Down the Shore
We are on the Garden State Parkway early on a Saturday morning in late July, heading south to the Jersey shore. I'm 8 years old and my brother, David is 5 about to turn 6. We're in the back seat of Dad's Chevy sedan. He is driving and Mom navigates with the AAA Trip-Tik on her lap, even though they know the route. It's a good hour drive from our home in Essex County to the beach areas in Monmouth County. My brother and I fidget in the back seat and look for cool road signs and cars on the road around us to pass the time.
Dad plans the travel and logistics (he wants to be on the road early to beat the inevitable shore traffic); Mom prepares and packs the picnic lunch; and we've all loaded up the trunk with foldable beach chairs, a beach umbrella, bags with towels and blankets, and beach toys to play with in the sand.
Our destination is Pillips Avenue Beach in Deal, N.J. This is our go-to summer beach spot. I don't remember why Dad picked Deal – maybe some friends went there and it stuck as our beach place too. This site had a big deck structure, with picnic tables overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, a snack bar, wooden cabanas you could rent by the day for storing your bags and change of clothes, and a shower area where you could clean up after your day in the sun and sand. There was a beach fee to use the facilities.
Even in 1969, Deal was a magnet for Sephardic Jews. Families, who lived in Brooklyn, began buying up properties in the beachside town. Deal beach-goers were a pretty homogenous group, the only mix being locals and day trippers from Northern New Jersey communities.
We stake out our turf on the beach, lay down a big blanket, and set up our chaise lounges. Dad or Mom would walk us to the water's edge and we'd wade into the cold frothy water slowly, getting acclimated to the temperature. We'd play in the waves, dig moats in the sand, collect little sea shells, and tiptoe around the ubiquitous jellyfish and kelp scattered on the wet sand near the water.
My Dad loved the sun. He'd bring a book and lie back in his chair and read and get a suntan. No one was particularly worried about getting too much sun or skin cancer in the ‘60s. We slathered on Ban du Soleil orange jelly, with its minimum SPF – the goal was a sun tan with a tan line, not protection. Mom would hide in the shade under the umbrella.
We'd lay flat on our beach towels and look up at the clear blue sky, breath in the sea air, and watch the low prop planes flying overhead, trailing an advertising banner for beer or suntan lotion. Sometimes we’d see skywriting planes painting messages in cloudlike puffs.
After working up an appetite chasing waves, we'd all trek up the hot sandy slats on the wooden walkway to the picnic area. Dad would retrieve a cooler with our lunch, and we'd eat sandwiches, fruit, and the homemade chocolate chip cookies Mom made for us. We’d go back to our beach spot after lunch, and soak up some more rays.
In late afternoon, clearly sunburned and salty, we’d pack up our gear, and carry everything to our cabana, and clean up for our drive home. The shower always felt relieving on hot skin. We all toted chairs and bags to the car, and then settle in for our ride, drowsy with an overabundance of sunshine and beach day memories.
