There’s a pier on the bay (lots of them reallie). It’s a special place. Home to a bait shop, a waterside gas station, and a restaurant with outdoor seating. The name of the pier? John’s Pier (on 86th St.). It doesn’t say that on the sign anymore, but never-the-less that’s what I call it. It’s what I’ll always call it.
Everytime I come to the beach. Each and every time. I eat breakfast at John’s pier. It’s tradition. And the name has changed and the menu, while always the same, tastes different everytime you order it, but it’s still tradition.
The beach in alot of ways if about tradition, about the past, and memories. Like the time Kelly got seasick sleeping in the blue recliner in the living room. Or the windchime that Jenna and I made out of drift wood and seashells and old fishing line. Or the endless games of rummy cube that we’ve all played. Or that time that all the girl cousins and grandma went fishing and the boat got stuck and grandma got out to un stick us and couldn’t get back in. Mini Golf and Busch’s and the game with napkins that I never ever ever won. Countless trips to Blitz’s and riding the bikes. The Charcoal Pit and Scoops.
There’s alot of things that makes the beach special… traditional… important. And it’s why I love coming here.