Beach Joy
Of the joys of my childhood, nothing compares to our vacations at the beach. My parents, two older brothers, me, and two weeks’ worth of stuff would be piled in the station wagon in late July every year for the 30-mile trip to the shore. We stayed at a beach cottage on 33rd Street in Ocean City, Maryland, and later, at Castle in the Sand, nearby. The anticipation rivaled that of Christmas Eve. Once on the Route 50 bridge into town, I was ready to swoon. I could smell the salt water and almost hear the waves crashing. I couldn’t wait to get in the ocean.
We would stay on the beach all day, eat picnic lunches from the cooler, and swim even after the lifeguards went off duty. Our mother would slather suntan lotion on us—in the 1960s and 70s there was no such thing as sunscreen. The many skin cancers I’ve had removed over the years attest to that. But there was zinc oxide, which went on our noses and sometimes our shoulders, too. We were a family of redheads. My mom and older brother would tan to a golden bronze but the rest of us would burn to a crisp. Blistering sunburn was a condition you just lived with.
At night, to the boardwalk we went. This was even better in its way because we were allowed to go without our mother. Complete and total freedom! Well, almost. She would plant herself on a bench or ride the boardwalk train while we were free to do whatever we wanted. She would give us money for rides, games, and food, and we would be free until meet-up time at whatever bench or landmark.
We’d head straight to Trimper’s amusement park—to the Wild Mouse (roller coaster), the Trabant, and of course, the Haunted House, where you could see the operators turning lights on and off if you looked behind you. I only rode the hair-raising Zipper once, because I nearly got sick: around and around was fine, but upside down was too much after all the ice cream, Thrasher’s fries, and cotton candy.
We zigged and zagged, running through the crowds to the games. I was a Skee-Ball champ and the gazillion tickets I earned went for everything from plastic insects to Frisbees. I could always fool the “Guess How Much You Weigh” guy on the Pier. I was skinny as a rail but weighed more than I looked because I was solid muscle. So, I’d leave with at least one excellent stuffed animal to add to my prodigious collection.
The crowds, the bright lights, the happy sounds—it was the closest I’d come to being in a city, a place where I longed to be all the time. The whole two weeks were spent in the ocean all day and at the boardwalk every night. The second week it would be my birthday, and even more fun with cake and presents. It was just the best.
I don’t know why we never went to Rehoboth—it was only 15 or 20 minutes away from Ocean City. I knew of it, but we never went there as a family.
In fact, I didn’t start visiting Rehoboth until 1988, when I lived in DC. My partner at the time and I would stay for a week every summer. I fell in love with Rehoboth during those vacations—by then, I was an adult and preferred better dining and the quieter beach. Huge bonus—it was gay friendly!
I moved to NYC in 1993, so I left the Rehoboth beaches for East Hampton, Montauk, and Fire Island. But when I left New York in 2005 to be with the love of my life in Delaware, guess what was waiting?
So now I live about 40 miles from Rehoboth and at the end of every summer, we spend a week. It’s always too short, but with five furbabies, two of them elderly, we can’t stay longer. Besides, there are day trips. And every time we go, I still feel that childhood excitement when we arrive at the roundabout—I feel the pull of the ocean, smell the salt air, and joy settles into my soul. ▼
Beth Shockley is a public affairs specialist and a former editor of Letters.