We looked on a map of the beaches along the south Jersey shore...and our destination picked itself out. Brant Beach. So of course we had to go there.
B more enterprising than even he knew.
The three of us landed on New Jersey's Long Island, a narrow barrier island flecked with beach towns and lots of sun worshippers visiting in their vacation rentals and flocking to the beach. We decided to play beach-goer, too, and loaded up the kayak with towels and snacks and sunscreen and toted it via skateboard to the beach a couple blocks from our parking spot.
At the cusp where sand met street, we were greeted by a large white sign, lettered black and red in tiny print. The heading at the top declared "How to Have a Good Day at the Beach." The sign listed such wisdom as "No Dogs. Bring Sunscreen. Swim Between The Flags. Play Cards." About halfway down the list we gave up reading and drug the kayak out to a blank spot on the beach between a couple listening to light rock on their portable radio and a family with a little boy who had set up a battlefield of green plastic soldiers.
We set down the stuff and ran out into the water to splash around and dive through waves and body surf. We were promptly whistled at by a flustered life guard because we weren't swimming inside the flags. You'd think it was refreshing to be treated like a child again, but that didn't occur to us til later. We obeyed and swam back into the herd between the yellow flags. We wanted to take out the kayak in the surf, but any watercraft, including surfboards, is banned from the entire coastline during lifeguard hours (10-5 everyday during the summer). So we took our fill of swimming then waited out on our blankie until 5pm.
The Beach.
So we were doing the beach thing. All of a sudden a bell starts ringing. Then a large man at the entrance to the beach starts yelling something incomprehensible. We later found out this was the ice cream man, yelling "Goooooooooooooood Huuuuuuuummmmmooooooooooor!" followed by a list of items like frosty cones, rocket pops and the like. His little truck didn't have the sound system to pump that universal ice-cream truck song out over the waves.
Then a blond boy came up to us and asked to see our beach badge. Beach badge?
"Yes, they're $4 for the day and $10 for the week. You can buy them from me."
And of course we had no cash with us at the beach, so we had to walk back to the camper to get money and the boy said he'd come around later. First the tolls on the roads. Now the tolls on the public sand. It's just a very foreign concept to us to have to pay anyone to lay on the dirt.
NOTE: A Brant Beach local saw our experience online and gave his two cents. Read it here!
Five finally rolled around though, and we promptly paddled through the surf with the kayak. Total novices, it was a blast. We got dumped enough times and in enough bizarre ways that we provided a source of entertainment for the stragglers left on the beach. The waves was too sloppy to surf well, but the kayak performed beautifully...until one of our paddles snapped in half. At which point we dragged the kayak, the sandy sundries and our drowned-rat selves back to the camper.
In danger of dreds, we needed fresh water, we needed showers. Maren skated over behind the Ames grocery store in search of a spigot and a generous owner who cared to donate 33 gallons to a good cause. She hit the jackpot.
We pulled the rig over to the source, sidled up to some semi-trailers, screwed in the hose and showered outside compliments of Ames. Freshwater never felt quite so good.
Aryn and Maren all cleaned up.
