Pumpkin High Tide and Meadow Grass ~ Sketches from the Shoulder Season

For many of us the Summers past are piled high behind us like a tangled mound of fading but beloved jewelry. Interwoven throughout this treasure is a collection of seashells, Boardwalk trinkets, fishing rods, snapshots, digital video, boat drinks, pitchers of beer, Water Park Rafts, tee-shirts, Tram Cars, surfboards, beach chairs and a lot of happy children...Of all ages as they like to say. And each jewel, each trinket or shell—gaudy, precious or plain—has its own special memory, emotion or image. There is a person, place or recurring heart-song to every glow, sparkle or fading light that can be found in this pile. It is your past at the Jersey Shore, a place somehow separate from the rest of your past and the rest of your life for that matter. It is therefore a stretch of the living road that is all good. At least that’s what we seem to tell each other about it.

SEPTEMBER LIGHT

The sky and light at the Jersey Shore seem to take on a subtle change soon after August ends and September begins. Since it is so unique this light might very well represent the death knell glow of one more Summer— a serious transition indeed. There may or may not be scientific explanations for these changes but they are not of any concern to me since this is the way it has always felt and , despite the end of another precious season, it has always felt good.

In early September I took my eight year old Grandson on a Crabbing Trip out on Grassy Sound. My friend Gus Rosanio brought along his nine year old Son. We rented a 12 foot fiberglass Skiff with a center console and a kind of Bimini top that covered at least half of the boat from the sun or the rain. Before boarding we checked-in at the Bait and Tackle shop where three or four young Professional Wharf Rats set us up. They provided a half-dozen frozen “Bunker” for the traditional handlines and the two metal traps that we brought along. I also brought along a very basic but reliable Shakespeare “Ugly Stick” rod with light tackle. I did this more to amuse myself with casting practice than with wanting to actually catch a fish.

Before we even walked down the steep aluminum gangway to the lower dock and boat slip I insisted the boys don their life jackets. They complied saying the jackets were cool like some kind of armor they may have seen in some psychotic video game. Gus wore his jacket as well and he carried and studied a Xerox map of where the Marina Management thought we should go with their Skiff. He also had a serious pair of camouflaged binoculars hanging from his neck. I was waiting for him to pull out a flair gun and a harpoon or flensing knife at any moment. I broke his chops by telling him he looked like Bill Murray in “. What About Bob” but he wouldn’t hear of it. After a Summer of four stents and several close calls he wasn’t taking any chances.

Leaving the marina and dock behind us in our ten horse wake we moved up into the first reaches of one of several tidal-creeks that were available to us but not necessarily recommended by the marina. Gus was my Navigator/First Mate in the bow. He had his eyes peeled on every inch of water and Salt-Marsh bank as well. The tide was peeking high so we had no serious threat of running aground. Being about zero risks, Gus followed his own rules of the watery road: at every 15 or 20 feet or so he would thrust an oar into the creek to get a depth finding and then report that finding to me. If there was a No Wake barrel floating to our Port or Starboard he would report that as well. So our Cabin Boys were in good hands this beautiful early September morning as we had the Ancient Mariner and Melville’s Quee-Queeg calling the shots and throwing the anchor as well.

As the day went on Gus then turned into Charles Darwin, naming as many of the waterfowl, crustaceans and Salt-Marsh flora that he could. His final transformation came on as Bird Dog when other watercraft began arriving on the creek. Several of these boats carried a variety of Mermaid Crabbers outfitted in skimpy summer gear. Out came the Bird Dog’s binoculars followed by a litany of coded descriptions intended for my ears only. It was gibberish to the boys but they caught our drift and every once in awhile they glanced at us as if to say, “Mermaids?? No thanks, we’re crabbing. And crab they did.

At the end of the day we caught six crabs. This was truly paltry compared to forty years ago when my Father would guide us to at least two dozen big Jimmy crabs...But that was then and this is now. The consumer maw has grown to Black Hole dimensions with a mindless appetite to match its size and crabs are on its menu. That aside, my Grandson caught the first crab and Gus’ boy caught the biggest and the rest was a split in which none of them could make a poacher’s pot of spaghetti gravy so we threw them all back. The boys were disappointed in that they could not keep their catch as “pets” but they had a great time. And we had a great time watching them have it the way we did when we were their age and our Fathers watched us. The September crab trip, in the end, was one of life’s great Circle Games that neither death nor estrangement can seem to break. We attempted to pass it on as smoothly as two vaguely jaded middle-aged men could to a pair of shiny new eight year old boys. It appeared to be well-received.

OCTOBER SEA

The October Sea is a visual and lyrical poem all the way through to the opening grey dirge of November. The October light changes things again and the reds, golds and browns spread out over everything, including the Sea, like a gently bleeding flood of color. On the Mid-Atlantic Coast the October Sea is the very last shot for frolicking in the Ocean without a wet-suit or a double cognac. You may find a hardy handful of romantic beachbum Desperados body-surfing in the midday sun in water temperatures that are declining every week if not less, but they are nothing but Latter-Day Surf Saints turning off the lights. In October you can almost hear the true first changes of season ringing softly as Sacristy Bells. If there is dead leaf smoke it wafts like cosmic incense down the beach through the half-empty Seashore streets on an ocean breeze that may have originated off of Gibraltar or the Canary Islands. This is the world as an open -air meditation chapel during the October Sea.

NOVEMBER SKY

Some might say it should come earlier but I say on Novemeber 1st a collective Taps should be played for the Jersey Shore. At this juncture all Shore Points except Atlantic City and Cape May are officially dead. After Christmas and New Years Eve rigor mortis sets in on the Cape. Slot Machines and Buffets work like Life Support in Atlantic City. If you doubt my observations visit any number of Shore towns in the middle of January to test your mettle. At any rate, November has been my personal cut-off point for the last four or five years because of my participation in The Cape May Film Festival which takes place early in the month. I stay at the Congress Hall Hotel (which can feel like the Overlook in the horror film “The Shining” if you let your imagination get the best of you) because the price is right and many Festival events including the exquisite Sunday morning Brunch are held there. Each morning or afternoon I find time to ride my bike for an hour or two. The rides are often unpleasant due to the constant winds and the cold. Once away from the Hotel or the Mall the streets are empty, silent and tinged with a Nathaniel Hawthorne gloom. When darkness falls it is very dark. Out of nowhere you find yourself pushing the bike just a tad harder in order to get back to your Lighthouse of a Hotel and your well-lit room for a steamy hot bath and rum toddy. November is the month you look back and concede that summer is long dead and never coming back. And yet there is hope in Thanksgiving and a slice of your favorite pie. It is the time when we are all counted and safe.