Tastes of the Beach
For those of us fortunate enough to be within driving distance of the beach, summertime means sand, sun and surf. Whether for a week, a weekend or a day trip, going to the beach is a gift.
For our family, like many living in the Washington, DC metropolitan area, Bethany Beach, Delaware was the destination of choice in the 1970s and 80s. Family-friendly and basic by many beach resort standards, it was (and remains somewhat) quaint and precious, especially compared to its nearby more raucous cousins Rehoboth Beach and Ocean City, with their livelier boardwalks, amusements and arcades. Decades later, the absence of high-rise condos and chain restaurants in Bethany remains as a welcome sight, along with its kitsch-free boardwalk and putt-putt golf course.
Our rental house had neither A/C nor TV. Our entertainment was the beach, and at night we went to the local rec center, where we made macaroni necklaces and watched cartoons on a makeshift movie screen. From morning until early evening, my younger brother Stephen and I rode waves, built sandcastles and caught mole crabs. Our mom would say, “go make a friend,” which we did, reluctantly. Being shy, it was hard for me to walk up to a stranger and start a conversation, but I always managed. It was a lot easier for Stephen who was, and still is, by nature one of the most genial people I know. By the end of our stay, we didn’t want to leave our new “best friends” and agreed to be penpals, which often lasted through one round of letters at the beginning of the school year.
The three-hour drive from our home in northern Virginia involved crossing two bridges, and horrendous gridlock. In the 1970s, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge was a two-lane construction with traffic moving in both directions, and the Kent Narrows Bridge on Kent Island also had only two lanes and was even more clogged. Crossing the bay bridge was a physical as well as metaphorical experience and nothing short of magical. You literally were entering another space on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, and as if a weight had been lifted, so did the metropolis melt away while marshes, fields and farmland opened up ahead.
Produce stands dotted the roads. We drove past chicken farms and cornfields. On Route 404, combines moved among cars of beachgoers, inadvertently causing even more traffic jams. Reaching the beach was pure enchantment. “Are we there yet?” was replaced by “is that the ocean?” as our eyes scanned the vista for water.
On a few occasions our cousins from Syracuse rented a house nearby, our stays overlapping for a few days. Enough time for a fun visit and none of the anticipated contretemps of six children of varying ages and shifting alliances to settle in. After dinner and freshly rinsed in the outdoor shower, we would head back to the sand to jump off the lifeguard stands. Sometimes the grownups would join us, cocktails in hand sitting in a circle of chairs. One time our dad decided we’d pick mussels off a rock jetty. We cooked our catch in a pot with butter, wine and onions. They were small and delicious and while they didn’t quite make a meal, it didn’t matter because it was the beach and things were different there; real life was suspended.
We ate Silver Queen corn on the cob, seeded watermelon (because seedless was not yet a thing) and steamed blue crabs on a screened-in porch while swatting at flies and mosquitoes. Our parents grilled hotdogs. Dining out meant pizza, subs and burgers. Dad swore it all tasted better in the salt air. The highlight of our stay–and the bane of our parents’– was a night on the Ocean City boardwalk devouring buckets of Thrashers boardwalk fries with vinegar and riding the Haunted Mansion. We bought hermit crabs that wouldn’t live through the end summer and t-shirts screen-printed with Jaws and Star Wars images that got ruined in the first wash. Our sunburns and peeling skin would be our most visible memento.
On the inevitably late afternoon drive home, exhausted and slightly melancholy with the start of school not yet a gloomy reality, we always stopped at one of the BBQ chicken stands run by the local Kiwanis or Lions Club. The smell of cooking chicken announcing itself long before the line of cars pulling off to the side of the rural road. For a moment, the collective poignant mood was interrupted by one final treat.
For a few dollars, we were handed a styrofoam box containing a half a grilled chicken with two sides, a drink and a roll. We ate this last vacation meal at a picnic table and somehow the rest of the ride home did not feel as onerous, although we were still on the Delmarva Peninsula, two and half hours and many miles from home. My dad, a stranger to no one, asked the guys at the grill for their secrets. The recipe is ridiculously simple, and remains my most redolent memory of those beach trips.
Today, living on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, the beaches are a lot closer for my husband and me and day trips are easy to do. The landscape has changed, with farm fields being replaced by housing developments and the BBQ stands not as plentiful as they once were. But thanks to my dad, we have the recipe for conjuring up long-ago memories. Every year, when the weather warms, we know it’s time for some Shore Chicken.
