When I was a child, the Jersey Shore was my magical place. My great-grandmother, her siblings, and a few other relatives lived there in a high-rise apartment building, so every summer we’d visit for a week. Looking out from the balcony, I believed the ocean went on forever. On the bottom floor, the community pool brought children together in carefree, summer bliss.
At the beach, my brother and I used our boogie boards like 16-year-olds with fresh permits, owning the waves until sunset. I built sandcastles while he dug a never-ending hole to China, and we devoured peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that somehow tasted superior in the salty…
