Go ahead, take my Jersey card away.
I’m well aware that by turning my back on Jersey’s pride and joy I may be angering a few. And it’s not to say that I don’t think our Shore is lovely. As a sailor, I’ve been to beaches all over the place—including Pensacola’s last week—and Jersey’s can stand up with the best of ’em.
But after growing up on Lake Hopatcong, diving into crisp freshwater, sailing around with the sight of familiar boathouses all around and never fearing jellyfish stings or an undertow, I feel out of place whenever I’m on the hypercrowded sandy beaches, from Sandy Hook to Point Pleasant to Wildwood. I come out of the water with a "bleeeeh" face, trying to somehow scrape the salt off of my lips and barely able to keep my eyes from squinting. The whole time I’m in the surf, I’m vigilantly seeking out little sea vermin. And I spend the rest of the season trying to get the sand out of every corner of my car, my purse, and my summer reading.
That’s not to say I don’t have many fond memories of the Jersey Shore. My family used to go to Point Pleasant once a summer, which was always something my three brothers and I looked forward to (though, now that I think of it, we spent more time cruising down the waterslides—where the aquarium now stands—than in the saltwater). We always came home with hermit crabs and I’d keep the little piece of fabric safety pinned to my beach bag as a memory of the day.
I spent several joyful long weekends following my junior and senior high school proms in Seaside and Wildwood, respectively, getting a taste of what college life would be like. No parents, lots of debauchery. I still smile when recalling my childhood friends playing beach volleyball and skeeball together, gearing up to go our separate ways as we scattered to colleges around the world.
But those times just don’t compare to the days I spend on the lake. Maybe it’s in my blood: my dad grew up there, sailing out of the Lake Hopatcong Yacht Club every summer, and my mom grew up on nearby Lake Mohawk, working as a lifeguard throughout her teenage years. When I was born, they lived on Hopatcong’s west shore, and my dad used to swim me out to "Buoy 5" off Sharp’s Rock. There are silent home movies of my parents just dragging me through the water as a toddler, my surprised face shaking off the water and then breaking into a big smile. My childhood memories are inseparable from the lake, and when I’d say goodbye to my school friends each June, I’d welcome the summer months with my lake friends, taking sailing lessons and working the LHYC snack bar.
I don’t doubt there are tons of people who have similar experiences down the Shore. But the lake is different. It feels more like a tightly kept secret. Even on crowded days, it’s nothing like trying to navigate the Belmar beach, and high gas prices have kept motorboats from blasting through the water too frequently. On a Saturday evening, it’s downright peaceful, if you don’t count my laughing nieces and their friends doing handstands in the LHYC swimming area.
While the Jersey Shore is heralded to the point that we devote an entire New Jersey Monthly issue to it, it has its own Zagat guide, and there’s actually a "Go Home Benny" movement among locals who are sick of the droves of tourists, Lake Hopatcong is quietly sitting between Morris and Sussex counties, providing countless memories—sans the "bleeeeh" factor.