The Shore

I was asked to attend a conference back east. Not something I like to do a lot of, but the location was not far from Philadelphia, where I had recently had a blast at a high school reunion.

I called Lynda, one of the ringleaders of the old gang, and told her I could be in town for a long weekend, if anyone was available. “Fantastic! I’ll put the word out. Where do you want to meet up? South Philly? Northeast?”

“The shore.” I live in the Midwest now, and that’s what they refer to as “the beach.”

“Atlantic City? Big & sweet! We’ll catch a show, do a little gambling, do a lot of partying.”

“No, the shore. Like when we were kids.”

“Hammer, it’s January. There’s nothing there.”

“Don’t care. I’d just like to go there.”

“Not the same place. They charge everywhere to get on the beach, if you can even park within a mile. Nothing but t-shirt shops and game arcades. And nothing's open this time of year.”

“The shore, Lynda, the shore.”

“You haven’t changed.”

But, the shore had changed, like everything else. I knew that would be the case, but wanted to go there anyway.

My earliest recollections were packing the Scotch Plaid cooler into the ’53 Chevy and heading east across the bridge. The great thing about the shore was you didn’t have to be wealthy to enjoy it. Anyone who could spare a few gallons of gas could avail themselves of all the delights of the beach and boardwalk.

The rich had largely abandoned Atlantic City as their escape by then. Air travel brought Florida within reach. It was the death knell for Atlantic City (pre-gambling), but there was still plenty left.

We’d play all day on the beach and then the parents and kids would go their separate ways. We’d meander up and down the boardwalk in endless repetition. What a magical place that was.

Where do I begin? It was a sensory kaleidoscope of lights, sounds of the surf and aromas of food. Okay, there’s a start.

When you went to the shore, you must get salt water taffy. Everyone was fiercely loyal to their favorite brand. I was a St. James man. I probably didn’t touch anything akin to taffy all year. But, when down the shore, I feasted on the filling-jerking stuff.

And, when on the boardwalk, one simply must visit Planter’s. A mechanical Mr. Peanut stood outside, bedecked in top hat and monocle, beckoning you inside to swoon from the heady bouquet of fresh roasting peanuts. Every variation of peanut snack lined the extensive shelves, but the heavily salted peanut in the shell was our quarry. Every crack between the boardwalk slats was beaded with empty shells. It was the favorite fuel for walking the boards.

We’d also watch them making fudge and bought paper cones full of hot, crinkle-cut french fries. Then, off to the automat to wash it down. There, you found every exotic beverage known to man; cocoanut milk to birch beer.

But, enough about the food. Steel Pier was the centerpiece for entertainment. Jutting out into the ocean, it carried all kinds of amusement park rides to fling you around and stir up your bloated belly. It also had the famous dancing waters, a mélange of fountains and changing colored lights; a precursor to the psychedelic era. And, the fabulous diving horse. A rider mounted the steed on a towering platform and they plunged into a large tank. The animal rights people probably put the kibosh on that. Steel Pier booked top rock groups, but that wouldn’t be of much interest to me until the adolescent years.

Ah, the adolescent years. What could be more idyllic than being a teenager at the shore? Nothing. Especially when we put together a rock band and played some of the teen clubs down there. Paris in the spring? No, thanks. Rio during carnival? Keep it. Put me in a hot rod Ford packed with rowdy friends, scorching down the White Horse Pike with wide open lake pipes, and I’ll ask no more.

Geographic focus shifted with the onset of puberty. AC (Atlantic City) held a lot of attractions, but it was mostly for “old people.” Ocean City was to the south, but it was determined to be family oriented. They came down hard on boisterous teenagers.

That put us in Wildwood. Or, “The Wood,” as we usually referred to it in sweaty anticipation.

They knew their market in The Wood. Cheap flop houses and no questions asked. Road houses that would take a hand-crafted draft card for ID. No pretenses on anyone’s part; if you were in The Wood, you were there to party. Let the good times roll! Anyone who spent any time at The Wood cannot listen to “Under the Boardwalk” (The Drifters) now without zoning out into a dreamy trance.

Two other memories came back. Jitneys. What the hell is a Jitney? It was a short bus painted blue and silver that plied up and down Pacific Avenue in endless streams. They always seemed to be honking at lethargic teens jaywalking to the White House, the premier sub shop. Labor Day marked the sad end to a summer of nonstop reveling, and teenage ‘riots” broke out in the angst. Jitneys seemed to draw the most ire, and more than one was tipped. The police didn’t take any chances. Being an adolescent was considered “due cause” around Labor Day and you were rousted or jailed. The ACLU wasn’t in evidence then.

A couple years ago, I was wearing an old t-shirt in Florida, emblazoned with the Ron Jon logo and “Ship Bottom, New Jersey.” Ron Jon is a major surf shop chain.

I was waiting in a line and the young man in front of me noticed the shirt. “Dude, they have a Ron Jon’s in New Jersey?” He seemed amused.

Actually, it was the original Ron Jon’s. And, our first stop on a shore safari. We rented boards there.

I don’t recall that more than a few of us ever got to the point where we could stay up for more than scant seconds and ride a wave. But, that was beside the point. You just wanted the board to strap on top of your car when you were trolling. The Beach Boys, Jan & Dean, The Ventures – it was the golden age of the surf culture.

Lynda called with the “news.” “I contactd a bunch of people. Everyone wants to see you and everyone thinks you’re nuts about this shore thing. Besides, the Iggles (Eagles) are in the playoffs Saturday.”

Silence. “I hear an ‘and’ coming up. Also, here’s what I did just for you and you owe me big time.”

“So here’s what I did for you and you owe me big time. Angie’s got a huge house near Cape May, right by the beach. She says we can party there and stay over Saturday, if we want. I told her you’re driving in Friday night and she says she’ll put you up.”

“Now that is big & sweet. I owe you big time.”

Friday afternoon, I blew out of DC with my foot on the floor of the rented Kia. This rocketed it up to about half the speed of smoke. I reached Cape May and went right to Sunset Beach. Cape May is on the southern tip of Jersey and you can see sunrises and sunsets from about any of its beaches. But Sunset Beach was fraught with memories of glorious dates from the days of yore. It was a little cloudy, but a fiery pink palette made the side trip more than worthwhile.

Angie’s house was one of those grand old “painted ladies” that festoon Cape May and sell for well into seven figures. She had divorced well.

She hadn’t changed. She hugged me, and commenced to bounce off the walls excitedly. Angie always had the frenetic energy of “Chip n’ Dale” (the cartoon chipmunks) and was about the same size. I gave her time to settle down to earth and treated her to a sumptuous dinner at the Virginia Hotel, another grand old lady, and the best eats in town.

We stayed up late talking about old times, but I informed her that we’d rise early and motor up the coast to see all the old haunts before party guests started to arrive. She said there was nothing to see this time of year, but finally agreed to go along with it.

We did it all – Wildwood Crest, Wildwood, Avalon, Ocean City, Ventnor, Margate, Atlantic City and Long Beach Island. It had all changed. Condos, condos and more condos. At least Lucy the Elephant was still preserved in Margate; an icon worth visiting. It’s a building on the beach, by the way, not a mammal. But, at least all the memories were intact.

On the return trip, I insisted on finding a place for cheese steaks. Angie protested, saying she had ordered cheese steaks, subs, soft pretzels (the real, Philly style) and Taste-T-Kakes for the party. Ah, the food of the gods. But, I could eat genuine Philly cheese steaks all weekend (and did). The “chain” cheese steaks found around the rest of the country resemble the real thing about the way Steven Segal resembles Sir Lawrence Olivier in the acting genre.

Partying with old friends was fun, even if they had changed. But, the Shore was the old friend I had come to see, and that was extraordinary. Even if it had changed, the memories hadn’t.

The Iggles dropped the ball. They hadn’t changed.