Salt Water

We spent summer holidays in Ocean City for a while. The rulers there were protestants who detested public drinking and in the evenings families who agreed with the "dry" foundations of the town would promenade on the boardwalk or take in a band concert or a church sing at the Boardwalk Tabernacle or sit at a pavilion. Afterward they might have waffles and ice-cream or a pork-roll. Bedtime on the average was earlier in Ocean City than in Wildwood or Atlantic City.

Renegades drove across the bridge to Somers Point to quaffe a drink or two or ten at Tony Marts or Bayshores or other bars. Legend said that those who came down to Ocean City by bus or train rented skiffs in the evenings and rowed across the bay to drink. A reliable census noted that most of the drinking class were Roman Catholics and Episcopalians.

Ocean City was defined as a family resort. I think that was true. When we went there it had a decent beach but storms have robbed the town of much of its sand and sucked it out into the ocean and redeposited it in Wildwood. At low tide now it's about twenty yards to the water in Ocean City while at Wildwood the walk from the boards to the waves is a tough hike. Liars say at low tide on a clear day you can see Portugal from the water's edge.

Our house was at Fifteenth Street near the Kelly's, a wealthy Philadelphia family who kept slobbering boxer dogs and had a daughter who would later become Princess of Monaco, a place not much larger than Ocean City where the neighbors all spoke French. Kelly's house wasn't yet a shrine but it was close to the two landmarks that locals could take their visitors to see. One was a posh hotel, The Flanders, that was so ritzy that we viewed it as private property. It seemed out of place because it dwarfed everything around it, like a Basilica surrounded by the huts of the poor.

The other attraction was on the beach: the wreck of the Sindia. Only the gunwales and a mast of the freighter bark were visible in its grave on the beach in the early <@145>forties and kids used the derelict as their playground.

During the war gasoline was severely rationed. Any trips by automobile were practically out of the question. But for us holidays at the seashore were never cancelled, and we packed trunks and suitcases and lugged them from our house to the local station from where we would entrain to center city. And from there we would take a streetcar to the end of Market Street to the Ferry slip and float across the river to Camden where another railroad took us to the resort of choice. The trains were pulled by steam locomotives. On hot days smoke and cinders from the engine inhaled into the open windows of the carriages. The trains rolled across countryside still dominated by farmland. We must have looked like French refugees fleeing Paris, squeezed among our baggages in the crowded cars. I saw a sign along the way: Berlin. A reminder of war from somewhere else seemed dangerously close. There would be more later but we fell back into the bliss of nicer anticipation when we caught the smell of salt wafting from marshes and inlets awhile before we arrived at the shore.

The beach was the lure. We were kids and we hit the sand with little tin buckets and shovels to indulge in architectural programs that would be spoiled by incoming tides or clumsy feet or professional castlewreckers. We were thrown on the beach to roast in the sun. Noxema might be needed because we would go red before we tanned. God, those sunburns were horrible.

The beach had downsides. Flies had teeth. Crabs nibbled toes. Jellyfish ambushed swimmers. The sand away from the water was hot enough to cook beef. Broken shells sliced feet. Oil slick from torpedoed tankers had to be scraped from heels and toes. Undertoe alerts constantly forced bathers from the surf. Salt water stung the eyes and gagged swimmers who swallowed it. So what!

In the mornings we could rent bicycles and ride in the streets or on the boardwalk for a while before breakfast. We could build kites and fly them on the beach without risk of them being destroyed in trees or on telegraph wires. After grapefruit or prunes and cereal and eggs we were chased to the beach to build castles and foray into the salt water to do battle with waves, and hunt shells and draw lines in the sand. Sandwiches arrived from the house a little after noon, with sand.

At the end of the day on the beach we would clean off under a cold water shower at the side of the house. Brrr! Wash away the sand that was in our hair, in our bathing suits, on our body; no sand was allowed in the house.

We went to the Boardwalk in the evenings to play skee-ball or miniature golf and to ride on the carousel and the ferris-wheel and the bumper-cars and to promenade in required dress. In the daytime beachwear was regulated; at night a boardwalk code was required. The regulations were enforced.

What's a trip without souvenirs? Postcards were cheap. They showed the ritzy Flanders, the Sindia rotting on the beach, the bridge that hauled traffic into town, the same bridge with fishermen posing. Other cards were illustrated with fishermen in the surf or fishermen on the pier. Others were of Boardwalk scenes, the baby parade, beach scenes, townscapes of the monument, of various churches, of the tennis court, a park.

Gift shops sold stuff impressed with "Ocean City." They were made somewhere else, possibly in Philadelphia where we lived. Idiots stood in line. Better things could be bought. Salt Water Taffy was made in view of potential buyers. They could purchase it by the pound and maybe by the ton. There was no salt water in it, though. I guess the name emphasized its exclusive territory. Salt Water Taffy isn't pulled in the Poconos and phony entrepreneurs haven't stooped to counterfeiting Pocono Mountain Taffy.

Little kids didn't buy souvenirs. They brought home free stuff: scallop shells, clams, conches, pebbles, horseshoe crab casings, sand in jars and buckets, starfish. Parents tolerance for all of these momentos was low. Most, when unguarded, would go into the trash.

Once we reached the age when we could find the bathroom our parents would leave us at bedtime and join the other Roman Catholics and Episcopalians at Somers Point for some drinks and dancing. We were safe from danger and inhibited from mischief because we knew all of the neighbors had their ears stuck to our walls, just like at home. There were no secrets in the world if deeds were of any account. We were little kids and our energy was spent by bedtime.