Beyond the Bay Bridge: home!

As I crawl up Route 1 on my way to Rehoboth from Lewes, I count the Delaware license plates. Three. Only three other Delawareans have dared the same feat. Maybe two of them are on their way to work at the outlets.  

So far Pennsylvania is winning with 11 but New Jersey is running a close second with nine.

To my right is a monstrous SUV with chairs on the top, fishing poles on the grille, and a cooler and tackle box on the rear rack.  

Inside the vehicle sit a mom, a dad and three kids. Picture the Milton Bradley game of Life: five little pegs in the toy car headed toward their long-awaited summer vacation in a rented beach house, ocean view, for one week, no pets.

I am reminded of my own youth when my parents saved up their money to take us to Ocean City for a week’s vacation and how my sisters and I all looked forward to it for months until the actual day came and we had to sit next to one another for hours.  

But once we got a glimpse of the Bay Bridge, we could hardly contain our excitement.

It is still known as one of the scariest bridges in the U.S. and in the world. You didn’t have to tell that to my mother, who would hold her breath for the 4.3 miles while my sisters and I pressed our noses to the window panes. We could only roll down our windows four inches until we got to the other side for fear we would fall out!

The Bay Bridge, whose real name is the William Preston Lane Jr. Memorial Bridge opened in 1952, and its construction forever changed Maryland’s culture for certain.  

I remember when Ocean City was a sleepy town, not Miami, Maryland. By 1964, the two-lane bridge was already experiencing major traffic congestion on the weekends, and the second span opened in 1973.

By then my parents chose Nags Head, North Carolina as a summer rental because it took as long to get to Maryland in July as it did to North Carolina.

I look over at the SUV. A child of about 10 is looking out the window at me wondering when they will get to their beach house, how soon will they be allowed to put on their bathing suit? Will the water be too cold? Will I meet a new friend?

My mother loved to embarrass me with the story of my ocean excursion at about age 3.
“When are you going in, Lisa?” my mother asked.

“As soon as the water stops moving,” I said.

The traffic begins to move again on Route 1 and I look again at the license plates on the cars. Two from New York. One from Michigan.  

How can I be annoyed at the beach traffic when this may be their one coveted vacation, and I get to live here year-round?

Now whenever I cross the Bay Bridge to return to Delaware, I get excited like I was as a little girl because I am going home to the beach.  

Yesterday I went all the way in - even dunked my head, and the salt water stung my eyes.

It’s almost September and soon us retirees and locals will get a bit more umbrella room on the sand and more space on the road.  

We can go to the beach on Wednesday. Early. Or late. Isn’t retiring to the shore a wondrous thing?