I live in a small beach town tucked along the coast of the Jersey Shore. In the summer, our streets are filled with cars on both sides, with people trekking with coolers and umbrellas for half a mile until they hit the sand. The locals travel by foot or bike or golf cart to that same strip of golden sand that feels innately ours.
It’s a “one horse town” in the sense that it’s two square miles geographically, with equal parts land and water. It is home to about 3,000 residents, most of whom do not live here past the first weekend in September. The locals consist of families who’ve been here for generations, young families transplanted from the big city looking to settle down with their kids, and retirees who spend half their time in a southern state. There’s no lively downtown, but we do have a few local landmarks that sustain us throughout the year. We have a corner store, a coffee shop, a witch-themed breakfast spot, a locals-only dive bar, a pizza place, a restaurant with $15 cocktails and scenic water views, a yoga studio, and the post office. Depending on the day and season, it is quiet, quaint, or vivacious. Despite most houses having seven-figure-price tags, this town has a no-frills attitude that exudes the energy of “love it or leave it.”
The winters, however, can feel like a ghost town. I am often the only one out when I walk my dog, Ruby, in the afternoons. The streets are barren most of the day, except for parents trekking their kids to and from school, and most houses have no lights on after dark. The winter cold feels even chillier as winds gust East to West from the Atlantic, and no amount of layers can make it a bearable experience. Somehow, living here in the winter feels like a badge of honor. While summer people retreat back to their homes up North and the retirees flock South, I’m still here experiencing all of what beach life has to offer.
It’s a little-known fact (well, opinion) that winter sunsets are better than summer sunsets. The vacant nature of the town forces us to acknowledge any ounce of beauty that comes our way. This time of year, on a rare day that is sunny and bright, we can expect that when the sun goes down, we will be in for a treat. Around 5:30 pm, the sky transforms and begins to take on pink, purple, and even orange hues, blending together effortlessly, giving off an essence of warmth despite the temperature hovering around or below freezing.
Recently, on one of my late afternoon walks with Ruby, I caught a sunset in action. The pastel colors revealed themselves as I walked toward the beach. It’s worth noting that I don’t typically visit the beach in the winter because the strength of western winds makes my eyes tear and my cheeks sting, but this day was mild. On my journey to snap a sunset photo, I ventured up a ramp to walk along the seawall, and halfway into this walk, I realized I had accidentally trespassed an active construction site.
There were 20+ feet long rust-stained pipes stacked neatly on the sand where beach-goers can usually be found, half a dozen forklifts, workers in construction hard hats, and tunnel-shaped holes dug into the sand. Along the coast were a few boats a couple hundred feet away from the beach. In my several winters living at the beach, I’ve learned that this sight is not unusual, though this year’s project is notably bigger than others before it, thanks to state funding. Somehow, all of these elements work together to achieve beach replenishment– the process of adding more sediment onto or directly adjacent to an eroding beach (according to Google). Outside the construction zone caution tape, I walked onto the empty beach with my pup and was in awe by the giant tire comb-shaped marks in the sand spanning a good mile down the beach.
These crews will work day and night for months, all in an effort to make the beach bigger and protect this little town from the inevitable erosion that occurs, leaving our coastline vulnerable. All those months of mess will eventually lead to a summer where the beach will prevail, bigger and better than ever. By Memorial Day Weekend, summer people will scratch their heads and think, “When did that happen?”
Witnessing this beach town in all its imperfect glory feels like a privilege. As a former “summer person,” I have no animosity toward those who spend the sunniest snippet of the year here. Unlike them, I get to experience this town in all the seasons. I’m privy to the winter floods that are getting worse by the year, the spring blooms from the trees that have withstood the flooding, and the abnormally warm autumn days we call “local summer.” I see this little beach town for all it’s worth, gloomy winters included, and still choose to stay.
I’m curious: what badge of honor do you wear proudly?
xoxo
Nicole