The Amusement Park Falls Cold and Dark
The end of summer can also be the end of an era.
My sons call it “Derland.”
They were little squirts when one of them tried to read the amusement park’s name off a series of signposts that stretches for nearly a city block along the boardwalk. He couldn’t see the W-O-N signposts from his vantage point. “Why is it called ‘Derland?’” he asked, causing much childlike giggling. Derland became Durrrrrrland and Duhhhhland in Patrick Starr’s voice as the minutes/weeks/years passed.
Over a decade later, CJ and/or Mike and/or friends might hit the boardwalk for a leisurely stroll while mom and dad bake on the beach with a reassuring “We’ll meet you back at Derland in two hours.”
Wonderland is a landmark and an anchor. The Ocean City boardwalk begins there for year-round residents on the north tip of the island and ends there for vacationers and shoobies who stay or park along the long southern sprawl. Wonderland is also an anachronism, a jumble of log flumes and kiddie rides huddled beneath a Ferris Wheel that opened in 1929 and hasn’t changed much since the 1960s. But boardwalk attractions are supposed to be anachronistic: mini-golf, skee ball, salt water taffy, promenading in the breeze as if we’re still wearing corsets or handlebar mustaches. If we want state-of-the-art distractions, we stay home. We approach the ocean to approach timelessness.
The Jersey shore is my birthright. Ocean City has been my default destination since Wildwood lost its Rumblefish charms. My father and his wife rented a tiny second-floor condo down on 53rd Street in the 80s-90s-00s. When I reached adulthood, more-successful friends bought condos or splurged for summer-long rentals. Weekend invitations were easy to come by. The drive is barely over an hour; on a summer weekday, I could write a rough draft, drive to Ocean City for some beach-and-boardwalk R&R, and be home to beat a New York Times deadline.
Ocean City is not-at-all grungy but not too ritzy. The boardwalk is lively, but the warriors never come out and play. The beach needs annual replenishment, unlike the Arrakis of Wildwood, but we might as well enjoy what we have while it's there, whether it's a strip of sand that washes away each winter or an out-of-style amusement park.
I took my first college girlfriend to Wonderland on a double-date day trip. Dad loaned me the ‘65 Thunderbird for the summer. Two couples, eight cylinders, county route 557 stretching through towns named Dorothy and Milmay like America’s last great county two-lane. Sprung from cages, one might sing. We rode the Wonderland Ferris Wheel after dark, Ocean City a galaxy of light beside the inky ocean below. She wanted to ride again. The other couple – her friends more than mine – were barreling toward a tight curfew. “I don’t want this day to end,” she said before acquiescing with a teenaged pout. The rest of that relationship is an adolescent blur, but I remember that Ferris Wheel ride.
I took my second college girlfriend to Wonderland. We rode the Ferris Wheel, not because I wanted to recreate the last ride Annie-Hall-lobster-boil-style but because that’s what couples do on boardwalks at night. This gal hated heights but loved me, so she squeezed her eyes shut tight when not looking into mine. I married her. We honeymooned in Ocean City in a borrowed second-floor condo down on 53rd Street.
That condo was gone by the mid-2000s, but we found ways to spend a few days down the shore each summer when the boys were little. Beach getaways with tiny tykes are elaborate time- and resource-management exercises, with little resemblance to the carefree jaunts of teens or newlyweds. But we splashed in the surf, leapt into waves, built sand castles, wiped the remains of funnel cake from sticky mouths and enjoyed brief mom-and-dad cocktail hours on rental-house patios after bedtime among the diaper emergencies and beach-wagon logistics. And of course, there was Wonderland.
Once, when CJ was four-and-a-half – just entering the amusement park Goldilocks Zone – and Mike had just turned one, we walked about 10 blocks to Wonderland from a friend’s vacation rental on a humid July evening. Our flip-phones had no apps back then; we tracked the weather by looking at the sky, like sailors on the Santa Maria. We lost track of the time and the barometric pressure amongst the spinny rides and bumper cars, but a flash of lightning over the mainland announced that something nasty was imminent.
It was past little Mike’s bedtime. He was overstimulated and cranky. He was capable of caterwauling, puking tantrums we called The Avatar State when things went south. But CJ had walked to Wonderland, and he didn’t have a 10-block forced march in him. So Karen dropped Mike in the stroller and speed-walked down the boardwalk to the rental as the winds grew ominous and tropical, while CJ stayed behind in Wonderland’s warehouse-like roofed section to wait out the deluge.
Rain began battering the building. Ticket takers and ride operators half-closed the garage-type metal doors of the faux-castle structure as if to keep out the arrows of the Saracens. The boardwalk became Category 2 rapids. Lightning ignited the ocean in incandescent bursts. I kept my arms around CJ, reassuring him that mom and Mikey were OK while frantically texting Karen to verify that she and Mikey were OK.
Everyone was indeed OK. The away team reached the rental porch just as the skies unleashed. The squall subsided in 20 minutes as summer squalls do, and CJ and I splashed back at our own pace. The rest of that summer is a blur of high chairs and kiddie chores, but both CJ and I clearly remember the night when Wonderland was our sanctuary.
Once Mike was out of diapers, we established a family summer routine: three or four day trips to Ocean City per month consisting of beach, lunch, beach, ice cream and Wonderland. Each year, the excursions grew easier to manage, and I often stayed behind to visit a training camp or tap away at my keyboard. But I always tried to begin and end summer vacation with a fat wad of Wonderland tickets and a Ferris Wheel ride with CJ.
CJ was an adventurous amusement park rider. He graduated from kiddie spinners to coasters to astronaut training simulators as quickly as he could clear the You Must Be This Tall To Ride barriers. His mom, as mentioned, fears heights, and dad can get motion sick watching Mario Kart. By the time he was in second grade or so, I began pawning the little chatterbox off in line to preteens with a Baby Sitters Club vibe, then watching him ride from the safety of the stationary ground.
Mike, meanwhile, could take or leave rides, but he enjoyed the tilt-a-whirl with his brother and could be coaxed onto the log flume. He could also spend an hour in the surf with mom while CJ and I rode (or CJ rode and I watched). Such is the glory of the boardwalk for a family during a certain magical sunny morning of their lives.
Then dad blinks. The boys are swimming on their own. Fetching their own boardwalk snacks. CJ is strolling the boards with his own pals. He’s driving to the shore with his own girlfriend. Then Mike is making such trips, or staying home to earn college money while mom and dad drive to Ocean City, with two chairs and a small pool bag replacing the Normandy invasion-level supplies we once hauled. But we still coax the boys down with us now and then. And we always park behind Durrrland, with its deep reservoir of memories.
If you follow New Jersey current events, or simply recognize the tropes of a memoir, you know that Wonderland is closing in a few weeks. The historic amusement park will be replaced by beachfront condos so more families can visit Ocean City but enjoy it a little less.
Yes, there is still an amusement park four blocks south of Wonderland with more modern rides. There is also a nearby water park and no shortage of go karts and mini-golf opportunities. But I couldn’t help brainstorming on the beach on an August Wednesday about all the wonderful things that could replace Wonderland. A microbrewery with vintage video games and pinball. (Ocean City is dry, but microbrewery variances are common in these parts.) A Round 1-type bowling alley. Batting cages that the high school down the street could use from September through June. Axe throwing! Pickleball! A children’s garden where preschools could climb on little jungle gyms without getting sunburned and sandy. Or, you know, something with spinny rides and whack-a-mole, perhaps with a castle theme to capture little imaginations.
Perhaps I am being selfish by asking the world to remain the same until I can share my youthful experiences with some hypothetical grandchild. There are other places to take whatever new family members may be on a distant horizon: Storybook Land nestled in its hidden grove; lovably grimy Clementon Park, with its wooden coaster I call The Sciatica; lots of Dutch Wonderlands and Knoebles with their own family memories. Karen and I are aging toward Victorian Cape May, anyway: it fits our graying tastes and metabolism, and it’s in our price range so long as we pack our own cocktails/charcuterie/cannabis. The Jersey shore remains a birthright, a haven, a place of inspiration, imagination, memory and peace.
But I hate the feeling that I saw Wonderland for the final time two weeks ago. And I dread cresting the 7th Street Bridge next year and not being greeted by the sight of a Ferris Wheel which rekindles memories of my father, long-ago friends and lovers, babies who have become men and the feeling that life can be as joyous and full of promise and wonder as an endless summer day.
Coming Soon at Too Deep Zone
Fear not, True Believers! Your humble proprietor got all that mushy-gushy emotional honesty out of his system with that essay, just in time for the start of the regular season! And the faux Stan-Lee-meets-Caught-on-the-Fly tone of this infomercial (shaddup!) should not be interpreted as a sign that he’s [sniff] still up in his feels [sniff] now that both of the boys are off at college [honk].
Walkthrough returns on Tuesday with a tradition unlike any other: the Backup Quarterback Ratings. Too Deep Zone will then let the rest of opening weekend speak for itself. We’ll return on September 9th with Walkthrough in all its ragged glory.
Too Deep Zone will publish three times per week during the regular season, with a reduced schedule on Thanksgiving and Christmas weeks. Regular features will include Tank Watch (a look at a struggling team), Stat Watch (a deep dive into the databases) and Mailbag (a mailbag). Plus: columns, gags and All Time Top 5 QB segments.
Also, don’t forget that Matt Lombardo and I will be podcasting weekly at the Between the Hashmarks Substack. We’ll be rolling each Tuesday during the regular season with guests and Matt’s insider tidbits. You can download the podcast here. Aaron Schatz and I will be livestreaming on Mondays and Thursdays at 11 AM for the FTN Network. The Monday show is a great opportunity to taste the weekly DVOA cookie dough before it has finished baking; Thursday brings win probabilities and picks, with me frantically scouring injury reports in real time.
Enjoy your Labor Day weekend. See you Tuesday!
I remember my kids looking forward to reaching 48" like I now look forward to reaching retirement.
So much better than the "remember august cuts happen to human beings" article I imagined from the headline.