We Will Not Merely Endure: We Will Prevail

The title of this post is an adaptation of a William Faulkner quote:

I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.

The past few weeks have brought catastrophe to the Jersey Shore in the form of Hurricane Sandy and the aftermath she left behind. Last weekend, I wrote A Thing about the storm a little less than one week after it hit the stretch of sand and ocean I call home — Manasquan. Like many of the communities surrounding it, Manasquan is barely more than a square mile. Don’t blink, you’ll miss us. But the sense of community here is unreal; more on that later.

The only thing I would like to add to what I wrote — and what ran as a letter to the editor in The Coast Star and The Ocean Star, published by Star News Group — is an experience from this morning. Just a quick note of disclosure: I am the managing editor and webmaster at Star News Group. This blog is not affiliated with Star News Group. So on to the addition:

My friend and I got coffee at Green Planet, my favorite coffee place that has a location where I live (Manasquan) and also where one of my offices is (Point Pleasant Beach; the other is right around the corner from Green Planet’s Manasquan location).

We later decided to pick up a box of coffee and some pastries to bring to the Main Street bridge for the police and National Guardsmen posted there, enforcing the limited entry to the devastated area to residents only. We dropped it off, and one of the National Guards said something I don’t think I’ll ever forget: “Everyone in this town is so generous!”

He was clearly talking about the Manasquan attitude and response to this storm, something I have been so, so proud to witness.

Below is the letter to the editor I wrote, interspersed with photos I took over the past two or so weeks.

Stay strong, Jersey Shore

I am never short on words. My family, friends and acquaintances — even total strangers — will vouch for that.

But on Tuesday, standing at what was only 24 hours prior the entrance to Whiting Beach in Manasquan, I didn’t have any words to express what I was feeling. The beach — my beach — was gone.

Looking south from Whiting.

I think the rest of the Jersey Shore can relate. Hurricane Sandy blew through our towns and left behind an entirely new landscape, one unrecognizable to everyone who calls the Shore home, either year-round or just in the summer. Everyone was stunned.

The Sunday before, my friend and I had gone to the inlet to see the surf anticipating Sandy’s arrival. “I feel like we were saying goodbye,” she said on the ride home — and it turns out, she was right.

Last time in the Inlet gazebo; it’s gone now.

Already rough on Sunday.

The view from the inlet before the storm hit.

Main Beach, hours before Sandy hit the coast.

On Monday in the early afternoon, the macadam was already accumulating sand.

The Riddle lot flooded far before the storm made landfall.

Shock reigned throughout last week, in her wake, when images of the beach — or lack thereof — began to surface on Facebook and the Internet. Though we were living it real time, information was sketchy at best; no power, no landlines and terrible cell service, partnered with the fact many did not have Internet access, left us all wondering. I was one of the lucky few who saw the beach and devastated beachfront east of the bridges, in person, right after Sandy; and I only say “lucky” because I have had more time to process what I saw.

Looking north from Whiting.

This weekend, the devastation Sandy left behind hit home on a much more personal level. I spent my time helping distribute cleaning supplies, gift cards, clothing and more from the Surfer’s Environmental Alliance and Project Rebuild Recover, mainly in Manasquan and Brielle. I also helped clean out several homes that are, likely, complete tear-downs. All were occupied by friends, and I helped them remove their furniture, clothing, photographs — it felt like I was removing their memories and tossing them on the curb for garbage pickup.

First Avenue, far before any cleaning began.

It was rough. I was one of the lucky ones — I had a tree fall on my roof but no damage, and power was restored to my house in Manasquan Saturday night, faster than it was after 2011’s Hurricane Irene. But seeing the pure horror Sandy left behind was eye-opening. I have never hugged so many crying strangers in my life, and I have never seen so, so many lives torn apart by something so far out of anyone’s hands. The beachfront area in Manasquan looks like a war zone, and based on the pictures I’ve seen, the rest of the Shore didn’t fare much better.

The macadam was largely intact until Whiting; further south, it was largely broken up.

After the storm, sand was at least two feet lower than the previous ground level around the macadam.

But here’s the thing. Among all the debris and devastation, I saw two things I never expected to see: hope and resilience. A hope that our Shore communities will come back from this, and a resilience so strong you would never expect anything but a full recovery — and then some.

Every single person I spoke to, bar none, had the same attitude: “Yes, this is terrible. Yes, I wish this never happened. But yes, we will recover — it happened, but it’s time to put it behind us and move on.”

Days after Sandy hit, crews were already cleaning up at the inlet.

This is, to borrow the good mayor’s words, what makes Manasquan, Manasquan. To paraphrase, it’s what makes Point Pleasant Beach, Point Pleasant Beach. It’s what makes Bay Head, Bay Head, and Spring Lake, Spring Lake.

It is also what sets the Jersey Shore apart from the rest of the state, the country and even the world. There’s a je ne sais quoi about this place; while I can’t put my finger on it exactly, it’s some kind of wonderful mix of toughness, determination and a fierce love of this place we call home.

It’s rough now, but we’ll come back from this.

We’re facing some really difficult times ahead. Homeowners and business owners alike are asking themselves questions that don’t have easy answers: Rebuild? Renovate? Move altogether?

While each individual will have to make their own choice in the end, I know what mine is, and always will be: Jersey Shore, I’m sticking with you.

Nowhere else will you see the dedication to community you see here on a daily basis, a dedication that was magnified 100 fold by this catastrophic event. A clothing distribution center was bursting at the seams, literally with clothing and figuratively with volunteers, in Squan Plaza by the gazebo this weekend; OEM trucks drove up and down roads in the beachfront area offering food and water; and friends, neighbors and even strangers stopped by ruined homes, just to see if they could offer a helping hand.

Someone left the water running …

… oops.

Jersey, just when I thought I couldn’t love you any more, you made my heart swell with your attitude after this hurricane.

Yes, many of the places where some of our oldest, happiest memories occurred are no longer there; and yes, in many cases, our homes and things are all but destroyed. But to anyone doubting, rest assured: We will rebuild. We will recover. And we will stay “Jersey Strong.”

In the coming weeks, heed the words of the British while the Blitzkrieg was raging: “Keep calm and carry on.” Or, thanks, Facebook, “Keep calm and carry on Manasquan.” It’s going to be rough, and everyone will be dealing with the effects of a catastrophe beyond our wildest imaginations — but you are not alone. Call your family and friends for help; look over the fence and ask your neighbor for a hand. Heck, chances are a stranger will offer aid before you even think you need it.

We’ll rebuild, and soon.

The macadam toward the north still looks pretty solid.

Jersey Shore, let’s do this thing — let’s get back to complaining about Snooki and the Bennies. Let’s get back to the high school football rivalries and the summer nights enjoying a cocktail with a view of the river or ocean from one of the dozens of bars and restaurants with that priceless outside seating.

Let’s get back to breaking this rule!

Let’s unite and rebuild, better than we ever were before.