You won't be hearing my voice in this time slot for a few weeks because I'm going down the shore. That's down-a... There's an ongoing debate about why that particular expression evolved, some saying it refers to elevation, as you would go up to the mountains and down to the shore. Others saying it has to do with direction, as in you're going south or down. I favor the latter.
And make no mistake about it, when I go to the shore, I'm going south to Jersey, not north to that whole strangely amorphous, mishmashed area known as Long Beach Island, with communities that include Beach Haven, Seaside, Surf City, Ship Bottom, and Barnegat Light.
And pardon me if I gag when someone pronounces, "We go to Ocean City, Maryland. It's so much better than Ocean City, New Jersey." No, it isn't. It's got more crab, but that's about it.
Now, some background here. Part of my connection to the Jersey Shore is that I was born there, or born close enough. My rule is that if you can get to the beach in a half hour, you were born down the shore. My hometown of Mays Landing is about a 16-mile drive to the Ocean City Beach, which is where my mother took me two or three times a week through my single digits and into the early teens. My father was against it, opining that six hours in the strength-sapping sun would leave me in a less than optimal shape for Little League games. My mother smiled and nodded her head and took me to the beach anyway.
The towns that comprise the Jersey Shore had specific characteristics. We never went to the beach in Atlantic City. That was for out-of-staters, but it's where you went to get in trouble. You also went to Wildwood to get in trouble, but also because it had the best amusement park, and also to imagine what living in South Philadelphia would be like.
Weird place, that Wildwood, though the boardwalk fries were good. They're still good. You went to lovely Victorian Cape May only with your family because you couldn't afford it yourself. And let me be honest, as a kid, I never went to Cape May. It seemed like part of another country or another century.
Which brings us to Ocean City, which everyone knows. You went to Ocean City with your parents, your grandparents, your school trip, your first teenage romance. It's like the welcome wagon of the Jersey Shore. The teetotaling Methodists who founded the town in 1879, still chuckling that you can't get a drink there. Every once in a while, my wife and I still go down to the Ocean City boardwalk to grab a slice of Manco and Manco Pizza, which used to be called Mack and Manco Pizza before a civil war broke out between the families.
Sea Isle City was always a bit of a mystery, and now you might go there to catch a glimpse of Jason and Kylie Kelce and feast on the hope that Travis and Taylor might be visiting. Feel free, but I won't be with you.
Our home base these days is Stone Harbor, which is known for absolutely nothing except costing a lot of money. Nightlife, surfing, beaches with beautiful people, boardwalk, fantastic restaurants, Stone Harbor has none of it. Its most notable characteristic being a 25 mile per hour speed limit that moves traffic between Stone Harbor and Avalon, its twin city, like horse-drawn Amish coaches.
What I ultimately appreciate about the Jersey Shore is its democracy. Miles of white sand, and despite the multimillion-dollar properties near the protective dunes, accessible to all as long as you buy a beach pass or be prepared to flee from the beach checkers.
I also enjoy forcefully defending the Jersey Shore because so many have a jaundiced view of it. Tony Soprano joked garbage on the beach, the smell of burnt pizza. Let me tell you, that's not today's Jersey Shore. But look, if you still believe the cliches about it, get in your car and drive to North Carolina's Outer Banks, and try not to gouge your eyeballs out on your 10-hour drive back home.
