This is my story and I’m sticking to it. The names have not been changed because we are all either in our late 70s or dead and aren’t concerned with the authorities anymore.
The author lounges on the beach with his father and a bag of chips in the 1950s. (Photos courtesy of Michael Zahorsky)
It all began in 1954. I was 7 years old and my family (mother, father and older sister) was enjoying our annual summer vacation, this year on Bonnet Island, the last spit of land before you arrive on LBI.
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