Under the boardwalk, or Sandy we lost our desire for you

Under the boardwalk, OR, Sandy, we lost our desire for you

In the land of Bruce Springsteen, otherwise known as the Jersey Shore---the region not the TV show---Sandy has always been a hallowed name revered in a song that evokes poignant images of Asbury Park. Sandy is our girl no longer. She will now live in infamy for all too many people on the NJ coast for the destruction she wrought on October 29, 2012 to each and every little beach town along the 100+ mile stretch that comprises what so many of us lovingly know as "down the shore."

Those of us who love the ocean are drawn to it with an inexplicable passion. Heat of summer, dead of winter---even during the most turbulent storms--we make our way to the edge of the world to breathe the briny air, feel the salt spray on our skin and listen to the crash of waves hitting sand. We walk the shoreline searching for shells and beach glass and the meaning of life, and to watch dawn break and the moon rise.

We walk the boardwalks, too. Boardwalks are not unique to NJ, but "hitting the boards" is part of the collective memory of every person who has ever day-tripped, vacationed or resided at the shore since the 1800s. In the summer---day or night---a tide of humanity drifts along the planks of what used to be wooden boards but are now mostly a plastic composite material. Not as springy as wood, but supposedly more durable. Not once Sandy hit. She ripped our boardwalks apart, flinging them like popsicle sticks into houses and down side streets.

While the worst of Sandy raged during the full moon high tide, I received a text from my friend, Janet. She lives about five miles  north of me in Ocean Grove in a beautifully restored Queen Anne Victorian house one block from the beach. Around 9 pm, the ocean had breached the dunes and was rushing, waist-deep, past Janet's house carrying chunks of boardwalk with it. One section landed in her front yard. Terror in the night for those who braved Sandy's wrath.

It's all gone, she lamented. The boardwalk and the iconic fishing pier. Gone. Washed away in a storm of unprecedented ferocity. 

With no power and severely limited cell service, neither one of us had any idea at the time of the devastation being felt by towns farther south. Homes washed away. Lives and livelihoods destroyed by unrelenting wind and water. We had no knowledge  of the havoc Northern NJ and New York would face. Big storms make us myopic. We can only react to what we know and see.

I live two miles from the beach in a neighborhood that has a slight enough rise to keep us safe from storm surge flooding. But nothing could protect us from the wind. Sandy blew with a force I'd never heard before. Like Kali, goddess of time and change, Sandy was dark and destructive. She came in the night, bent on blowing us away if she could. It felt like the world was being torn apart, but our little stucco house stayed firm on its ground as it has done for 83 years. Amazingly, our trees stayed tall and strong, too. Perhaps because I followed my friend Kathy's lead and asked them nicely before the storm. 

We lost a section of roof shingles, but those can easily be replaced. We were, thankfully, spared. After hearing Janet's plight, I could only imagine the destruction at our beach. Manasquan has no boardwalk along its 1/2 mile beachfront. There is, instead, a black asphalt pathway separating the ocean and sand from the tightly packed houses on the other side. It is where I get my morning exercise. Where, on a summer's night, Pete and I stroll to escape the heat. Where, if Pete times it just right---7:30 pm---we can walk past the two old gossipy Italian ladies on their evening passeggiata and Pete can eavesdrop on their catty conversations. 

When Sandy hit our beach's shores, the flood sirens wailed and fire engines screamed all night long.  I know other towns south of us on the barrier islands--Lavalette and Mantoloking, along with the small towns on Long Beach Island; and Sea Bright and Monmouth Beach north of us---suffered catastrophic losses as the ocean met the bay or river, sweeping houses aside like tokens brushed off a Monopoly board. I have yet to see what happened to the beachfront in my town, and the streets leading away from the beach. I know it's bad because the roads are blockaded. No one allowed in---not even homeowners---because the streets are impassable. The area floods during a regular full moon. What wreckage and ruin Sandy left in her wake isn't fully known to me yet. No power and poor cell service has us in a news blackout. I'm desperate to know what happened up and down the East Coast, but it will come when my world starts spinning again. Tears will come, too, for all that has been lost.

Pete and I tried to go to our beach the day after the hurricane, but we were turned back. Same thing at the next town, Spring Lake. We were able to drive into Belmar a few miles north and walk to the beach. As in Ocean Grove, the boardwalk is gone---all 1.5 miles of it. It's not the destruction of Seaside Heights with giant carnival rides tossed into the sea like toys, but it's bad. 

Ocean Ave., the main thoroughfare for many of our beach towns, is now covered in sand---an extension of the beach.

Two blocks in from the ocean are a series of small lakes---blocks from each other. Sandy had them racing to converge into one body of water stretching to meet the sea, and flooding block after block of houses on the way.

It's the same story and even worse up and down the coast. 

We should have stayed away. We were all advised to stay home. But everybody who could get there was at the beach. And we walked.

Stunned by the destruction, we walked on sections of boardwalk now resting at odd angles on what used to be a major roadway and is now a sandy beach. We walked to the water's edge and watched the still-angry waves roll in. We walked when we saw official-looking helicopters dramatically fly in, circle, drop low, and then land in the middle of the avenue. We walked to see Gov. Christie hop out of one helicopter and start pressing flesh. Some cheered. We walked away, weary of political posturing. 

We walked to bear witness to a small pocket of destruction, and wondered as Bruce Springsteen sings in our beloved Sandy song, "4th of July," could it really be true that "..this boardwalk life's through...?" 

Sandy hit NYC, too, creating an unimaginable challenge to a city unused to large scale flooding. Perhaps this was a foreshadowing of storms to come. Believe in global warming or not, storms are bigger and badder for whatever reason you choose and we all have to learn to live in this changing climate.

Those who live near the sea have weathered storms, hurricanes and nor'easters before, though no storm like this. Still, my friend Janet and her family located a generator and are pumping the waist-high water out of their basement. They are grateful their house was spared further damage. We all have faith that the flood waters will recede. We know the sand will be swept from the streets, the fallen trees removed, and the power restored. Homes, hopefully, will be rebuilt. Even the boardwalks will be replaced---some maybe even in time for next summer. The rides and amusements will be back. The losses are terrible, but so many lives were spared.

For those of us who still can't imagine living anywhere else, we'll keep walking to the rhythm of the sea, and seeking the solace it brings. I have a t-shirt that reads: If you are lucky enough to live by the shore, you are lucky enough. My friends and neighbors---all, thankfully, spared the worst of what Sandy could have brought---would probably agree. This time, we were all lucky.

The sun has yet to fully shine, and we are in day five of darkness, but there are gifts of the storm:

- In the space between the wind ending, and the chain saws whining and the generators deafening rumble, there was a peaceful quiet that always fleetingly settles after a big storm.

- Neighbors, who instead of waving from their cars as they dash off to their busy lives, left their vehicles in their driveways and walked up and down the street. Yes, they were assessing the damage but also assessing each other. Sincerely asking, "Are you okay?" Smiling as we discussed the phenomena of the big old trees that had the grace to fall away from the houses on our block and other streets instead of into them.

- Quiet, comforting conversation with my husband as we share a candlelit meal simply prepared with ingredients we have on hand.

- Reading by the light of an oil lamp while savoring a glass of wine by the wood burning fireplace. No place else on earth to go. Happy to be home sweet home. The calm after the storm.