The Light

You know the ocean is my restoration magnet. Yesterday I decided I had had enough and needed that rejuvenation only the crashing waves can give me. It didn’t disappoint.

I had two reasons for making the five and a half hour drive to Seaside Heights. First and foremost was the rejuvenation. But I also wanted to see for myself the damage from Hurricane Sandy. Was the damage as widespread as reported? It was. Were the media accounts accurate? They were.

I left around midnight to catch the sunrise over the ocean. It wasn’t much of a sunrise because of cloud cover, but I spotted a open patch of sky behind the roller coaster still submerged in the ocean after Sandy. I managed to dip my boot in the surf and snap a few pictures along with about a half dozen other photographers before a bullhorn rang out ordering us off the beach {we actually got on by way of a street not protected by a yellow and black caution tape — the only street not cordoned off}. The officer reminded each of us the beach was closed, but gave us a “pass” on a citation because the tape was down.

From my oceanside perch I could see the Sandy devastation up close and personal, replacing the non-existent boardwalk and remnants of boardwalk stores, shops and eateries with images from my memory bank.

Banished from the beach, I spent the next hour walking Ocean Terrace from Hiering to just over the Seaside Park line and back assessing the damage still so visible four months later. It struck me each beach entrance was “protected” by police parked with flashing lights in front of yellow and black caution tape. Most were state police and offered a friendly wave or word. Hmmm. Pretty expensive.

I also thought it might be a PR winner to clean up a small area on the beach to allow visitors access so they could remember their memories, take pictures of the present, watch the progress and be part of the community’s  future. I mean, the Jersey Shore is just one of many destinations. A bad experience — even in bad times — could affect the future.

After my walk, I drove into Seaside Park — where the beaches were also closed but without the police presence — to Island Beach State Park and over to the bay side. I parked on Central Avenue and walked down Seventh Avenue to Bayview to 14th and back. I was awed by the destruction. Houses dotted with tarps, broken windows all over the place, fences down, even a few boats still capsized. Many had orange stickers on the front door warning the house was not safe. A layer of sand was virtually everywhere. As I walked I had to be cautious of broken dishes, smashed lamps, tile, window glass, conduit, shingles and other debris. The pier jutting into the bay had collapsed, part of it lodged about 20 feet away. I could still see the bench at the end where I sat many, many times.

I talked to a couple of people I met along the way. Many were frustrated by the delays. Others just shrugged and said, “We’ll move on.”

It was disheartening, but, in a strange way, still uplifting. Just as Seaside Heights is starting to put in the pilings to rebuild the boardwalk with hope and anticipation, the salty ocean breezes fill the soul with hope. The waves lap onto the sand just so far, often surprising us by rolling in a little further than we anticipated {and sometimes, like during Sandy, a lot further}, all the time reminding us Who is in control. Hint: Not us.

As with many of my adventures, I stake out a destination and ride it out serendipitously. I expected to visit the Shore and return home, but over banana caramel pancakes with a side of sausage links {sorry doc} I remember my best friend’s mother lived in Toms River {where I was pigging out at IHOP}. Maybe I’ll go visit her, I thought. I hadn’t seen her in about 30 years, so it was time. I had planned to meet Bernie there, but with him in North Carolina and me in New York, the plan never materialized.

So I searched Millie out. Despite our technological advances, I couldn’t find a phone number {not even in seven phone books at the restaurant, none of which had residential listings} but I was able to get an address. So I drove over unannounced.

When Millie opened the door, her hands went to her face and she cried out, “Joe Siccardi!” recognizing me immediately. She said I hadn’t changed a bit {shows how ugly I was as a kid}. She looked fabulous.

I only expected to stay about a half an hour, but it stretched into two as we recalled some of the crazy things Bernie, Murray, Carmen and I did growing up. She was our second mom and her and Benny’s home were our second home. I remember her coming down the stairs at two in the morning asking us if we really had a home.

Of course, she called Bernie and we chatted for awhile, and she called her daughter Teresa and we chatted for awhile. Poor Teresa, we used to tease her to no end. We caught each other up on our lives. And before I left, she handed me a piece of paper with her phone number. “Now you can call. Come on down for dinner.” It’s an invitation I’m sure I’ll use.

From there I decided to head north to Paterson. I stopped at the cemetery to visit with Mom and Dad. I hadn’t been there since Dad’s funeral and it, too, was something that had to be done. It’s different talking to a slab of marble, but it was another part of the catharsis of the day.

While in Paterson, I stopped in to see my aunt and again stretched a short visit into a couple of hours catching up on the comings and goings of our kids and grandkids {my cousins and their families}.

Then it was over to Corrados, a grocery store specializing in Italian delicacies. Karen and I would stock up there when we went to Paterson, but all I brought was a big jar of peanut butter {because we needed it} and a coffee cake for Sunday breakfast, mainly because I couldn’t make up my mind what else to get.

Finally it was off to Falls Views East for a hamburger and hot dog all the way, Frenchies well done and a large birch beer {sorry doc, but at least I got in some exercise walking} … a quick stop at the Paterson Falls {when in Paterson, you have to stop at the falls, even for just a minute or two} … a final fill up of $3.53 gas … and back home.

In all, it was about a 21 hour trip with a steady snow to almost Scranton going down and from Whitney Point coming back. But it was one of the most relaxing days I’ve had in a long time.

THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Virtue is the habitual and firm disposition to do the good.