My younger brother and I had discovered that if you sprinkle just enough sand into your lunch, it creates a satisfying crunch. I ingested equal parts sand and tuna as a kid. Our cooler, the one with the red top and hole created by a wayward squirrel, was always packed to the brim with beach treats-Tupperware containers of cantaloupe balls, pretzel sticks, cans of Sprite and the infamous change purse. After lunch, and only if I ate my whole sandwich, I stuck my hand out and received a quarter.

A quarter could get you a Blow Pop, a Now&Later, an Airhead or a single Twizzler. Two quarters could get you an ice pop the size of your body. Three quarters could buy you the rest of the world. The snack bar attendants humored me while I selected my flavor. Strawberry. Wait, no! Sour apple. It was the hardest decision of my whole day. I always regretted my decision when I saw that my older sister had indeed gone with Strawberry and was smugly enjoying it.

I could feel when it was time to pack up. I measured time by my own exhaustion. The air took on a strange chill—even in the dead of August—and the sand cooled so that you could walk, not run, across it.

Packing up was the chore of all chores. First, I had to "shake out" my towel. I had to do it gingerly enough so as to not disrupt the kindly people sitting near us. Then, I had to collect my toys that were scattered across the entire length of the beach. Buckets, shovels, Barbies, trucks. They all got tossed into a plastic bin with rope handles. Finally, I had to rinse off my boogie board because Mom's car was already a sandbox. The three of us kids took turns carrying the cooler. I always claimed it wasn't my turn.

We were forced to sit on beach towels for the five minute ride home. Wet butt prints remained in the cloth of the seats. No one could enter the house without first being hosed down. I shrieked, ran from the freezing hose water, and stripped off my bathing suit right in our front yard. Mom chased behind me, frustrated that dinner needed to be started and I was playing games. Lord knows what the neighbors thought of the middle Norman child and her aversion to clothing.

* * *

The summer she no longer has to sit with her mother is a milestone in every beach kid's life. The summer going into eighth grade, my mom finally let me leave her blue and white striped umbrella to sit with girls and boys my own age. Of course, she still strategically placed herself where she could still see me. But it was a start.

Not one of us, privileged as we were, was forced to get a summer job. I remember those days as being hot and endless. The endless summer. Jessie always had Hawaiian Tropic deep tanning oil. She stole it from her older sister. We were technically not allowed to use oil but since it had an SPF of 4, I told my mother I was protecting my skin. We lathered up, covering ourselves from head to toe with this coconut scented skin-cancer-in-a-bottle. I paid extra attention to my legs if a boy was near, rubbing my calves in rhythmic, circular motions. Thanks to years of gymnastic training, I had great calves. I had great everything back then. I was young and firm and tan. Unbelievably tan. Strangers commented on my tan. I never thought of wrinkles.

We read our horoscopes from Teen Magazine and Sassy aloud to each other. And we believed them. We ordered pork roll and cheese from the cute short-order cook. He was in college. We gossiped about the cluster of girls who sat only a few feet away from us. The days of spending all day in the water were long gone. We went in the ocean but only to cool off. We had suntans to work on.

My crush, Dan, taught me to skim board. This flat, slick disc could make you dizzy on adrenaline. Skimming the top of the water at low tide, I was weightless. I fell and laughed and got right back on—a beach kid's horseback riding lesson. Dan hoped I would fall so he could catch me. My mother hoped I would remain standing so Dan didn't have to put his hands on me. I liked when Dan put his hands on me.

There was a place, the next beach over, called Surfer's Prayer. It was an observation deck of sorts, built for the fishermen who made their living from the sea. As far as I know, the small shack atop the deck was empty and boarded up. I wasn't concerned with what might be inside. I was only concerned that it provided enough distance between me and my mother, ever watchful.

A prayer was spray painted on this side of the shack. Actually, it was more like a poem. An ode to the ocean. The words bemoaned a surfer who had died long ago by crashing his skull into the sharp jetty. His lifeless body was found washed ashore by his surfer buddies. He became a legend. The sun faded the words so much that they were barely legible.

Surfer's Prayer might as well have been called Make Out Point. The "couples" took turns creeping behind the building to sneak French kisses while the whole lot of us whooped and threw handfuls of sand at each other. We were still kids, but we didn't want to be.

Every few weeks, my family would have dinner on the beach. It was the only time Dad ever went to the beach. I think of summer days on the beach with Mom and summer nights on the beach with Dad. We always ordered subs and played Frisbee. Dad is a champion Frisbee tosser.

And then, if we dared, we went for a night swim. I would never go in the water at night without Dad. He protected me from the creatures that lived below the black surface. He let me stand on his shoulders and swan dive into the waves. He grabbed my ankles when I wasn't looking, a dirty trick. My dad, my brother, my sister and I stayed in the water under the moonlight. The water was warmer than the air. We had to keep our shoulders submerged at all times or the cool night air would make us shake. My mom watched, not wanting to mess up her freshly blow-dried hair. She sometimes snapped pictures of her beloved family. But nothing, not even a picture, could live as proof of the fun we had when Dad came to the beach.

* * *

I've lived at the Jersey Shore my entire life. I am fourth generation beach bum. I do not know of any other home. I've tried to imagine what it might be like to live somewhere else. This imaginary world I sometimes create is land-locked and scary. A prison. I've never missed a summer at home, not even when I moved away to an inland college, or when I studied in London for the spring semester. I plan my life around summers at the beach.

I am a local, and locals are a proud and stubborn folk. I can pick a local out of a crowd based solely on his footwear. Locals wear flip flips until the first frost. Locals hate sneakers.

They do not strut or walk with long strides. They glide through life without hurry or worry. After all, there are no clocks at the beach. They take on an "eat, drink and be merry" philosophy with gusto. And drink they do. This is not frowned upon; this is encouraged. Everyone knows the best cure for a hang-over is a quick dip in the ocean.

We look upon the tourists the same way most people view unwanted house guests. We greet them with fake smiles and tell them to get comfortable. But then we count down the minutes until they go back to wherever they came from, so we can have our homes, our beaches, to ourselves.

I feel like the only kid in the neighborhood with an in-ground pool who wants to charge admission. I do not want to share my sandbox.

They park illegally. They speak in accents that we mock. New Yorkahs. Their nerve astonishes me. So does their wealth. Those large mansions within blocks of the beach are actually just summer homes. Weekend getaways. They remain cold, empty and unfurnished for eight months out of the year. This makes me sad and angry and envious. But above all, it makes me glad I am not one of them. And yes, they are a them.

I never knew how much I disliked these beach invaders until I was old enough to go to the bar. My friends and I would go out straight from the beach. A swim in the ocean is just as good as a shower. With sand stuck to our feet and damp, salty hair, we drank ourselves into oblivion and let it be known that we were anti-BENNY. BENNY stands for Brooklyn, Elizabeth, Newark and New York.

When a boy offered to buy our drinks, one of us obnoxiously demanded to know where he was from. Any town mentioned over the Raritan Bridge turned him into a victim of circumstance. Ew! You're a benny! It was the adult equivalent of having cooties.

The Beach Crusaders Vs. The Beach Invaders.

We felt like we had every right to treat them this way. We didn't, but we felt that way. With perfectly spiked, gelled and coifed hair, they earned the term "Spikies." A man should never take more time getting ready than his female counterpart. They smell of sweat and egos. Their skin-tight t-shirts reveal hours of vanity spent at Gold's Gym, pumping and grunting out biceps, triceps and washboard stomachs. They prefer wall-thumping-beat-pumping techno nonsense over Bob Marley and Sublime. Their fists hit the air in sync. Who taught them all this arm dance?

Bumper stickers with "Go Home BENNYs" can be found on every third car in my neighborhood. I know the guy who makes them.

With Labor Day comes a certain peace and sadness and quiet. They leave as quickly as they came. All order is restored but another summer is over. The tourists signify life at the Jersey Shore. The earth vibrates. They cause an earthquake of catastrophic proportions and I am left to live in the aftermath when the dark, cold months hit.

* * *

Asbury Park, New Jersey is a place like no other. I only know this place as it exists today—half ghetto, half metropolis. My parents tell me that Asbury used to be a non-stop beach party. The place to be. When they were teenagers, Mom and Dad spent their weekend nights "riding the circuit" along Main Street. I have no idea what this even means but it sounds exotic. Whenever I drive through Asbury, I simultaneously window-shop and lock my doors. It is just that kind of place.

Bruce Springsteen always seems to have understood the charm of Asbury. He even named one of his earlier albums "Greetings from Asbury Park." He used to rock Convention Hall and The Stone Pony and The Wonder Bar. These buildings still stand as sad reminders of what this place once was. The graffiti, broken glass, crumbling pavement, and stubbed-out joints tell of a much different place.

I've heard several versions of the downfall of Asbury Park. Race riots and escaped mental patients are my favorites. To think that such events were taking place just a few miles from my house is exciting. I love a good scandal.

When I was a little girl, Asbury was just a giant rumor mill. My classmates spoke of the prostitutes that prowled the street corners past our bedtimes. Gangs held down their turf like something out of West Side Story. Convenience stores were robbed by masked men and drug deals were made by pistol-toting riffraff. Whenever I confronted my parents about the evil that existed only one town away, they reassured me that I lived in the safest place on Earth. Nothing bad happened in Ocean Township. In the thirty years they've lived in my house, my parents have never owned a house key. The front door is never locked, and our cars sit in the driveway, keys still in the ignition.

The freedom of a driver's license brought on an itch to see what Asbury was really all about. My girlfriends and I ventured into this forbidden town, coasting along Ocean Avenue with Tupac and Notorious B.I.G. blasting. We bought toilet paper (for harmless house pranks) from the 7-11 and supersized fries from McDonald's. The air, the people, the vibe, all told us that we had been terribly misinformed. Asbury was still a non-stop beach party—we had just missed the formal invitation.

The revival of this mysterious place had started during my formative teenage years, and my friends and I were secretly reveling in it. We ate in brand new cafes with organic menus. We shopped in boutiques that sold hand-painted jewelry. My three best friends and I all bought signs to hang above our beds that read, "Dig your toes in the sand" from a happy old man on the boardwalk who had lived through it all. This secret garden was in full bloom.

Today, driving through Asbury is like watching two worlds collide. It is impossible to find parking on Mattison Avenue because it is heaving with neighborhood gems. People sit outside with their lap dogs and shopping bags and sip lattes and text message. The constant hustle and bustle of this particular street makes me feel like I could burst. Like a child on Christmas morning, I don't even know where to start. I only go here when I have a full afternoon to devote to it; if not, I think of all the great little knickknacks I missed.

Just a few streets down, Bangs Avenue is home to the homeless and hungry. Stray bullets have grazed mailboxes stuffed with eviction notices and overdue utility bills. Poverty. Sickness. Hopelessness. The slums. The residents of this street must not know what wonderful potential their home has. Their overgrown lawns and chipped siding says one thing, I have given up.

I could choose to ignore the uglier side of Asbury. But I don't. I wind my windows up, glide through stop signs and force myself to face the truth: This could happen anywhere.

Just this past summer, I purchased a season badge to 8th Avenue Beach in Asbury Park for the first time. It is exactly three miles from my front door. In summers past, I had chosen to pay a lot more money to "belong" to a much more crowded beach club. Believe it or not, certain beaches are trendier than others. And Asbury is about as bare bones as it gets. No snack bar, no parking lot, no umbrella boy, no cabanas, no one to set up your chairs before you even arrive. The restrooms are in a trailer on the boardwalk and there are never any paper towels.

As my mother always says, "It's the same ocean and the same sand for half the price."

I used to go to Loch Arbour Beach Club for the social scene. If you attended Ocean Township High School and you are looking for a daily high school reunion, Loch Arbour is the beach club to join. We call it L.A. because everyone is tanned and toned and young and pretty. The jocks still run the volleyball court. The smart kids study their LSAT books. The stoners smoke joints near the bike racks.

If you look just the past the jetty, you can see Asbury Park's beaches. They are usually pretty deserted but if you look close enough, you'll find me. I'm reading a book, minding my own business, enjoying the solitude.

* * *

I am riding through a postcard. The boardwalk creates turbulence. My beach bag leaps from the wire basket on my bike and falls back into place. To my left, the beach is spotted with sunbathers. They all face the same direction, like devoted worshippers. I ride slowly enough to take in the scenery but quickly enough to break a sweat. I do not have an agenda. The cloudless sky is a muted blue behind my sunglasses. I take them off to appreciate its true color. The sun causes my eyes to ache and I smile. Summer is here.

It is the kind of May afternoon that makes me forget. I forget that just a few weeks ago it was raw and windy and rainy and miserable. I forget that in just a few more weeks the tourists will come in droves. I forget about traffic. I forget about my dead-end job as a waitress at a beachfront restaurant. I forget to think. I just am.

I am as insignificant on this postcard as a seagull. The ocean is the true star, the celebrity stalked by the paparazzi. It says, Come to me and I will help you forget.

Me and summer were meant to be. I was born in the middle of July for a reason. I cannot think back and recall a bad summer. Bad summer is an oxymoron. Summer is good. Summer is sunshine and suntans and sunny times. I carry a glow during the summer that is impossible to duplicate. I am lighter. Life is lighter.

I save the heavy stuff for winter. When summer comes around, I pack away my bulky sweaters and thick burdens. They will be there for me when the clocks turn back. The only time sadness creeps up during summer is when an ugly reminder of winter shows its face: a rogue mitten in the trunk of my car, buried underneath my beach chair. A Christmas song in my iPod mix. And for a moment, just a moment, I feel panic. But then I remind myself that this is what I live for. I take a deep breath. Another summer has begun.

* * *

Like pesky weeds, love blooms during summers at the beach. It is often a false love. Or a true lust. Romance is unavoidable. Yes—you can fulfill a "Want Ad" of long walks on the beach. You can kiss in the sand with the waves rolling over you like Sandy and Danny in "Grease." You can lie in a hammock with a boy wearing flip flops on a balmy summer night and break your curfew and not give a damn about the consequences.

I have the ability, or curse, to fall truly, madly, deeply in love. Every summer. Perhaps it is that people are more attractive in the summer. Or perhaps I feel more attractive myself. I look back and see Dan Stefanski slipping his hand under my string bikini top behind the lockers at Philip's Avenue Beach. I see A.J. Cahill parking his Jeep at the boardwalk to tell me although we are only teenagers, he sees us getting married at the beach one day. I see Jeff Clark, stumbling toward me with a beer in hand, to coax me away from the lame bonfire at the beach and into his backseat.

It usually goes something like this: boy meets girl. Boy throws rock at girl from across the beach. Boy runs up and unties girl's bikini. Girl acts disgusted, disinterested. Boy invites girl to house party. Girl brings her friends along for "back up." Boy introduces his boys to the new girls. Everyone flirts, kisses, touches, and exchanges phone numbers. Boy does not call girl. Girl sees boy kissing another girl the very next week.

Rinse and repeat.

If life is a beach then summer love is a bitch. I think back to a summer with a certain boy's name attached to it. The Summer of Mike. The Summer of Shane. Each summer and each boy makes me wish. I live on wishes. The wish to fall in love is so strong that I succumb dangerously and feverishly. I tack his last name onto mine. I picture road trips where we belt out Journey and eat junk food and enjoy each other's company so much that we don't mind getting lost. We love getting lost. We are lost in each other.

This, of course, has never happened.

These love-filled memories, some real, some imagined, only exist in my mind during summertime. Sure, I've loved in every season. But I've only fallen in love during the summer. At least that's the way I like to remember it.

* * *

When I was nineteen, I decided to pop the idealistic bubble I had created for myself. With boredom as my only viable reason, I moved to London—the polar opposite of the Jersey Shore. And when I became bored with London, I went backpacking through mainland Europe. With as little as the clothes on my back, some clean underwear, a journal and my two girlfriends, I learned being far from home is a lot like dying. And being born again.

* * *

We are on another train. I've lost track of how many train stations I've seen in the past few weeks. Although I am glad to be out of dreary London, the cities of Europe have all seemed to mesh together into a beautiful dream. The architecture, the cuisine, the languages, the natives. They exist in my journal pages and on film yet to be developed. My mind is at home, at the beach.

* * *

I feel a gentle shake to my shoulder. Right away I realize I'm drooling but still hugging my over-sized backpack. We sleep in shifts. Ashley and Ashley (Ashley Squared) are my blonde American travel companions. They are sitting across from me, smiling.

Sorry to wake you, love. But I didn't think you would want to miss this.

Ash points to the window and I gasp.

I feel like I've seen a ghost. The Mediterranean Sea is rolling parallel with us. We could be on a sailboat as all I can see is water in all directions. The train dips a bit and we are once again above sea level. It is only now that I take in the rocky beaches and the paradise blue hue of the water.

It is as if the muted grays and browns of the Jersey Shore have been set aflame. The French Riviera is such a sight that I don't even know I'm leaning into the lap of Collette, my new French friend, who sits to my right. She rubs my back and motions for us to switch seats. With my nose pressed against the glass window, I let the crashing waves revive me.