There’s something special about walking the beach after a storm.The surf churns up seashells and other odd objects, like old bottles and driftwood. A person has the best chance of making a rare find early in the morning, before anyone else gets there. It was that sort of day in late September 1975, as I walked the water’s edge on Long Beach Island in New Jersey. The sky was a beautiful blue, with pure white billowing clouds. The crisp, cool air was coming inland, typical weather after a hurricane or major storm. Gulls were taking advantage of the breeze, soaring with open wings and letting the wind keep them aloft. Occasionally, one would spy a piece of fish washed up on shore, and it would be a race to the prize, each one trying to outmaneuver theother.

The new school year had begun a few weeks earlier. Families thatvacation on the island had already abandoned it to return to their primary homes and routines for another 9 or 10 months.

They would have only the memories of the past summer to carrythem through the long winter, until next year’s vacation. The older people, who generally inhabit the island this time of year to avoid the younger crowds, were chased out by the hurricane that was predicted, but didn’t quite live up toexpectations.

I always liked Harvey Cedars, a community on the south end ofLong Beach Island. The island is nothing more than a sand bar- a barrier island, 15 miles long and a half- mile wide. It’s nature’s natural barrier to protect the mainland and estuaries for small fishes and other aquatic marine life to begin their life cycle. It’s something that was never meant to be built on.

The island is divided into seven townships from Barnegat LightHouse on the north end- to Harvey Cedars on the south end. In almost every township along the main corridor, some Victorian homes still exist, landmarks of the original islanders. They were testimony of a bygone era, written in stone and wood, when a 20 minute ferry ride across the bay from the mainland, wasn’t an inconvenience. The tranquility and an occasional stroll along the ocean were probable well worth the effort.

Later, people would bravely traverse a rickety wooden plankedbridge that had to be closed whenever a severe storm threatened. In its waning years, the planks that supported the traffic would make a sound as though they were loose- raising an alarm that made you wonder whether you were going to make the distantshore.

In 1954, Hurricane Hazel ended the life of the old bridge, and afour lane concrete bridge replacedit.

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