Life cannot get any better than sitting in a chair on the beach. The pleasant sound of crashing waves and seagulls is heaven on earth. The sand makes my feet feel as though angels are giving them foot rubs. The surprisingly blue waters, calm soothing breeze, and warm sun made me think I was vacationing in the Caribbean Islands. Serenity shortly turned into elation.  My dad trotted over to my chair after speaking on the phone for what seemed like an eternity.  He held his sand-caked, black iphone in front of my face. “What is it? I said while taking a sip of Arnold Palmer Lite.

His response was a cheesing smile. Beneath his crusty screen protector was a picture of a brown plot of land seemed big enough to fit a small section of townhouses. On one side of the property laid a lagoon that flowed out into an endless body of water. Printed in small font above the picture was “Tuckerton, NJ”. If it was a Jersey Shore town, the name would have rung a bell. Still in a trance from a glorious nap, I asked, “Are we buying a beach house?”

“No, we’re building one,” my father said with grin that radiated a sense of accomplishment.

 The following day, my sister, mother, father, and I were off to Tuckerton to see our family’s new addition. Upon arrival, we were heavily underwhelmed. To the right side of the car was a long plot of land speckled with rocks, sea grass, and half chewed crab carcasses. Remaining wood planks and rusty nails from the prior house laid extensively throughout the property. Later we learned that Hurricane Sandy had decimated the small shack that used to lie on the property. The questioning of this purchase continuously compounded by the minute.  With each footstep, we sunk into the dark brown spongy mixture of mud, sand, and clay. The remains of a dock that resembled a World War I battle field stood staggered out of the sea green lagoon. We left that day not knowing that this same very plot of land in twelve months would be fully transformed into a gaping beach house and the staple of my family’s relationship.  

 We chose to come back on a Saturday three weeks later to watch our future beach house get craned onto stilts. The event attracted neighbors like mosquitoes to a bug zapper. The congregation formed a circle in lawn chairs to watch such a complex and fascinating activity.

“You will fall in love with Tuckerton,” every neighbor repeatedly said until the point of its ringing in my ears.

We watched in awe as the four rectangular boxes were lifted onto 8-foot telephone pole-like pilings. The relishing grew with the progression of the project. We continued to meet new faces as the boxes were carefully dropped onto the set of pilings. Neighbors varying to NASCAR drivers to policemen decided to wander over. The finished product looked as though a green barn. At night, the enlarged crowd moved down to the end of the street for a welcoming party. Like most parties, there were plenty of corn hole tournaments and barbecuing. The welcoming vibe that our neighbors radiated created a shared family optimism for the summers to come.

We woke up feeling motivated after sleeping on air mattresses in a house that is less habitable than an African hut. We proceeded to bust out paint cans and rollers as the sun was rising on the horizon.

“Everything is already painted white, why are these all white?” My older sister questioned my dad with an aggrieved tone while observing all 6 of the 5-gallon paint cans.

 “You have to seal the ceilings before you paint the walls,” my father replied.

We split up into forces of two to conquer one of the hardest chores that one could do. Painting two white coats onto a white ceiling with no air conditioning is as exciting as it sounds. The process consists of continuously rolling paint above your head in the same motion as a lacrosse player’s throw. The painter is often subjected to paint speckles falling into their eyes and the thought that they might have tendinitis in their shoulder and elbow. Frustration quickly set in due to heavy occurrence of losing track of what we have and haven’t painted. One has the same odds to register into a mental hospital from painting ceilings than successfully painting a ceiling. Although it seems like an aggravating chore, we enjoyed the challenge and began to build a strong family bond.

After six grueling hours, we had finished the ceilings of three bedrooms, half a hallway, and a bathroom. Our teamwork began to form an indescribable new form of appreciation for each family member. Even though not much progress was made, we left that night with a heavy sense of satisfaction.

We returned the following Tuesday with a new goal in mind. The males were to build a first floor deck with the help of neighbors while the females were to paint the walls of rooms with painted ceilings. Although less pesky than painting ceilings, the magnitude of manual labor was much higher. Our squad, three adults and I, attacked the project early in the morning. We began to build a frame by nailing boards 12 foot pressure treated pine boards lengthwise to the top of the remaining pilings on the side of the house facing the lagoon. The frame surprisingly was completed in a short time and we began to build the supports for the grey deck boards. We repeatedly hauled the same boards up our ladders and screwed the ends lengthwise into steel brackets which connected them to the frame. Each board being one foot apart; we would have to do this 40 times. Although being lagoon-side allowed for a great view of the bay, this left no shade for our job. The scorching summer sun made us feel like we were ants getting tortured by a pair mischievous kids with a magnifying glass. This created terrible conditions for the brains of the project, a 70 year old retired carpenter with a beer belly the size of the 13 colonies. Sweaty, exhausted, dehydrated—we chose bask in the brains’ pool. At night, we drove to Atlantic City to enjoy fireworks as a family.