By Sarah Fertsch
Joyous vacationers line the beach and boardwalk, marking the beginning of summer. Seagulls cackle, the sun shines, and sand sticks to the wet bare feet of locals and tourists alike.
As a local from Egg Harbor Township, I spent most summers in high school working as a ride operator on the Ocean City boardwalk.
The poignant smell of freshly-fried funnel cake and a child’s laughter whip me back in time. Donning a polo and khakis, I’m ready to start my shift. High schoolers, pimpled, hairy, and tan, wait impatiently for their workday to begin.
Everyone is assigned a ride to supervise for the next six hours. “One word determines the fate your entire day,” my twin sister Holly whispers to me as we approach our manager. He broods over the flock of teenagers dangling the destiny of our day by his fingertips.
“You two will be breakers today,” he mumbles under his breath. After three years of working at the pier with my twin sister, the manager still can’t tell us apart.
We huff a sigh of relief. Breakers mean that we aren’t assigned one ride all day, but instead bounce ride to ride, giving the other operators a lunch break.
Once all the teens are assigned a ride and the park opens, the breakers gather to pick and choose which pieces of machinery they want to work for 30 minutes. “Top of flume?” asks Mr. Manager. It’s suddenly an auction and top-of-flume is the prized pig. Fighting, bargaining, and then begging are quick to follow.
“Kiddie Boats?” Mr. Manager asks. Dead Silence. These seasoned employees know that Kiddie Boats means soaking wet crying toddlers, parents complaining and older siblings who are too big to take a trip down memory lane. Kiddie Boats doubles as the main attraction of the park and the horror of the employees.
Holly chirps up. She loves kids and has worked that ride for years. Surely this half hour helping children couldn’t be that painful. I review my list of mediocre rides to visit and start my day on the Frog Hopper ride.
When I push through the flimsy iron gate, there are five kids flying on frog-shaped pods. The employee assigned to that ride relaxes when she sees me, and hustles to wrangle the kids so she can take her break. In less than a minute I’m alone – the safety of these shoobies rests in my hands.
Operating a ride is monotonous. I stand in front of what seems like a car engine from the 1950s with chipped green paint and a mess of wires sticking out the side. I check to see if the seatbelts are buckled, press the big red button, and wait for the day to end. The frogs leap in circles and toddlers squeal. Moms take pictures and gush over their brave boys and girls. Dads man the stroller. Grandma holds the cotton candy and kettle corn.
Deep in a trance, I’m awakened by a mother’s scream. The ride has ended, but the frog pods are still six feet off the ground. Toddlers look confused and parents crinkle their eyebrows. There’s no button to call the mechanic.
I look over at Holly working the kiddie boat ride across the park. She is soaking wet, mascara running, carrying a sobbing three-year-old off the ride. “Happy Birthday” plays over the loudspeaker in the distance.
I focus back on my own ride and try to get creative. Standing on my tiptoes, I reach as high as I can. “Unbuckle your seatbelt, sweetie!” I coo. “Let’s go see Mommy.”
“I have to go potty,” the boy answers. I stretch my arms out, but he hesitates. His mother is threatening to call the paramedics. I gently grab his hand and he falls.
My heart is racing when I catch him. The boy giggles as I set his feet on the ground because he knows my hands are now covered in urine.
The mechanics finally arrive and free the other children. The families get free ride passes and I wash my hands. Just like that, the ride operator is back from her break and moving on to the next ride.
I make my rounds on the rest of the rides. I sit and spin inside the Graviton Spaceship, dance with a 10-year-old girl on the Music Express, and yell “choo choo” on the monorail train ride. With a motor oil stain on my khakis and sweat on my brow, I finish my work day and meet my sister.
The sun is setting, the lifeguards pull their rowboats to the dunes, and tidal salty-air smells poignant. Untucking our shirts, Holly and I reenact our days. We find ourselves throwing our hands, snorting with laughter, and head up to the boardwalk for smoothies and gyros for dinner. The perfect end to an imperfect day.
Four years later, I’m finished with college and anxiously await the beginning of law school. I spend long summer days sitting in a Harrisburg office answering phones. It’s a different world, but I know I wouldn’t be here without my Ocean City rite of passage working as a ride operator on the boardwalk.
