As a kid growing up in the 1980s, the seaside atmosphere seemed to be built on sound. Waves crashed and roared, in contest with the siren-scream of arcade games and boardwalk basslines. Kids shouted into salt air while descending waterslides, landing in pools with a splash. Metal spatulas clanged on grill plates, white hot.
During day trips to Seaside Heights, the closest thing to silence was the Sky Ride, that ’60s riff on a ski lift strung above the boards. After riding in both directions, my sister and I would hit Lucky Leo’s for Skee-Ball and inhale slices from Maruca’s, spider-ring prizes adorning our fingers. Trenton-style pies, made exactly the same way since 1950, came topped with bull’s-eye swirls of sauce.
Such attractions felt trapped in amber. Yet despite our history teachers’ best intentions, we weren’t aware of the deeper history beneath our feet…
Jenn Hall 