I follow Route 47 through Rio Grande. I’m surprised at how easily I remember these street. I used to know them well—as teenagers, Joey and I would cruise down this stretch of highway through the salt marshes and shallow gullies on our way to somewhere, anywhere, else. Wildwood is a summer town, nothing more. Between May and September the island crawls with tourists, the beaches packed, the clubs pumping, the boardwalk bustling with its trinket shops and arcades and amusement park rides.
But in winter the boards close up, the rides shut down, and the sandy beaches stretch for desolate miles beside rough, churning waves. Wildwood is a gray lady this time of the year, a ghost haunting the shore. As I grew older, I seized every chance I got to run from the place. I would go to Cape May for th
