan-Searing gods for our pleasure.

          Some of the other rituals that take place annually include boating, outings to the Mini-Golf course, a visit to Barnegat Lighthouse, a night at Fantasy Island Amusement Park, and of course the almost daily excursion to the sand. Sometimes (mostly) a brave member of our troupe volunteers to forge  ahead and stake out a claim of sorts, so that there is ample space for all of us to together in a compound, never to be invaded by the infidels.

          A week never seems to be enough time. By the time you settle in and then make sure that you cover all of the ‘Tradition’ activity bases, it’s time to start packing up again to go home.

          Until next year.

          When we get back here next summer, it will all be the same.

          Thankfully.

          Except we will all be a year older. The younger kids will have grown substantially, the teens will have matured a bit more, and us older folks will be trying our best not to let time slow us down too much.

          Hopefully we will be successful!