Let's Go Fly a Kite...

One early evening this summer, while vacationing at the Jersey Shore with my family, my son-in-law and I took three of my five grandchildren down to the beach to fly a kite. The day had been absolutely beautiful, though the surf had been rough because of a couple of offshore storms. Swimming—or even wading—was heavily restricted.

As we stepped onto the beach, the last of the sunbathers were folding their umbrellas and gathering their things, leaving behind only a few groups: surf fishermen casting their lines, teenagers tossing a football, families posing for photos and yes—kite flyers.

When my son-in-law let the kite go, the ocean breeze pulled it high into the sky. The kids took turns running with it along the beach. None of them had ever flown a kite on the sand before and it was a thrill for them. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the excitement on their faces as they each took a turn, the others chasing alongside.

Every so often, I had to dart after the three year old as he made determined runs toward the surf - but in the quieter moments, my mind drifted back. Sixty years back, in fact, to the last time I had flown a kite.

When I was a boy, my mom, dad, older brother and I vacationed at Ocean Beach, just north of Seaside Heights. Those were wonderful days, made even better because we shared them with our close family friends, who had three girls and a boy who was closest to me in age and my best friend.

My memories of Ocean Beach are among the fondest of my childhood. I remember the small, delightfully musty-smelling bungalows with sandy floors, cold outdoor showers and NO air conditioning. I remember long days on the beach with our two families and the many friends and relatives who came down to join us. There was always laughter, chatter, Oreo cookies, ice cream sandwiches, green grapes and the unmistakable scent of Coppertone suntan lotion mingling with cigarette smoke—while the Beatles played on someone’s transistor radio.

After long days of digging in the sand and dodging the waves, the whole gang would head back to our bungalows to rinse off, change and get ready for dinner. On several of the days, one of the families would host a group barbecue. Our parents would relax with a cocktail while we kids played games. My friend and I usually ended up spying on our older siblings, who probably thought we were a nuisance!

Most nights after dinner were quiet, with my mother gently applying Solarcaine or Noxzema to our sunburned shoulders. But every so often we’d have a special outing. A trip to Stewart’s Root Beer was always a highlight—the draft root beer and fast food were irresistible. The biggest treat of all, though, was heading to the Seaside Heights boardwalk.

I remember the smell of the wooden planks mixed with pizza, sausage and peppers, and the continuous clicking of the big dials on the games of chance—where the odds of winning a flimsy stuffed animal were almost nonexistent. I can still hear the screams from the Wild Mouse roller coaster and recall the Double-Decker Dark Ride, with its cobwebs that brushed across our faces in the dark. But my favorite part was always the kiddie pier, with its little sports cars, helicopters, boats and motorcycles. Those nights always ended with cotton candy, which I loved to eat, but, to this day, still dislike thanks to the sticky mess it left on my fingers.

As wonderful as Stewart’s Root Beer and the boardwalk were, the simplest memory—the one that came rushing back to me on the beach this year—was flying a kite. It must have been around 1965. One evening, as the sun was setting, my brother, my friend, his sisters and I went down to the beach with a box kite. We all ran along the sand with it, laughing and chasing, as the sky grew darker. I don’t recall if my friend or I even got to hold the string—our older siblings probably weren’t willing to risk us crashing it into the ocean or breaking it apart in the sand—but it didn’t matter. That single night of running along the shore with a kite left a lasting impression in my heart.

And this year, decades later, that memory came alive again as I watched my grandchildren do the same. I smiled as I saw them run, their eyes fixed on the kite soaring above them. Then my son-in-law asked, “Would you like a turn?” And I answered with an enthusiastic, “YES!”

All of a sudden, I was seven years old again.