Over the Boardwalk
No matter what the song says, we spent most of our time on top of the boardwalk. We considered the “underneathers” pretty weird. Actually, we thought most of the vacationers bordered on weirdness in one way or another.
Most people go to the beach to either swim or soak up some sun. Hiding beneath the boards accomplishes neither, and we wondered if the cellar dwellers went home with striped tans. They probably got no tans at all, earning them no bragging rights when they returned to their workplaces.
A trend started in Wildwood in the mid 1950’s when the now long-gone Baysea Motel opened, advertising “The Only Pool in Town!” Shortly after the paint dried, they revised it to “The First Pool in Town!” Not quite the same thing, but we appreciated their candor.
Anyway, as new motels opened, making room for swimming pools, no matter how small, visitors flocked into town and filled the pools with humanity. Pretty strange, considering the location of many of the pools, hardly a stone’s throw from the ocean. But the pools lacked a few ocean essentials, like crabs, sharks, jellyfish, and rip currents. We called the rip currents “the undertow” back then, and it still works for me. I don’t care what they call it, as long as I know what to do when it whisks me away. Whatever it is, it usually ran south to north, and after a few rounds of body surfing, we often found ourselves five or six blocks north of the old familiar blanket. We usually used someone else’s umbrella as a landmark, not a great idea, because they sometimes closed up shop for the day long before we left.
I spent some time under the boardwalk, though. Mostly, I sifted for coins beneath the pier where I worked. Funny how loose change finds those cracks when dropped from above, so ticket booths offered prime locations for prospecting.
Back on top, the spaces between the boards offered other challenges for women during the late 50’s through the early 60’s. For whatever reason, many of them wore stiletto, or spiked heels for their walks on the wood. I neither profess to understand why someone would wear high heels to the boardwalk, nor why they would not recognize the problems posed by the cracks, but I saw many a shoe yanked from the wooden jaws. A cottage industry sprang up when some opportunist started selling little rubber (or maybe they were plastic) cups that fit over the ends of the shoe heels. They occupied premium space in a Catholic woman’s purse, right beside the prayer veil. Semper Paratus!
People vacationing at the shore apparently think that buying stupid things demonstrates intelligence. It doesn’t, but it makes many a smart person appear stupid. Okay, so maybe it just makes them look fun-loving, but I’m sticking with stupid. Like, is there something really hilarious about a huge comb that I’m not aware of? How about the gigantic sunglasses? A hat with little beer cans around the brim? Yawn. . . Okay, so those things were long ago, but who can predict next year’s barrel of laughs? Why don’t they just buy some of those things on the TV ads and bring them along, saving tons of money?
Decades ago, (even before the Pet Rock) the popular boardwalk prankster invested in a dogless leash with a collar. A wire or something kept it stiff, enabling the jokester to pretend a dog tugged at the end. Up and down the boards they walked, apparently never tiring of keeping the collar at the right height to properly simulate a dog. Most of these people also thought they possessed quite a talent for barking. Maybe next year I’ll sell empty bird cages and watch visitors walking around chirping.
Back then I avoided terra firma whenever possible, spending much time either in the ocean, in or on the bay, or on the boardwalk. The latter became mandatory when I started working on an amusement pier. We prayed for rain, just to get a night off, but from 1961 through 1966, it hardly rained at all, especially during the evening. It teased us once in awhile, raining just enough to close the rides for an hour or so. I do remember getting off early one night in ‘64. My cynical side tells me that from 1967 on, it probably poured at least once a week, but that’s like worrying about the price of stock shares after you sell them. My time spent on the island is something I would never have traded, not even for a pair of gigantic sunglasses.