Savoring the solitude of September
Long Beach Island is the perfect place to pass the autumnal equinox
It’s always fascinating to watch the Jersey Shore button up.
It’s even more fun being part of the process, which begins in earnest after Labor Day’s reverse exodus and proceeds in stages through Thanksgiving and into the new year. To state the obvious, the crowds have thinned out, lifeguards and beach-badge checkers are back at school, restaurants offer immediate seating, and the feeling of quiet and solitude can be overpowering
My wife, Gail, and I rent a modest cottage for most of September in Ship Bottom on Long Beach Island. That’s the town right off the causeway, or gateway, to this 18-mile-long sliver of sand that’s not much more than a quarter of a mile at its widest, below sea level at its lowest, and defined by Barnegat Light at its northern tip and a national wildlife refuge at its southern promontory.
Yes, the casinos and onshore wind turbines of Atlantic City are visible nearly 20 miles from the refuge, but first consider what’s closer at hand: the flocks of migratory birds pausing to replenish on their way south; the graceful arcs of dolphin pods moving in synchronous harmony, or the sudden breaching of a whale. At Barnegat Light, enjoy the historic structure’s fresh look after a recent restoration, explore its craggy jetties lined with anglers of all ages, and inhale the saltiness of the surroundings.
In between are a baker’s dozen of towns, some only a few blocks long. Several play off each other’s names (Beach Haven, Beach Haven Crest, Beach Haven Terrace, Spray Beach) and offer relative vacation affordability compared to such enclaves as Harvey Cedars and Loveladies, which leverage their massive (though not necessarily aesthetic) multideck beachfront properties for rentals that can run into the mid-five figures per week.
Come September, Gail and I swap our home atop the Second Mountain in West Orange for the LBI cottage rental. Built in the 1940s, it has been spared the teardowns devouring so many quaint older dwellings on the island, principally because it has remained in the same family. The freshly painted two-story contains three bedrooms, two baths, and modern kitchen. Its walls are covered with framed and wood-mounted homilies, such as “There are tall ships and small ships, but the best ships are friendships,” and the one alongside me as I bend over the computer: “This is my happy place.”
Hardly Yiddishkeit or deeply inspiring, but soothing nonetheless, and, after all, what’s a vacation for? (Entering my 18th year of retirement, I sometimes wonder if the term vacation applies anymore.) The cottage is spotless, mildew-free, and only a few houses from the dunes. It also offers an enclosed porch and wraparound patio, plus a terrific upstairs deck, perfect for afternoon reading (or dozing) when the beach seems a walk too far.
Our September sojourn takes on added significance this year as a strategic pause, knowing that October brings, in rapid succession, Rosh Hashanah 5785, the awfulness and wrenching solemnity of the first anniversary of October 7, and then Yom Kippur. And all of this, while daunting enough on its own, plays out in real time against a presidential campaign entering a shortened and supercharged homestretch.
The cohesive year-round Jewish population on LBI is augmented by regular weekend visitors and is preparing to observe the High Holy Days at the modern Jewish Community Center, which counts 350 families and individuals as members. This is indeed a far cry from the days when my parents first ventured here from Newark for their vacations in the mid-1950s and tribe members were few and far between.
Back then, Shabbat services were held in a common room of the Hotel Baldwin, the last of the turreted, Victorian-era palaces to grace the island. I remember studying for my approaching bar mitzvah one summer and would attend Saturday morning services. When the men, who seemed ancient to me in their rumpled suits and battered fedoras, were one short a minyan, I was pressed into service with an on-the-spot-ruling that “he’s close enough and tall for his age.”
My parents had adventurously motored down the newly opened Garden State Parkway past Bradley Beach and Lakewood, and crossed the old causeway to an LBI that was little developed beyond battered dunes, scrub pines, bayberry bushes, and modest capes. During the war, a Coast Guard contingent patrolled the beaches for German spies put ashore by U-boats. The year-round residents were a hardy and insular breed, and they used to brag about how many years it had been since they left the island. LBI was also a hotbed of minor league baseball, and Beach Haven had its own stadium.
These days, there are just as many New Yawk accents as there are deep Delmarva or Philadelphia drawls. Giants fans are beginning to rival the number of Eagles partisans, and, in aggregate, Mets and Yankees devotees clearly outnumber Phillies rooters. But some localisms, such as calling a sub sandwich a hoagie, never seem to change.
That said, there’s something definitely special about Septembers down here. The sunrises seem more silvery against the ocean than those of July and August, while the sunsets continue to burnish the bay with a dazzling orange afterglow. Gail is convinced the sound of waves lapping against the beach are more soothing at this time of year. My morning jogs are much less labored than during the summer, with the crisper air and fading humidity. And the number of bikers, runners, pram pushers, and dog walkers to contend with is way, way down.
Vacationing at the Shore during the off-season is more than just going against the grain. It requires the realization that some local residents feel the season should be over and wish the remaining “shoobies” would head back to Northern Jersey, New York City, Philadelphia, Florida, or whatever their point of origin and allow LBI to begin its hibernation.
The term shoobie is said to have originated from the contraction of shoe-boxers, referring to mostly Philadelphia Main Line day-trippers who took the old Reading Railroad to LBI in the late 19th century and left beaches littered with lunch leftovers. Over the decades, the slang broadened into generic usage, applying to all South Jersey beachgoers. Visitors to more northerly resorts are called “bennies,” with several Jersey urban-legend explanations, none of them having anything to do with antisemitism.
Those locals who fret about shoobies are the hardcore folks who mark the official end of summer on the day the boulevard traffic lights are reset to flashing amber for the duration of winter, rather than using the autumnal equinox on September 22 as the seasonal demarcation. However, a growing majority of the year-rounders appreciate the economic benefits of the visitors and try to extend the seasons with festivals and special events.
Surprisingly, in this deep red part of the state, there are virtually no banners or yard signs to be seen for either presidential candidate as there were four years ago. The only expressions of protest are lawn posters warning against offshore wind farms, and that fight seems to have been temporarily won since funding for several of the projects collapsed.
But enough local lore. Before Gail and I try the beach this afternoon, we have to visit the book exchange and then stop at Ferrara’s, a bakery with the most decadent and delicious jelly donuts and sticky buns anywhere. There may be lines, but there may not be any more sticky buns. Oh well, elephant ears are always an option.
Jonathan E. Lazarus, a retired Star-Ledger editor, is a copy editor for the Jewish Standard and the New Jersey Jewish News. He is driven to distraction by the new Garden State Parkway toll hikes on his trips to LBI.
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