loading . . . 7-Mile Island Beach at Avalon There’s something quietly rebellious about returning to the exact same spot year after year. In a world that prizes novelty and discovery, that celebrates the photograph taken in a place no one else has documented, we chose repetition. Every August since 2020, mid-week, Bhavna and I pack the car and drive south to a particular stretch of 7-Mile Island Beach near Avalon Community Hall in Cape May County. Same location. Same month. Same quiet insistence that this particular slice of New Jersey coastline matters.
Avalon Fishing Pier, 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec
XF27mmF2.8 R WR · 27 mm · f/7.1
When the pandemic first locked the doors in 2020, we managed to get to Seven-Mile Island before New Jersey shut the beaches down. We needed somewhere to go that wasn’t inside, and this stretch of coast became our answer—not because it was exotic or undiscovered, but because it was _there_ , and we could sit in the sand and breathe air that wasn’t filtered through the walls of our house. The ritual began as necessity.
Laughing Gull at 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0
Then the beaches closed. We didn’t return until 2024. In the years between—2021, 2022, 2023—we did not go down the shore except for a two-night stay at an AirBnB on a winery in West Cape May in 2023. But something about that first visit to Avalon stayed with us. When we finally came back in 2024, it felt like completing something that had been interrupted.
Agnler on Avalon Fishing Pier, 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 246.6 mm · f/8.0
Now, another year later, it’s something else entirely.
We arrive around ten in the morning. We settle into beach chairs. The first hour or so we just sit. Not swimming. Not pursuing some ambitious itinerary of activities. We people watch. We listen to the actual sound of the ocean rather than the recording of it playing on someone’s phone. The sanderlings work the shoreline in their mechanical, efficient way, and I photograph them from my chair—dozens of shots of the same small birds doing the same small tasks. Gulls circle overhead, arguing about nothing in particular.
7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1600 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 150 mm · f/5.6
There’s a specific kind of attention that comes from seeing the same place repeatedly. You stop looking for the remarkable and start noticing what persists. Year to year, the beach chairs are positioned differently. The families arrive in different configurations. The light at 10 AM hits the water at a slightly different angle depending on where the clouds settle. But the sanderlings are always there, always hunting. The gulls are always quarrelling. The pier, when we walk towards it, is always doing its slow work of weathering.
Dead Horseshoe crab, 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 320 · 1/1600 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0
Every hour or so we take a walk. Thirty minutes. Holding hands. The whole time we talk. Not about anything momentous usually. Just the loose, meandering conversation that happens when you’ve been married long enough that silence doesn’t feel empty. We notice things: the way the light hits the water differently depending on the clouds, which shops have closed since last year, whether the sanderlings seem hungrier or more relaxed. We pass the weathered fence posts where someone’s beach hat sits, abandoned or deliberately left behind.
7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1600 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 238 mm · f/6.4
We see bicycles parked against the dunes. We watch the rescue equipment stationed along the shore—evidence of care, of someone’s job being to keep watch. We walk beneath the fishing pier, listening to the anglers above casting their lines, and we navigate around the growing crowds as the day advances—families with their coolers and beach carts, clusters of beachgoers setting up their umbrella camps, children running from the water.
7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 320 · 1/1600 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 150 mm · f/5.6
We return to the chairs. More watching. More listening. The beach cart rolls past with its burden of family gear. Someone’s kite catches the wind and holds. A child builds something elaborate in the sand and then, without ceremony, walks away from it.
The thing about rituals is that they create permission. Permission to do nothing without guilt. Permission to sit for hours and call it a day well spent. Permission to repeat yourself.
Obscura Brewing, Cape May Court House, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1600 · 1/500 sec
XF27mmF2.8 R WR · 27 mm · f/2.8
This past August, we planned to break the pattern slightly. Just inland from the beach sits Cape May Court House, an unincorporated community with real history behind its name. Back in 1764, Daniel Hand donated an acre of his own property so the Cape May County courthouse and jail could be built there. Before that, court had met in private homes and churches. The name stuck, and so did the place—now a small neighbourhood on the peninsula with its own character, a few miles from where we’d been sitting in the sand.
Obscura Brewing, Cape May Court House, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 5000 · 1/500 sec
XF27mmF2.8 R WR · 27 mm · f/2.8
In the community of Cape May Court House there’s a newer brewery called Obscura Brewing, which had just opened its doors this spring. We’d thought we’d grab lunch from Julio’s Mexican Street Food, which sits directly across Main Street, and eat it whilst doing a taster flight. It was a reasonable plan. It also fell apart immediately when we arrived to find Julio’s closed due to a staffing shortage. Hungry and slightly deflated, we grabbed Domino’s pizza instead and ate it at Obscura anyway, surrounded by their beer menu and the polite discomfort of people eating chain-store pizza in a craft brewery.
Walking the boardwalk at 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 250 · 1/1000 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 150 mm · f/5.6
It was still good. The beer was interesting. The plaza was pleasant. But it wasn’t what we’d imagined, and there was something oddly fitting about that—about the small disruptions that arrive even within the confines of ritual. We adapted. We returned to the beach. We sat. We watched. We walked and talked.
By evening we’d drive home, but not before stopping in Atlantic City for a six-pack or two from The Seed Beer Project, another small pilgrimage to somewhere we’d learned mattered to us.
Walking the boardwalk at 7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 150 mm · f/8.0
Four years passed between our first visit in 2020 and our return in 2024. You’d think it would feel stale coming back in 2025. Instead, it feels like arriving home. The details change—different birds, different crowds, different light. The structure stays the same. And within that structure, everything feels possible: rest, attention, presence, the sort of boredom that isn’t empty but full.
7-Mile Island Beach, Avalon, Cape May County · Wednesday 27 August 2025
FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec
XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 150 mm · f/5.6
The pandemic forced us to notice what we actually wanted. Not exotic destinations or Instagram moments. Just the ability to sit beside someone you love and watch the day unfold without urgency. To photograph the same bird species repeatedly and find something new each time. To take the same walk and discover which businesses survived another year. To sit in silence that isn’t lonely because it’s shared.
Each year we may return to prove that we still can, that we still want to, that some things are worth doing more than once.
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