A Brief Personal History of the Jersey Shore

I.

I first set foot on Jersey Shore sands at fifteen years old, toothpick-thin and mid-summer sun-kissed. On the way down the shore, my friend Sara and I dangle bare feet out of car windows as her mother navigates the Garden State Parkway. Cars topped by surfboards creep past us, slogging through the requisite shore traffic, but the slow pace doesn’t bug me. For one thing, I have all the time in the world. For another, I haven’t been on vacation in five years, when I went to Hershey Park with my parents — and I haven’t been on a friend vacation since ever. The excitement in the car is palpable as we head-bang to Disturbed and KoRn and Ozzie and whatever “devil-worshiping” bands informed our teenage years. The nice thing about youth is that there is still so many first times, still so many experiments in identity to embark on.

Three hours later, we arrive at a pristine beach house, owned by Sara’s aunt and uncle. “We have to take our shoes off,” Sara whispers as we get out of the car. I am surprised; I expected her extended family to mirror her immediate one: accustomed to a parade of teenagers with dirty feet stomping through their kitchen in search of string cheese and Gushers and dad’s rolling papers, which “hid” in a decorative tin on top of the fridge. Instead, Sara’s cousins are sheltered and clean and listen to classical music. One even…