Yo, Tambourine Man, Sing For Me
My childhood home sat precisely two miles from Donovan's Reef in Sea Bright, NJ. Back then, reaching that sacred ground meant passing landmarks like Chuby's, Oceanfront, Weisman's, Fowler Paint and Hardware, Sea Bright Drugstore, Peninsula House, and Mrs. Rooney's hot dog stand. Fox's Foodtown and liquor store and the lumber yard next door were nearby, flanking a sticky bar with its windows open to let flies buzz freely. That old bar is legendary—a beachside hideout where I clocked countless hours. It's still there, though reborn as a modern version of a classic watering hole.
My dad grew up in the last house on Church Street near the swift-moving river in Sea Bright. On a map, you'd find it where the Shrewsbury and Navesink Rivers join together. Just west of his house was Polly's Pond—known by my grandfather as "Polly's Gut." The water there was crystal-clear and fast-moving, revealing schools of fish and the sandy bottom even in depths well over five feet. It was a magical spot, just south of where the Avenue of Two Rivers ends in Rumson.
Sea Bright holds a history of youthful rebellion for me. I got in trouble with the cops, had my first drink at Donovan's, lost my virginity on the beach one night, smoked weed, and surfed every jetty break in town. Streaking across the Sea Bright Bridge tops the list of reckless antics. One drunken night in 1979, my friends and I spilled out of a station wagon in Regan's Dock parking lot, stripped down, and dashed bare-assed across the bridge. Drivers honked, headlights lit us up, and we regrouped at a park on the Rumson side. We quickly began piling back into the car, pulling on our clothes, and calling it a night.
My family's history in Sea Bright is tangled. My grandmother divorced my grandfather, Farber, married a man named Bradley and divorced him, keeping his name. Grandma Bradley, the quintessential Sea Brighter, though unusually for the area, had all ten fingers and toes. My dad, however, was pure trouble. He fought through school, punched Joe Rizotti—a coach at RFH—in the face, and got expelled. Somehow, he made his way to Long Branch, met my mom, and found his way back into school. The Fowlers, Farbers, Youngs, and others formed the clan on my dad's side, but he kept my sister and me away from them. In 2025, I barely know my extended family, dead or alive.
Surfing in Sea Bright shaped me. I learned to read the ocean there, though I was better at watching the waves than riding them. My friends outshone me in skill, but I loved how surfer guys with sun-bleached hair attracted girls. The ocean was my playground and my escape.
Small towns like Sea Bright carry distinct personalities. Characters like Dizzy Dave stand out, as do others like Slim Robinson, who sold papers, and a nameless guy who kept the largest woodpile in the tiny city. Rumson had characters hanging around Pauls Boats, like two brothers called High Tide and Low Tide. Red Bank had its quirks, including the Bump Brothers, who rarely left the second floor of Kiselins, where they managed inventory. I always feared going up there with them to look for the sneakers I wanted.
Sea Bright lost the Donovan's I knew and loved when Sandy destroyed it in 2011. An artist friend salvaged a piece of the outside wall, embedded it with a peace sign, and named it The Last Peace of Donovan's. She gave it to me, and it now hangs on our front porch—a treasured piece of art and memory.
I hold the stories I can tell about where I grew up, even the messy ones. Time has allowed me to reshape them into tales I can someday share with my grandkids. For me, I've got just a few more miles to heaven, but I feel much closer to hell. The years are speeding by "like the ancient empty streets too dead for dreamin."
Peace,
Chris
Bob Dylan, Mr. Tambourine Man, 1965
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