I realize that there are no slot machines in these pictures. (Just tire tracks, those calling cards of driver-friendly Brigantine Beach.) If you squint, then you can kind of sort of see the faint outlines of some of the casinos in the distance, but that's about it. Like many South Jersey natives, I've always associated casinos with the ocean. The one time I went to Las Vegas I remember thinking that it was weird to see the city emerge, Shangri-La-like, from the desert.
A week or so ago the weather was so nice that I decided to walk down to the beach. In the tradition of people who live in touristy spots, I don't do this nearly as much as I should or would like to. Kind of like how I rarely visit the casinos, (if not for the gambling, then for their gaudily glitzy trappings). So every spring I make an effort to take advantage, mindful that I may one day find myself living in some suburb with 2.5 children, regretting that I didn't make the most of the sun and sand before it became a traffic-choked car ride away.
On this season's inaugural visit, the beach was deserted save for a few lone fishermen and a couple walking a dog. Which sounds rather anticlimactic, especially on the heels of that suburb bit. Maybe I should've cooked up a splashy story about a metal-detecting old man happening upon some treasure, or a more subtle yet cerebral account of myself having an epiphany after locking eyes with an all-knowing seagull.
Oh well. Plenty of time yet to make waves.
On this season's inaugural visit, the beach was deserted save for a few lone fishermen and a couple walking a dog. Which sounds rather anticlimactic, especially on the heels of that suburb bit. Maybe I should've cooked up a splashy story about a metal-detecting old man happening upon some treasure, or a more subtle yet cerebral account of myself having an epiphany after locking eyes with an all-knowing seagull.
Oh well. Plenty of time yet to make waves.
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