Meet Gary.
Gary moved to Florida twelve years ago and has never emotionally recovered from it.
Every summer, like clockwork, he migrates north and arrives at Sandy Hook carrying flip-flops, sunglasses, a beach chair, and approximately fourteen opinions before his feet even touch the sand.
Locals know him as The Furious Frothy Floridian, and this species can usually be identified by the running commentary that begins roughly seventeen seconds after arrival.
“Water’s warmer in Florida.”
“Sand’s softer in Florida.”
“Pelicans are bigger in Florida.”
“The sunsets in Florida…”
“The seafood in Florida…”
“The parking in Florida…”
Nobody has asked.
Nobody ever asks.
But Gary presses onward like a man carrying sacred knowledge.
The thing is…the Florida Gary describes may not actually exist.
In Gary’s version of reality, every beach has perfect weather, dolphins perform synchronized swimming exhibitions, parking spots appear magically, and every sunset resembles a painting commissioned by angels.
Reality occasionally disagrees.
But Gary remains committed.
And yet…there’s something strange.
Despite all the complaints, Gary returns to Sandy Hook every single year.
Every.
Single.
Year.
He walks the beaches.
Climbs dunes.
Watches the waves.
Points excitedly at dolphins.
Takes pictures of the skyline.
Eats seafood.
Laughs with friends.
Stays until sunset.
And around the end of the day, after a long pause while staring out toward the ocean, Gary quietly says:
“You know…this place ain’t bad.”
Then five minutes later:
“Still not Florida though.”
Because beneath all the froth and fury lies a truth Sandy Hook understands perfectly:
Some people express love through appreciation.
Gary expresses love through aggressive comparison.