A Pilgrimage from Philadelphia to Asbury Park

Blogging on the road is usually part of my travel plans. I was in Philadelphia in October and didn’t write about it, and I am in Philly again, and writing about New Jersey. I came this weekend to see my friend’s musical that she co-wrote. Another friend of mine from high school also lives out here, so it’s like a mini reunion, but I am squeezing in one or two solo road trips.

Just in case anyone is confused about geography, Philadelphia is an hour away from the beach. If I can get any chance to go to a beach, I am going. When I told the bus driver I was going to the beach, he gave me a look like I was crazy. It was cold, misty, rainy and there is still mounds of snow piled up from a recent storm. I did not care, the ocean is the ocean.

I rented a car and headed on the expressway toward the Jersey shore. Again, I found myself in this place of total nirvana–behind the wheel with the radio up is like church for me. A peace settles in and the possibilities seem as endless as the sky, except in Jersey, the fog creates a dense tunnel framed with pine trees–more of a misty portal than a wide open vista. The landscape doesn’t matter. It’s concentrating on the road ahead that sets me free.

There are lots of beach towns in New Jersey and they all have their own personality. I had my sights set on Asbury Park, because well, Bruce Springsteen. I pulled right up to the old building with the murals where the carousel was housed and I knew I had arrived.

Here is the great thing about being an all around the year beach lover. No crowds. When I stepped out of the car, I could hear the Atlantic. It was roaring. The tide was coming in and big waves were forming and breaking over dark, black rocks and had a moment of hesitation–the historic boardwalk, or the sand?

The ocean won and I headed down to the water. I walked for a couple of hours, just marveling at the waves and the sand and the rock. The tide was coming in, so each wave came in closer and higher. There was one brave surfer taking advantage of the high water and one photographer trying to capture the dolphins that were jumping far out in the gray. For the first time in a long time, I wished that I had a better camera with me.

On my return trip, I took in the Boardwalk. I always can imagine what beach places are like in the summer by their winter bones. Asbury Park isn’t completely hibernating. The music history keeps it drowsy, but not asleep. The Paramount auditorium is massive, ocean weathered, but gothic, impressive, echoing with grandeur and greatness. I saw the Stone Pony and the Wonder Bar and all the amazing murals. There was a band playing, even though the crowd was more like a smattering of dog walkers and locals out for a lark. I could feel the crowds around me though-it’s like spirit of people gathered to see the Doors and the Stones never really left.

I didn’t take the same route back to Philadelphia, instead I went through Atlantic City. I thought I might drop into a casino and play a dollar or two for mom’s luck. Instead, I just parked in the heart of the city and returned a phone call to one of my cousins. We’ve had a couple of deaths in our family and just because I am at the beach doesn’t mean my family isn’t in my heart.

I cannot deny the road is pulling me. There is something about the freedom and the ocean that fills my soul that nothing else ever has. I used to think my family anchored me to a place, but I am questioning that now.

Maybe my family isn’t an anchor at all.

Maybe they are more like a series of buoys, guiding me in and out of the currents.