The beach stretches wide and flat along Cape May's southern tip, where Delaware Bay collides with the Atlantic in a churn of currents that keeps the water brisk even in August. You'll spread your towel among multigenerational clans who've staked the same patch of sand for decades, their coolers packed with hoagies from the Washington Street Market, their umbrellas stabbed into the beige grit at precise ten o'clock angles. Lifeguard stands painted white and green punctuate the strand every few hundred feet, whistles shrieking whenever a bodysurfer drifts past the flags.
“The nation's oldest seaside resort still sells beach tags the old-fashioned way—attendants walking the sand, cash or check accepted.”
Credit: FlickrSea Isle City, NJ
The promenade hums with beach cruisers and strollers, joggers dodging around couples licking Kohr's soft-serve cones. Cape May demands beach tags from Memorial Day through Labor Day—you'll buy yours at kiosks or from roving attendants who check credentials with friendly persistence. The tags fund the daily grooming that keeps this beach immaculate, free of the litter and seaweed that plague wilder Jersey shores.
By late afternoon, the crowd thins and shadows from the Hotel Macomber and Congress Hall stripe the sand. Sandpipers work the tide line in frantic bursts. You'll shake out your towel, sand cascading in gold streams, and join the procession back toward those painted Victorian porches where rocking chairs wait, still warm from yesterday's sun.
