Student guest writer Lexy Hickey reflects on the lasting impact of Gillian’s Wonderland Pier, the childhood memories it shaped and the special place it will forever hold in her heart
By Lexy Hickey
Ever since I was 5 or 6, my family has vacationed at the Jersey Shore. Of all our traditions, visiting Gillian’s Wonderland Pier on the Ocean City Boardwalk was my favorite.
There was something magical about walking beneath its towering castle walls. The rides, the food and the excitement never grew old, even as my sister and I did. New attractions appeared over the years, including roller coasters and drop towers I was usually too frightened to try.
I assumed Wonderland would always be there. Then, suddenly, it wasn’t.
I remember the August evening my mother learned the park was closing. She made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
“Gillian’s is closing,” she told us.
I sat on the kitchen floor for what felt like forever. Wonderland was part of every September vacation. I couldn’t imagine Ocean City without it.
My mother explained that rising operating costs and difficulties dating to the COVID-19 pandemic had taken a toll. The owner had decided it was time to close.
I understood the reasons, but that didn’t make the news easier. We had photos of my sister and me on the carousel, Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl, taken year after year. My mother had visited as a child. I’d always imagined bringing my own children someday.
The park’s final day was Oct. 12, 2024. Fortunately, our family had already booked two weeks in Sea Isle City that September. We would have a chance to say goodbye.
We visited twice. On Sept. 14, our last opportunity before heading home, my mother, sister, two family friends and I planned to stay as long as possible.
My first choice was the Ferris wheel.
From the top, the Boardwalk stretched into the distance, Ocean City spread out below us and the Atlantic Ocean shimmered to the horizon. My mother and sister had never particularly liked the height, but this time they climbed aboard without complaint.
As of 2026, the wheel still stands, though it no longer carries riders. Seeing it on the skyline makes the loss a little easier.
After several rides, we explored Boardwalk shops, played miniature golf and stopped for pizza. We sat in a covered pavilion across from Wonderland, where I stared at the castle facade and tried to memorize every detail.
Colorful flags fluttered above the walls. Rotating blocks spelled out “WONDERLAND” near the entrance. A smiling purple dragon clung to one wall, while a princess in a green dress waved from a tower.
Those figures had fascinated me since childhood. I wondered whether I’d ever see them again.
One of the park’s smallest rides carried one of our family’s most meaningful traditions.
The indoor Fire Engines ride featured little trucks circling a track. Truck No. 8 bore the name Gavin, a boy who died at age 5 after a severe seizure. It was the only ride he had been able to enjoy on his own.
Every year, my sister and I posed for a picture with Gavin’s truck to send to his mother. When we grew too big to sit inside, we crouched beside it instead.
On our final visit, we took one last photo. Knowing the truck would go to Gavin’s family after the closing brought me close to tears. It reminded me that Wonderland’s importance extended far beyond amusement rides.
I had visited the park for years but had never stayed late enough to see it fully illuminated. That night, the Ferris wheel glowed in rainbow colors, its cars outlined in lights. The scene was breathtaking.
While we waited in line for another ride, I noticed what looked like sparks falling from the sky. A skydiver had jumped from a plane above the pier with pyrotechnics attached to his hands and feet. I’d never seen anything like it.
Yet my strongest memory of that evening came from a much quieter ride.
The carousel was my mother’s favorite when she was young, and it became one of mine. She still keeps a small ring on her keychain that her father caught from the carousel’s old ring dispenser. Rather than turn it in for a free ride, he gave it to her.
After waiting about half an hour, we finally climbed aboard.
As the carousel turned, I recorded the park on my phone. Some rides had already been covered for the night, and a few doors were closed. I wanted to capture the familiar music drifting through the pier, knowing I might never hear it there again.
I still play that recording when I’m overwhelmed or feeling nostalgic. For a few moments, it takes me back to that September night.
Gillian’s Wonderland Pier was never just a collection of rides. It was a place where generations of families made memories together. For mine, it held years of laughter, photographs and ordinary moments that became extraordinary simply because we shared them.
I have pictures and videos of my mother, sister, grandparents and me enjoying the park through the years. They show how much we changed, while Wonderland seemed to remain reassuringly familiar.
I wish I could walk beneath those castle walls again. I wish future generations could discover the same joy we did. But I am grateful we had one last evening to appreciate what the park meant to us.
Someday, the castle walls may disappear and the Ferris wheel may no longer define that stretch of Ocean City’s skyline. The rides may be gone, but the memories are ours to keep.
For me, Wonderland will always be magical.
