When I was a kid my parents would drive to Atlantic City, and I’d be in the back of our blue Nash on one of the two jump seats, looking out the open window. We knew we were getting close when we could smell the marshes, which we could do even before we could see them. The good stuff was on the other side. Even now when I should know better, it still often seems that the good stuff is always on the other side.

 

On the other side of what? Of whatever seems to be in my way between here and where I want to be — or, more accurately, where I want to go.

Lately I’ve wanted to see what lies at the end of little roads that run toward the water. Some of the roads… More…