At five o’clock, after the lifeguards climbed down from their stands and tourists dragged their coolers off the sand, the beach finally belonged to us.

That’s when we paddled out.

I was the girl with the pink surfboard.

Not because pink was fashionable—it wasn’t. The board had sat unsold at Kona Surf Shop for so long it practically looked abandoned. But the moment I saw it leaning against the rack, I knew it belonged to me.

Long before mountain trails, desert hikes, or red rock canyons, there was Wildwood Crest.

That’s where my love of moving through the world began.

Growing up at the Jersey Shore meant living between two worlds—the ocean on one side, the bay and Sunset Lake on the other. Close enough to smell saltwater no matter which way the wind blew.

Some of my best memories were born there.

Sunset Lake was its own universe: crabbing off the pier, water skiing across the bay, sunfish sailboats skimming over water that turned gold in the evening. Entire days shaped by tides, weather, and whatever adventure sounded fun at the moment.

Life wasn’t perfect. But it felt free.

Dodging the tram car on the boardwalk was its own kind of dance — a mix of timing, instinct, and luck. The boardwalk was alive: music spilling from arcades, chatter drifting from bars, tourists and locals moving in all directions.

Boardwalk or beach, it was hiking—the terrain never mattered, just the freedom of moving under your own power.

Surfing was different.

I learned to surf goofy foot—right foot forward—which made perfect sense for someone who’s been directionally challenged in nearly every aspect of life. Of course, I surfed backwards.

Eventually, I graduated from the pink board to a custom surfboard—orange with a navy pinstripe and white deck—the kind of board that made me feel like I truly belonged out there.

The pink board was passed down to my younger brother, Joe, and sister, Janice.

I teased Joe about surfing on a pink “girl board.” He just shrugged. “Whatever. It works.”

That was Joe. Quiet, easygoing, completely unbothered by things that didn’t matter.

Sandwiched between two sisters, he spent most of his time rescuing us without making a big deal about it.

Some friends pick up where they left off… others end with summer. Alice was an ending. She borrowed my pink board, spent hours in our basement shooting pool, laughing, lingering in the heat of long summer days. By fall, she was gone, and the season — along with her — had slipped away.

The cute little pink surfboard had seen it all — wax, salt, duct tape, and a dozen beginners finding their footing.

Our summer home was a gathering place. Sandy towels hung everywhere. Sun-faded boards leaned in corners. The smell of surf wax and salt air was permanently embedded in everything we owned.

We often hung out at the Surf Shack with Zoo-Man, Zoo, for short. We practiced sliding down a longboard propped against the wooden shack while he coached.

Back then, the beach wasn’t a destination. It was simply part of life.

It had its own rhythm: morning quiet, afternoon dancing in the sand, and early‑evening surfing.

Long before hiking trails, there were morning walks on the beach from Preston Avenue to Diamond Beach and the jetty—barefoot through wet sand while cold foam chased my ankles.

The early morning beach belonged to surfers, fishermen, runners, locals—the ones who showed up before the world got loud.

There was almost always a fisherman standing alone in the low surf, casting into waves that barely seemed awake.

By noon, we’d wander down the beach to the Barefoot Bar. The Diamond Beach Barefoot Bar was its own little world — live music drifting across the sand, barefoot people dancing near the surf, plastic cups in hand, and the warm Jersey air carrying that intoxicating feeling that summer might somehow last forever.

At the time, I didn’t realize those walks were quietly teaching me a map I would follow for the rest of my life. Not in mountains. Not in deserts. But here—in the rhythm of moving forward.

After hiking mountains, national parks, and traveling far and wide, part of me still returns…

To the ocean.
To Sunset Lake.
To long beach walks.
To the intoxicating freedom of being young at the Jersey Shore before adulthood scattered everyone in different directions.

And to the girl with the pink surfboard—long before I realized I was already learning how to wander.

Part of the Hiking Series