I Don’t Miss Ocean City. I Miss the One I Grew Up In.

Growing Up in Ocean City NJ Was My Point Break

Whenever someone tells me how much they love Ocean City, New Jersey, I smile.

They’re talking about the Ocean City they know.

I’m remembering the one that raised me.

Growing up in Ocean City NJ started for me when I moved to the island at twelve years old, and I would spend nearly forty years there. Looking back, it felt a little like Point Break—minus the bank robberies, FBI chases, and the fights on the beach. It was surfing, music, late nights, and friendships that somehow lasted all summer, even if you barely knew someone’s last name.

Those years, from my late teens into my later twenties, were the best years of my life.

Before the Summers Ended

There was a time when the Jersey Shore wasn’t just a place I lived—it was who I was.

People ask me why I don’t spend much time in Ocean City anymore. It’s not because I don’t love the beach. It’s because the Ocean City I knew only exists in my memories.

My family moved to the island when I was twelve years old. Looking back, I don’t think I realized how lucky I was. To me, it was simply home. To everyone else, it was the place they saved all year to visit for one week every summer. To us, it was just another Tuesday.

I grew up with salt water in my veins. If the surf was up, we were in it. If it wasn’t, we’d grab our bodyboards, paddle out anyway, or sit on the beach until sunset because there wasn’t anywhere else we’d rather be. The ocean wasn’t something we visited—it was part of our lives.

When I turned fourteen, I started working at Voltaco’s. That place taught me more than how to make a cheesesteak; it taught me how to work. Summer weekends were absolute chaos. Hundreds of cheesesteaks. Endless orders. The cast iron skillets never cooled down, and somehow neither did we. Looking back, it’s amazing any of us survived those years. We worked hard, laughed constantly, and somehow found enough energy to do it all again the next day.

I stayed there for more than a decade. It wasn’t just a job. It was where I grew up.

At the same time, I started Wright’s Computer Service.

“If you’re gonna have it done… have it done the Wright way.”

I was fixing computers before most people even owned one. During the day I’d troubleshoot Windows 3.1 machines, install memory upgrades, and explain what a modem was. At night I’d be playing guitar in a house band, meeting friends, or performing close-up magic in local bars. None of it felt unusual. It was just life.

Magic became another passion. Not the big stage illusions—the kind that happened three feet away. I worked in a magic shop for three summers and spent winters walking through bars and restaurants performing card tricks, coin routines, and sleight of hand for anyone who wanted to watch.

Back then, people didn’t stare at their phones. They watched each other. For a few minutes, I got to make strangers laugh, wonder, and forget about whatever had brought them into the bar that night.

The best nights usually ended the same way. When the bars in Somers Point closed, everyone drifted back over the bridge into Ocean City. Kendra’s aunt owned the Chatterbox, and during the summer it stayed open twenty-four hours a day. We’d order Reubens, drink coffee, replay the night’s adventures, and Kendra would be our waitress.

I found myself watching her as she moved around the restaurant. She had this purple skirt that I absolutely loved. It fit her perfectly, and every time she’d walk by I’d catch myself smiling. She stood about five feet tall, I was six-foot-two, and to me she was just this beautiful little package with an incredible smile and a personality that lit up the room.

At the time, I had no idea where life would take us. She was simply the waitress I hoped would be working that night. Looking back now, I smile because I was looking at the woman I’d eventually spend the rest of my life with.

Somehow…

That worked.

Today I work with three great people, and every one of them met their spouse online. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Without the Internet, some of those relationships might never have happened.

But it reminds me how fortunate I was to grow up when I did.

We didn’t have dating apps. We had beaches, diners, bars, and friends who introduced us to other friends. If you liked someone, you eventually worked up the courage to walk over and say hello. Sometimes you got rejected. Sometimes you married the waitress who served you late-night Reubens.

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t just living in Ocean City. I was living during the last years before everything changed. Before smartphones. Before social media. Before every moment had to be photographed, filtered, and shared.

We took pictures because film was expensive and the moments mattered. The rest of the time, we were too busy living.

I know nostalgia has a way of polishing the past. Life wasn’t perfect. We were broke most of the time. Cars broke down. Relationships ended. Friends moved away. Some of the people in these photographs are no longer with us.

But memories don’t have to be perfect to be priceless.

Today, when I restore an old computer, fix my ’96 Ford Ranger, or spend an afternoon tinkering with a Raspberry Pi, I realize I’m chasing the same feeling I’ve always loved. Not old technology—old stories. Because old stories remind us who we were, and sometimes they remind us who we still are.

I don’t miss Ocean City.

I miss the version that raised me.