GEORGE ORWELL HIMSELF, COULD NOT HAVE PREDICTED THAT CRAZY 1984 SUMMER IN OCEAN CITY N.J.
WE SPENT THE ENTIRE NIGHT ON THE BEACH…
The four of us lay there, sat on towels, backs against the soft sand dunes, an early morning mist rolled in off the sea. A blazing orange sun broke on the horizon, preparing to bathe jersey beachgoers in its glorious rays for another fantastic Ocean City, N.J. (OCNJ) beach day.
It was June 1984. I had hair, feathered and cool, we all did. Ronald Reagan was President, Tears for Fears, Cyndi Lauper, Billy Idol, and my favorite rock gods, Van Halen, ruled the air waves. No cell phones, no social media, no Ticky Tocks, selfies, or other corporate driven brain numbing bullshit. Just my “boom box” powered by 18 “C” batteries, as Sting sang “Free free, set them free…” on the local OCNJ radio station.
THE OCNJ GANG OF 1984
The gang had quite an adventure that previous night. We had finished up by falling asleep against the cool sand of the dunes around 50th street and had awoken in the same spot. To tell the truth we never slept.
The 1984 OCNJ “gang” consisted of myself, and my best friend Mark. We met up with my dad’s best friend Eddie and his wife Lorraine, and joined forces with his boy’s and my childhood friends, Anthony and Eddie Jr. The four of us. Three with feathered Don Johnson hair, Eddie Jr. with Loverboy head band, when together, felt invincible.
I had just become starting football Placekicker for my high school team as a sophomore, and we had won the New York State Football Championship at Buffalo’s (then) Rich Stadium. I felt like NFL fame and stardom waited on my horizon, and my 16-year-old body, skinny, solid, fit, made me feel like I had 1,000 years of life to go.
Anthony was an avid drummer. With uncanny resemblance to a young Billy Joel. We were alike in size and the way we thought, and our dads were best friends since childhood. Dark skinned and very Italian like his mom, he was my wing-man. We are still in contact occasionally, although Anthony did NOT end up playing drums for The Hooters but became an accomplished accountant.
Eddie Jr was the rebel, the renegade of the gang. With the Irish genes of his dad winning every battle, he had freckles, ginger hair, and a diminished ability to tan like Anthony and me. As the then famous Pee Wee Herman would say, “I’m a rebel Dotty…there are things you shouldn’t know…” that was Eddie. He was up for anything, didn’t have a care in the world.
From a long line of Irish stock U.S. Marines, he outweighed us all by 100lbs. Never without his black bandana, Ed was our “muscle.” No one gave us any hassle with Big Ed around. He went on to numerous other careers.
Then there was Mark. Irish complexion and freckles like Eddie Jr. He became Eddie’s wing-man. Mark, a close friend traveled to OCNJ with me and my family. It was his first ever trip to the Atlantic coast, and one of the most memorable. Mark was at my house so much; he became part of my family.
When I arrived from England 2 years prior, he was the only one to befriend a small British kid, who stuck out in the American High school like a boil on a bum. I am forever grateful, and Mark was like my brother.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU BROKE YOUR WRIST?
I called Mark, 2 days prior to our OCNJ trip to ensure he was ready.
“What do you mean you broke your wrist…?” I gasped in horror.
“I fell and broke my wrist.” He replied deadpan.
“What do you mean you fell and broke your wrist…?” I asked again in more horror.
“I fell and broke my wrist.” He replied even more deadpan.
“You moron…how will you swim?” I agonized.
“Oh, I’ll swim, I’ll wrap my cast with plastic…it’s all good.” He reassured me.
Mark had fallen, and he had broken his wrist. When he turned up at my house to load up in the car for our journey down to the shore, his left forearm appeared heavy, club like, festooned with teen scribbles and obscene phrases so kindly added by his other so-called friends. Of course, I added my own obscene rendering, enough said.
BOARDWALK BLISS
Back to the evening prior to our magical beach wake up. It started like the other awesome evenings of that week. Post beach and dinner, walking the boardwalk. Tanned and each bathed in an identical cheap High Karate type cologne, we proudly parted the waves of fellow teens festooned in parachute pants, champion shorts, sleeveless shirts, all capped off by white Adidas, or other bright brand-named sneakers. Eddie Jr sported his trademark Loverboy head band. We were so cool. We smelled good. We Looked good. We were so Rad.
We did what teenagers do to this day. Walked up and down the boardwalk. Savoring the magic atmosphere. Never anywhere, had any of us, seen so many tanned and beautiful girls our age, in so many groups, smelling so good, ever. It was intoxicating.
The sound and smell of the ocean a hundred yards away in the inky blackness combined with the distinct boardwalk wood aroma and food vendors, contrasted magically with the neon lights and sound salad of laughs, screams, music, and footsteps. To four 16-year-old boys in 1984, free, independent, and on vacation together, it was heaven.
We flirted shamelessly with hairspray goddesses, browsed the clothing stores, the cheap beachwear, tried on hats and bought and consumed copious ice cream, frozen yogurt, drinks, pizza and fries. We had no phones, and we soaked in every minute of the time together and the moment.
We hit the Surf Mall -still open to this day- and bought posters of bands and rock stars not “available” locally, that filled the massive back wall of the mall. I took home 3 big posters, Van Halen, Alex Van Halen behind his drum kit, and Jim Morrison in sunglasses. They all adorned my bedroom upon return to normal life.
JITNEY JOLLIES
Just the trip to the Boardwalk was memorable. We stayed in side-by-side houses around 50TH streetin my dad’s rental and Eddie Sr’s Rental. To get to the Boardwalk, we took a ride on an “open-sided” bus service called the Jitney . The Jitney looked like a cable car circa 1920 with no cables and no windows on the sides, which made for a cool, fun ride, as the salty evening ocean breeze swept through the passenger compartment as we trundled along.
Now, on a good night, the Jitney resembled a bus in a third world nation. Packed beyond capacity with sun bronzed 80’s teens and most assuredly driven by a disgruntled retiree with a gambling habit, it would have been a certified OSHA nightmare today. In 1984, no one cared. We were a whole generation of tough kids with no care in the world, trapped in a moment of time, that we had no clue would fast disappear into time with the passing years and our youth.
Rightfully so, we were living on the edge. With a top speed of 15 miles per hour, we hurtled down Central Avenue toward the Boardwalk, a cloud of cologne and perfume, hairspray and headbands. Screaming with laughter, pointing, and smiling, everyone, sandwiched together, spilling out of every open window. I believe they are still looking for some teens we “lost” at 14th street. The drive back was even more wild, and the driver even more disgruntled.
On the way back, Anthony and I had a great idea; Let’s sleep on the beach! I Yes, there was also a 10pm curfew for youth in 1984 as there is today, and I’m glad there is, but in 1984, we were a more innocent bunch, and the curfew was more of a recommendation. If the police didn’t find you out, and you were safe, and caused no trouble, the worst that could happen is a stern warning to get back home by the OCNJ-PD. Which of course, we happened to experience.
BEACH INCURSIONS
As Anthony and I scrambled across the road, toward the beach entrance, boom box and snacks in hand, he showed up out of nowhere. An Ocean City Police cruiser. As we stood trying to look innocent under the streetlight, an “OCEAN CITY POLICE” festooned cruiser of white and blue, crawled alongside.
Like Officer Renko, from Hill Steet Blue’s, complete with mirror sunglasses -on at night- he struggled as he rolled down the window while maintaining his Miami Vice vibe. Yes, I said rolled. It was 1984. He tipped his glasses down, peered at us over his mirrored frames, as he turned down the police radio.
“You boys aren’t heading to the beach, right?”
Anthony and I darted looks back and forth like we were smuggling live hamsters in our back pack.
“No sir.”
“Good,” he replied, because there is a curfew, and I see you are heading for the beach.”
I thought fast. “We didn’t know that! Thank you, officer.” It was 1984.
“Good, so head back and stay safe.”
He pulled away slowly – rolling up his window as it squeaked- and in a cloud of gray exhaust plumes, made his escape to WaWa.
As he disappeared into the Ocean City night, we stood transfixed. His vehicle got smaller, and we still waived, not moving, with tortured smiles. After what seemed a half hour, Anthony broke the spell. Talking out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered, (I’m still not sure why he whispered) “Wait until he can’t see us…then we run for the beach…”
“Great idea,” I replied, my frozen creepy smile maintained.
Looking back, I know he must certainly have seen us return toward the beach, in his rear-view mirror. I like to think he was amused knowing exactly what we were doing and watching us, as we “pulled one over” on him scuttling in the direction of the dark beach and the roar of the ocean. Who knows, he probably did the same when he was a wee lad.
Eddie Jr. and Mark waited off to the side of the beach entrance hidden in the shadows. Like a CIA operative on a night mission, Mark spotted our shapes in the entrance street light, “Psssssst….over here.” He half whisper-shouted in true CIA Agent fashion. We joined up successfully, dropped our gear in a strategic location, and decided to let the fun begin. A night walk on the beach.
We were harmless. We trekked up and down blocks of beach, lit by the moonlight, waves crashing nearby, we loved it. We wrestled, laughed, ran, jumped on each other, and talked about life, girls, told jokes, and lived a moment we never realized was such a magic moment in our lives.
MISSION SKINNY DIP
Eventually, we became quiet and were enjoying our midnight stroll, just the four of us. Free, young, tough, the coolest. That’s when my shoe got entangled in the panties. Yes, you read that right. Women’s underwear, bra, socks, t-shirt, and upon further investigation, and to our devious joy, a pile of young men’s clothes. All 3 feet away and neatly folded in a careful pile. This was too good.
As I held the bra, and Anthony the skivvies, we just stood looking at each other in silence. And that’s when we heard the frolicking. Now if you have ever heard a couple frolic, imagine a happy young couple frolicking in the ocean, naked. Skinny dipping frolicking. We didn’t even need to speak to each other, we telepathically communicated and without hesitation, completed our cruel mission with haste and efficiency.
As we ran, we dropped the clothing items – one at a time – every five yards. We laughed a silent laugh of evil, the laugh only teen boys can laugh, when distributing innocent skinny dipper’s garments with impunity. We ensured that each item was far enough away from the other, creating 100% frustration on behalf of the clothing owner later fumbling in the dark, frantic, angry, wet and nude.
As we headed back to our base camp 4 streets down, awash in juvenile happiness, we felt clever, and cool. We had gotten away with a beauty of a prank. Or had we?
As we walked the beach a second time, we walked closer to the houses at dune’s edge, then returned via surf’s edge. That’s when we heard voices in the inky blackness. One, we were sure was a distressed female, who possibly had lost her clothing, and presumably naked, scrambled to locate in the dark where she had so carefully left her wardrobe. A male voice thundered above hers, “Where the f**k are our clothes? Someone has taken our clothes…God da*n it!!!” His voice got closer, “I’ll f**king kill whoever did this!”
We took off in a four pack, silently laughing, bare feet pounding in the edge of the foamy surf. We never did get caught by the angry couple or hear from them again. I often wonder, how did they get back to their rental once they had hit the lit streets and or beach entrance naked? If that was you, and you are reading this, in theory I apologize, if in theory, we had indeed ruined your romantic midnight dip.
MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE
On the way back, the sun was barely peaking above the horizon, and the chill ocean breeze, necessitated sweaters. After we returned to “our spot” in the dunes and sweatered up, we walked to the ocean’s edge. We all looked down at once and saw a large whine bottle, cork stopper complete with message inside. This was insane, an actual message in a bottle.
My mind began to play the Police song “Message In A Bottle” as we all grabbed at the glass shaft in anticipation. What critical information might the message be imparting. Was it a last message of a ship going down? Or a plea from a trapped military prisoner complete with his location coordinates? Was it form a literal Robinson Crusoe imploring us, the chosen finders, to provide rescue? The options were endless.
We eagerly popped the cork and took a piece of driftwood and wrangled the message carefully from its glass case. I unrolled it carefully, straightened, and cleared my throat. I read it aloud. In clear ink, bold script, was scrawled, “HELP, I’m HAVING AN ORGASM.”IT WAS 1984
Our entire week was filled with innocent youthful bliss. We hurt no-one, didn’t want to get blind drunk, didn’t need to smoke, didn’t want to hurt anyone, cause damage, or anything else that would make our parents ashamed. Blissfully ignorant of the way the world operated, we were typical happy go-lucky, 1980’s 16-year old’s, with our entire lives and promise ahead of us.
We spent our days on the beach together with our parents, who were best friends. I had three of my best friends with me, the sun blazed, the cool ocean waves rolled in, we sunned, swam, body-surfed, checked out the bikinis, snacked, and soaked in the joy and atmosphere of beach life. OCNJ Beach life.
Mark did everything, with cast on arm, and I have an old photo of him standing in the water, cast in air, wrapped with a plastic grocery bag and tape, like he’s hailing a cab in the waves.
Nights were spent on the boardwalk, and we got zero sleep. We had dinner’s out and ordered too many soft drinks and pizza to the absolute joy of my dad George and Eddie. We stuffed our faces with snacks on the beach and burned the calories easily body surfing.
Our parents always knew we were together and where we were, and didn’t worry, we could take care of ourselves, especially in the number 1, safest family resort in America. And it was 1984.
ETCHED IN TIME
I often think of the four of us that summer, we have all moved on with our own lives, families, and some, grandchildren. I go back to Ocean City every summer, and try to meet up with Eddie and Lorraine, and ask about Eddie Jr. and Anthony. I would love to meet on the beach with them soon, something I will arrange.
Mark has moved on and is successful in his educational administration career. With Mark, I haven’t kept in touch like I should. Hopefully he will read this and remember with fondness our great summer together.
I still go to OCNJ every year, it’s mandatory, and each summer I come away with good memories and feelings. I hope all of the members of the 1984 OCNJ Gang read this and go back too, with a smile. I know I do. Thanks guys, we fabulous four, are part of my life story and are forever etched into that moment in time, smiling, tanned, with life ahead of us. I hope these memories are rekindled and etched in yours.
“CORK SACKER!”
We sped out onto the Atlantic City Expressway and headed for home with Mark and I sweating in the non-air-conditioned Chevy Malibu station wagon. We put on our Walkman players and settled back for the 7-hour drive home watching the pine trees pass as the sun twinkled through their branches as cars sped past. Rested, relaxed, our young batteries were re-charged. I wanted to get back to practicing my kicking and looked forward to my Junior football season.
We also watched in fascination, as one by one, our beach chairs, suitcases, towels, and boogie boards flew off the roof of the vehicle, like a dealer, dealing a deck of cards, fast, in procession, item after item.
My dad reacted as expected, like a true Bragg, in a cloud of expletives, he laid on the brakes and careened to the side of the road. Upon breaking, like in the movie Vacation, the last folding chair flew off forward due to braking momentum.
ROADSIDE ENCOURAGEMENT
Operation pick up all our shit and re pack then commenced. My lovely mother reassured my father every minute, as he struggled with bags and beach furniture, how she had asked him repeatedly if the roof strap was secure.
How helpful I thought, as I took a break in a beach chair on the side of the expressway. Everything he picked up he addressed as a “CORK – SACKER!!,” and sprinkled all with the occasional “SUN-OF -AHH -BATCH!”
Thanks for the memories dad, I understand now, and I’m becoming more like you every day.
Concerned travelers passed by honking and swerving. “A** HOLE!!” they each yelled in encouragement to my father and his family. Which is no surprise. Remember, it was 1984.
See you at the next Roll Call.
Shift Dismissed.
All images utilized here are Public Domain, or from personal collection.