There are parts of the Jersey Shore that, in high summer, are almost indistinguishable from California or Florida or some other sun-washed paradise. The difference here is that summer dies each year. It is briefer, and thus more precious, and Labor Day is the saddest day of all. That’s why we grasp the Shore so hard, why we hang on to it so fiercely. How much can we squeeze from this wave, from this romance, from this fishing trip, from this bar band, from this sun? How much more before it all chills and fades and we have to wait nine more months to try again?

My own town, Freehold, N.J., took some big hits in the storm — trees crushing houses, power dead and no sign of when it might return. But I’ve found my attention turning more toward the wildly, almost eccentrically, diverse string of towns along the Shore, where so many other New Jerseyans, from the poorest to the richest, have staked their own claims, however tenuous. I’ve been thinking about how unnaturally warm the water was this summer, and wondering whether the storm was the price we paid for that, and then wondering, too, how much of what I remember, what I love, will be there next summer.

Habits die hard, and it’s painful to imagine not going back to Manasquan next summer, no matter how much of it may be gone. It’s not the closest beach to my hometown, but it’s the one where everyone has always gone — a migratory pattern rooted deep in history, by a weekend excursion train along a potato-train line that hasn’t run in almost a century. No other town, no other beach within Manasquan even, would feel right.

My sister loved Manasquan so much that she moved there when she got married and is raising her own family there. She lives far enough from the beach that her home survived Hurricane Sandy unscathed. Her friends, as well as a couple of our cousins who live closer, were not so lucky. Exactly how unlucky, they don’t know yet. The beachfront section of town is still sealed shut, guarded by the police, nobody — not even homeowners — allowed in yet.