Cape May Diaries
10 - The Cape May experience
From our first stroll along the Cape May promenade in October 1990, we knew we were in a place wholly different from any we had previously encountered. Part of this was the exceedingly warm weather than year, part the streams of odd ocean air swirling around us, pouring across this thin slice of land at the bottom most portion of the state, moving from ocean to bay and back.
For all the grand claims made by other Jersey resorts, even those like Sea side and Point Pleasant (where bay and sea gave them a similar cross ventilation), each of them had a sense of stagnation hard to explain without experiencing Cape May.
Another difference was the uncluttered promenade, a rare treat to anyone overly familiar with beach front property at other New Jersey resorts where people either crowded every inch or excluded themselves by fencing of their section of beach from the general public.
This was fall, of course, so we had no way of knowing how wrong our first impression of Cape May was, seeing it at one of those moments when its best features shone. Any other week between Memorial Day and Labor Day, we would have been as appalled by the mob scene as we would have elsewhere. On that first morning, Cape May's beaches even lacked the saw grass that the state would later plant as part of its reclamation project -- which would start within days of our leaving.
We knew nothing of the massive movement of buildings from the erosion-doomed South Cape May or the history of fires that had gutted the even greater homes that once stood on these shores. The colors of the sea and sky contrasted sharply against the cherry reds and pumpkin oranges of the buildings. This first walk forged an unshakable first impression that we would recall with each subsequent visit.
We did not know that a trolley line had once run along the beach side of what had formerly been a wooden walkway similar to resorts father north. We did not know about the massive storm that had crept up the coast in 1962 and how its fury had ripped up the board walk and twisted it into a pile of ruined twigs, or how the declining ridership on the rails had caused the service to stop. We saw only the open sky, the butterflies, the motorized and horse pulled trolleys, and the scarcity of beach side buildings and its magnificent sense of open space.
We later learned that people tended to acquire a taste for Cape May, something in the air seeping into their blood to recall them again and again. Few who came once failed to come back, although each season had its loyal following: some preferring summer madness, others the deep sleep of winter, while others -- like us -- learned to love that time when the city was caught between the two.
"Victorian Week" was the last week before many of the shops closed and the Beds and Breakfasts shut their shudders.
As we walked we kept searching ahead of the center of the Cape May boardwalk, that collection of electronic entertainment that had come to symbolize the Jersey shore. We were convinced that if we walked far enough we had to encounter a pier full of flashing lights and screaming children.
We found a clutch of buildings -- with one entertainment center -- but nothing to the magnitude we expected. This small string of buildings contained fudge shop, a nut shop, a concert hall, a pizza parlor, a seaside souvenir shop and a restaurant.
It was the street side of Beach Avenue that boasted of commercial enterprise, although even this extended for a mere four blocks, with larger Victorian Cottages to the north and the beach-side of the historic section to the south. Here, we could purchase towels or t-shirts, exotic coffee or imported beer, indulge in baked deserts or frozen delights. Here, near the south end, we could find several places offering breakfast.
To our surprise Beach Avenue, the road and the promenade as well as a good portion of the beach itself, came to an abrupt end, marking the point at which new Cape May met the old and eroded Cape Island. Later, we would make the mistake of climbing down the embankment to the narrow strip of beach beyond -- which widened with the outgoing tide -- and attempted the walk to the distant lighthouse.
Even with the massive erosion, this part better reflected the historic beaches we later read about in the guidebooks -- the hard-packed surface that had allowed Henry Ford and --- Chevrolet to race early models of their cars. This beach without a promenade also provided us with a glimpse of the seaside Native American Indians must have encountered during their hinting and fishing trips here. This, too, was the beach Henry Hudson saw in 1600 when he took a short side trip into the mouth of the Delaware River. Perhaps the high dunes with their crowns of golden rod were what caught Captain Mey's eye when he decided -- years later -- to make his home here.
By climbing down a few slick rocks we managed to step back to a time that preceded the Victorians. Sand-colored sand crabs scurried ahead of our step as we made our way along the curve of beach. We did not know it at the time, but the mound of sand hid one of the more important bird sanctuaries -- a world we discovered in subsequent visits and quite by accident. Yet it was the odd square-like shape near the light house that drew us, a green-sided chunk of concrete we later learned had once served as a cannon emplacement for the defense of the coast during World War II -- the weaponry long vacated leaving its empty interior to the birds.
It was this beach poet Joel Lewis meant when he "joined a clump of raining day sand hugs for a morning of prospecting Cape May diamonds."