Meet Kyle.
Kyle has prepared thoroughly.
Extensively.
Heroically.
Before arriving at Sea Isle City, Kyle received approximately eight hundred pieces of advice from relatives, neighbors, coworkers, and one uncle who visited New Jersey in 1997 and apparently never recovered.
“Watch your stuff.”
“Stay alert.”
“Crowds are crazy.”
“Don’t trust seagulls.”
“Definitely don’t trust people who feed seagulls.”
Kyle took these warnings seriously.
Very seriously.
Locals know him as The Wide-Wild-Eyed Midwesterner, and this species can be identified almost immediately by the protective beach outfit consisting of a long-sleeved swim shirt, swim leggings, neck flap, hat, sunglasses, and a sunscreen coating so thick that exposed skin appears to have been frosted like a wedding cake.
Kyle surveys the beach with enormous unblinking eyes.
Because this place is unbelievable.
There’s music.
There’s volleyball.
There’s footballs flying through the air.
There’s thousands of people moving everywhere.
Teenagers laughing.
Families shouting.
Children digging holes large enough to threaten geological stability.
And then…
Kyle notices all the skin.
So much skin.
People just…
walking around confidently.
Relaxed.
Happy.
Unconcerned.
Kyle stares like someone observing extraterrestrial life.
“They just…do that?”
“Nobody’s cold?”
“Nobody’s worried?”
Meanwhile Kyle refuses to nap.
Not once.
Not for a second.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind echoes that warning:
“Never close your eyes in a crowd.”
So Kyle remains alert.
Watching.
Observing.
Absorbing everything.
And secretly…
loving every second of it.
Because beneath the culture shock and sunscreen armor lives a tiny dangerous realization:
Kyle may already be planning next year’s trip.