I got the shore out of my system in the late 1950s which I attribute to two separate incidents in consecutive years.
Another summer passes, a super quick one at that, and somehow I have survived without enjoying a rental week or two at the Jersey shore. I know, this places me in a distinct minority, because everyone goes to the shore, and has a marvelous time, except Bob the Grouch.
I got the shore out of my system in the late 1950s which I attribute to two separate incidents in consecutive years involving visits to Walt Johnston's parents' summer home in Ocean City. Walt, president of our pledge class at Gettysburg College, passed away a few years ago, but left an indelible mark on me in the art of fishing. He was the world's greatest fisherman ever, while I've claimed the top spot as the most inept.
On my first trip to Ocean City, in the summer of 1957, I had the dubious distinction of being the only pledge, of the dozen or so assembled, who wound up on academic probation. So I wasn't in a real good mood to begin with and as a result and my mood worsened when Walt, our host, informed that we were going to fish for flounder the next day "because non-fisherman Bob has never caught a fish in his entire life, and I'm guaranteeing his first."
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(And 58 years later, as an aside, Bob still hasn't caught a single fish, as in zero, in his entire life, and it's highly doubtful that will change. )
But resourceful Walt had a plan. While he was showing me how to bait my hook, a mundane chore, two of my fellow Fijis swam unnoticed under the water and attached a very small flounder to my line. I, of course, was oblivious to their trickery. So I "caught" one in record time. I was in my glory until Walt confessed he'd set up the whole scenario. My fellow pledges howled with laughter as they enjoyed the flounder I fried for their lunch. For my part, I did not laugh.
That also was the week I asked Walt's Ocean City neighbor, "Punky" Horlacher, out on a date but was stood up when I went to pick her up. That was the closest I've ever come to marrying into a beer baron's family, and it wasn't real close.
I'm convinced Punky deliberately hid from me the second summer, 1958, which was lowlighted by a trip to the Somers Point bars to use fake ID cards so we could drink illegally.
But my Gettysburg roommate, Doug Underkoffler, had by far a worse experience at Somers Point than I did.
He was caught up in a police raid at one of the bars and was forced to dive out the open window and into the water. He wasn't apprehended, which is the good news.
The worst news is that Undie discovered his car had been towed because he parked it in a tow-away zone, and he didn't have 85 cents to bail it out, let alone the $85 required.
Granted, these aren't particularly good reasons for shunning the shore, but my definitive list is too lengthy to cram into this space.
At the outset of summer, I did spend two nights at the Taj Mahal in AC. But all that did was remind me of how stupid I was to play video poker until the wee small hours.
I made my $50 contribution, losing in record time, and went back to my room to await departure time.
I haven't been back since. Chances are, this time it'll stick.
Bob Shryock may be reached at bshryock@njadvancemedia.com. Follow South Jersey Times on Twitter @TheSJTimes. Find the South Jersey Times on Facebook.
