Confessions of a Bennie and Other Shore Tales

When I was young, we had the chance one summer to share a bungalow with another family. I was so excited. We'd been day trippers, and our visits to the ocean were defined by the Red & Tan bus scehdule to Asbury Park. I hated going home—the thought of actually STAYING was hypnotic. I'm not sure when I became aware of the custom of "season passes," but during the bungalow week the meaning behind them was really driven home.

The local beach had a pass for renters and another for people who were there for the season. I think the locals had one as well, but I remember playing with one little girl at the water edge for hours. I didn't notice her pass—we were having too much fun. But her parents came to get her, and it was hard to miss how their smiles froze when they noticed my badge. Their daughter asked if I could come over to play, and her mother said, staring at the beach badge, "Maybe another time."

When you are in grade school, kids accuse each other of having "cooties." I never felt like I had them til that moment. An aunt explained that we were only there for a week, so our badges were different. Fast foward to college. One of the girls I knew was showing me pictures from a party. "You had to come dressed as a Bennie of a Shoe-bie," she explained.

Huh?

A Bennie is a city person who comes to the beach, usually wearing white or black socks with sandals and plaid shorts, she explained. And a Shoe-bie was a day tripper  who carried their lunch in a shoe box. Neither expression was a compliment. In fact, if you were a local, or even a seasonal resident, there really wasn't a lower life form.

Ouch. So I finally had a name for it. Several years back, we'd made a run to Island Beach State Park. As we left I noticed a hand-painted sign hanging from a telephone pole that said, "Bye Bye Bennies!". The eternal battle between the haves and have-nots. People who live at the shore loathe and resent the "intrusion" of outsiders... even when their living is dependent on them.

Last year, we rented a place on LBI for the first time. The house was pure old school, with red cedar on the walls, and a great view of the beach. I was excited to go... but also a little anxious. I was neither a local nor a season dweller. My daughter fell in love with the ocean. We got some much needed R&R. It was truly delightful. And then at the end of the season, I read a column in the Star-Ledger by a regular contibutor, who detailed a "Bye Bye Bennie" party he'd been to.

I grew up with the Civil Rights movement. I've voted in every election since I was 18 years old. But the older I get, the more I wonder if the only color that really matters is "green." I finally got to a place where I don't have to go home after the beach, but part of me still feels like the bennie with the beach badge that was the wrong color. And so long as there are hateful tags for people seeking a small patch of sand and some cooling ocean to beat the heat, I guess I always will.