Yesterday, lifeguards reportedly rescued 12 teenagers from rip currents at the Jersey Shore.
Going to the Jersey Shore is nice; much better than watching the TV show. I have many Shore memories with many people spanning six decades: parents and siblings, nieces and nephews, many different friends and my wife and our kids.
I especially like the late day there: the golden light, the depopulated beach from four o’clock until dark, and the cool, swelling and breaking surf.
One late afternoon/early evening in July, 1990, my wife, Ellen, our then-three-month- old first child, and I had just arrived for an overnight stay with my brother-in-law’s family, who were renting, for the week, a house on Long Beach Island. As my brother-in-law, Niall, his 16-year-old nephew, Colin, and I walked to the beach in the fading light under a clear sky, Niall told us that there was an offshore storm and that the surf and tide were surprisingly strong. But each of us liked to swim after the lifeguards leave. So when we got to the empty beach, we removed our shirts and ran toward, and dove into, the water.
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