seaside rendezvous

I first went to Seaside Heights, New Jersey just after I met Mrs. Pincus. We were not yet married, just a couple of kids looking for some fun at the shore. By this time, the Atlantic City of our youth had all but disappeared. It was now making the hopeful transition to becoming the Las Vegas of the East. Family resorts had been converted to casinos, amusement piers went bankrupt and were shuttered and the beach was no longer AC's number one destination. Seaside Heights, as I was told by my art school pal Eric who spent his summers in the small North Jersey community, stood unchanged for generations. The boardwalk, while considerably smaller than its famed Atlantic City counterpart, was lined with games of skill (like Whack-a-Mole and SkeeBall), spinning wheels of fortune and several piers jammed with carnival-style thrill rides.

One summer day in the early 1980s, Mrs. P (in girlfriend mode) and I tackled winding Route 37 through the notorious Jersey Pine Barrens*, to the tiny burg just over the oddly-configured Thomas A. Mathis and J. Stanley Tunney twin bridges. As we approached, we spotted the tracks of rollers coasters rising above the typical Jersey shore homes, We could hear the cheerful sounds of a calliope mixed with the angry chirp of seagulls and the calming woosh of the ocean. It was as though we were transported back twenty years to the fond memories of days spent lounging by the pool at The Deauville and evenings spent spinning on the Tilt-a-Whirl on Million Dollar Pier.

Mrs. P and I met Eric on the beach in the morning and later "walked the boards," marveling at the sights, riding the rides and even scoring a full box of candy at one of the wheels when the arrow finally landed on our quarter-covered number. (Of course, we had already plopped down twice the amount a box of candy would cost had we just made the purchase in a legitimate store.) After a nightcap of a Kohr Brothers chocolate-dipped cone, Mrs. P and I said our goodbyes to Eric and headed home, still joyed from a day's visit to a time past.

We returned to Seaside Heights regularly, even after our son was born in 1987. By this time, Atlantic City showed no signs of its former self, as the casino business was experiencing a massive construction boom and dizzying revenues. Seaside Heights still offered fun for the whole family. Rides, games, the beach and pizza slices bigger than your head.

Of course, time marches on. Our son grew up and a ride on the Whip could no longer compete with concerts and college and girls. Mrs. Pincus' interest in casino gambling blossomed and we found ourselves in one Atlantic City casino or another nearly every weekend. Our trips to Seaside Heights became less frequent, eventually ending altogether. The next time we heard the name "Seaside Heights" was in 2009 when MTV presented Jersey Shore, a "real life" look into the lives of a group of self-proclaimed "Guidos and Guidettes" sharing a house near the town's boardwalk, I never saw an episode of the show, but I know it was an extremely popular cultural phenomenon. It made Seaside Heights a household name as more tourists clamored for a glimpse of Snooki, The Situation and their assorted partners in crime.

After four years of ridicule based on Jersey Shore's infamy, Seaside Heights was assaulted by Hurricane Sandy (or "Super Storm," as it was dubbed by every major and local news outlet because everything needs a name) in the fall of 2012. Mrs. P and I sat in front of our television in a Las Vegas hotel room and watched in horror as the piers we once walked upon and rides we once rode upon were reduced to splinters by voluminous rains and violent winds. However, in the aftermath, the scrappy little town-by-the-sea banded together, determined to rebuild in time for the important summer season. For the most part, Seaside Heights bounced back and welcomed tourists as they had in the past, only to be knocked down again in September by a devastating fire that destroyed over fifty boardwalk businesses as well as one of the more popular amusement piers. But, again, like a phoenix, Seaside Heights rose unfettered and greeted tourists in 2014 with open arms, open beaches and open bars.

"we're gonna get to that place 
 where we really wanna go and 
we'll walk in the sun"

Last Sunday, just my wife and I (refusing to admit to the label "empty-nesters") returned to Seaside Heights after an absence of almost twenty years. Filled with nostalgic curiosity (and looking for an excuse to kill a Sunday afternoon), we decided to check out the progress and changes since our last visit. First, the private parking lot in which we regularly had secured our car was now a municipal lot, outfitted with automated, credit card-accepting kiosks dispensing tickets in lieu of a real-live teen with summer job. The boardwalk, however, looked nearly as we remembered — packed with bathing suit clad tourists, toting giant stuffed animals awarded by one of the many spinning wheels of chance or daintily stuffing a deep-fried Oreo into their zinc-oxide smeared lips. Groups of teenagers mingled with clutches of extended families and the atmosphere was buzzing with joyful activity. The beach was just as jammed with sunbathers and sand castle-builders and volleyball players. Music played. Rides spun to dizzying heights. Pizza doughs were tossed high in the air. Mrs. P and I strolled the truncated boardwalk and took in the sights, the sounds and the smells. We were happy — very happy — to see that Seaside Heights was thriving and vibrant. And when I saw that sign in the window of a boardwalk bar, I knew the more things change, the more they stay the same. Seaside Heights is gonna be okay.

The missus and I each had a slice of pizza as big as our heads, then started for home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com



*The Jersey Devil was nowhere in sight.

come on, Virginia, show me a sign

Our destination was a family wedding in Virginia Beach, a seaside resort town with a population of just under 450,000, making it the 39th largest city in the United States. (If a few more people vacate Mesa, Arizona, VB, as it is affectionately known to locals, will move into the coveted 38th spot.)

My wife has family in Virginia Beach and she takes the six-hour drive south several times a year. During the planning stages of these trips, she obligingly asks if I'd like to accompany her. My usual answer is, "They want to see you. They don't want to see me." That is the true consensus, although on the surface, that feeling is vehemently denied. This time, however, I thought I'd take the trip, after hearing that so many people Mrs. P met over the course of these visits were a bit skeptical that there even is a "Mr. Pincus." I'd show them!

The wedding itself presented an interesting situation. The groom (my wife's cousin) is a field reporter for the local NBC affiliate in Virginia Beach. The bride is the weekend news anchor for the competing CBS affiliate. They are a terrific — and extremely photogenic — couple, who swear their union is based on love and not at all on "out-scooping" the competition. (I would add that he's Jewish, she's Roman Catholic and they were married by a Methodist minister, but you'd probably think I was making the whole thing up. So, in order to keep what little credibility I have — I'll skip that part.) The ceremony was lovely. I was introduced to several of those who doubted my existence. Though they gave me the ol' narrow-eyed once-over, some were still not convinced — despite my insistence that we've been married for almost 30 years. Meanwhile, the newlyweds and their friends partied hard into the night, eventually ending up at a bar in the lobby of our hotel. The next morning, a few of the groomsmen showed up for breakfast in the same clothes they wore when they escorted wedding guests to their seats. They either each rented several of the exact same suits or they had a really, really good time.

Ariel needs constant
supervision.

On Saturday morning, we were afforded some free time before the wedding. My wife was determined to take in some of the famous Virginia Beach sunshine. I was determined not to set foot on sand of any kind.  I shun the beach in any form. I don't like the water, especially when other people are in it. I don't even own a bathing suit. As an alternate activity, I trekked up the "Boardwalk" to see what this resort town had to offer. When I heard "Boardwalk," my head was immediately filled with memories of the Atlantic City Boardwalk of my youth, its perimeter lined with cotton candy, balloons and ferris wheels, its splinter-filled planks daring bathers to tread barefoot. The Virginia Beach "Boardwalk," however, is actually a three-mile stretch of concrete, totally uncontaminated by boards. The jewel in the crown of the cement promenade is a 31-foot tall bronze statue of King Neptune, a shirtless, gray-green behemoth that looms malevolently over the gawking tourists, keeping close watch on adjacent Neptune Park and the awkward teenage cover band that was rocking its small bandstand. The figure is both stunning and frightening. There are other assorted memorials and sculptures that dot Virginia Beach's Boardwalk, lending just enough reverence and history to the otherwise jubilant atmosphere. There's the Norwegian Lady, a nine-foot, forlorn-looking patinated lass erected to commemorate the wreck of the Dictator in 1891. (A duplicate statue stands in Østfold, Norway.) Nearby is the recently-installed Naval Aviation Monument Park, featuring a quartet of statues honoring the history of ... you guessed it ... naval aviation. (This particular weekend hosted a massive "sand soccer" gathering, with scores of colorfully-clad youngsters kicking up the sand and clamoring for a beach's worth of pizza and lemonade. "Learning" didn't rank high on their list of priorities.)

WTF?

On my walk back to my hotel, I discovered the real draw of Virginia Beach. If you like beer, pancakes and henna tattoos, this is the place for you! For nearly thirty blocks, I passed enticements in varying sizes and establishments offering endless brands of barley brew, unlimited buffets of flapjacks and modestly priced, hand-applied temporary body art. This place is a one-stop shop for the beer-drinkin', hotcake consumin' disciple of self-expression. As long as your self-expression does not include foul language. In the 1990s, a "No Swearing" law was passed in Virginia Beach. The Boardwalk and the beach block of Atlantic Avenue are punctuated by these humorous-looking, yet no-nonsense, signs reminding revelers to "keep it clean."  So, please, drink to your heart's content, but drop an F-bomb and you're subject to a $250 fine and 10 days community service. I shit you not!

Virginia Beach is not unlike any one of a hundred little resort towns that dapple the length of the Eastern seaboard. Though some are big and some are small, Virginia Beach has something that those other municipalities lack.

Family.

Oh, and grass beach mats - 2 for 5 bucks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com