There is an ineffable relationship between Jersey shore dwellers and the ocean
Greasy skin.
Night clubs.
Fist pumping.
Booty shorts.
Tattoos.
Hair gel.
Hundred-dollar T-shirts.
Guidos, guidettes, and grenades, all in a rainbow of spray-tan orange.
There’s no doubt New Jersey has a stigma to it. That reputation is largely unfounded, a cultural joke perpetuated by an America hungry for reality shows and stand-up material.
There is an ineffable relationship between Jersey shore dwellers and the ocean. Somewhere between god and neighbor, it’s always present—on the beach, in the air, over dinner-table conversations. “I’ve never been anywhere where the people are so superattuned to a specific aspect of nature,” says my mom, who spent the greater part of her childhood here. “It’s
on top of everyone’s conversation-bag. You know, it’s not like people in Kansas say, ‘Oh, how’s the prairie today?’ But that’s what Jerseyans do.”
Some people, like my uncle, make it their living to know the ocean better and sooner than anyone else. Every day at the almost-crack of not-quite-dawn, he rustles himself out of bed. Soon after, he’s on a boat—a tiny boat just big enough for him, a pad of paper, and a remote thermometer. He plumbs the equipment some few yard-fathoms into the foam. Makes a note. Pulls it up. Back to shore. At home, he emails the newspaper. On everyone’s daily paper later that day, a sidebar greets them on the front page, detailing the ocean’s current mood. And thus, my uncle has earned his daily bread.
“Looks like it’s finally warming up,” some housewife will note later that morning as she butters her toast. She smiles at the kids. They know what “it” is, and they’ve been waiting for it to warm up all spring. As have their parents. As has the entire city. Right as it reaches that “just bearable” state—that toe-numbing, junk-shrinking late-spring cold—down come the blankets, up come the sandcastles.
The beach is the great equalizer. There are no Snookies here; no Vinnies, no Ronnies, no J-Wowws, no Mike “The Situation”s.
On the hot sand, adults are children. Castles are constructed. Waves are taunted, then dodged at the last second. The ice-cream man makes his rounds, big box strapped to his stomach, same box that’s been strapped to his stomach for 40 years. Every-one’s ears are pricked by his distinctive bellow: “ICE CrEEEAM!” Everyone wants one. But not today, they think. Maybe tomorrow. Everyone tans in the same sun, not in UV boxes or with cans of orange goop. Everyone gets the same sand in their toes, their hair, their suit; screaming tykes, crusty artifacts, inveterate beach bums, happy shoobies, skinny, obese, everywhere in between, and surprisingly few people with python biceps and spiked hair. But it doesn’t matter.
The ocean doesn’t discriminate.
