It’s the Coney Island of New England, the Navy Pier of the East Coast, the magnetic force that entices Canada’s worst and Maine’s finest to enjoy warmed frozen corn dogs and opaque ocean waters.
There is something wonderfully nostalgic, yet painfully counterfeit about Old Orchard Beach that keeps me coming back after all these years. On perhaps the first sunny Sunday in months last week, my boyfriend, Dave, and I (and apparently the entire state population) decided to spend a few hours at Maine’s most well-known beach.
Here’s what I thought:
Parking was as it seldom isn’t, a bitch. The $3 hourly lots were unsurprisingly full by noon, and the surrounding ones seemed to increase their rates a good ten bucks with each anxiety-ridden loop around the block. The first parking lot we pulled into conveniently listed no price. We entered the grassy plot of land, haphazardly jampacked with minivans and RAV4s.
I could smell the cars by looking at them. I imagined the floor mats covered in crumpled up fast food wrappers, the condensation dripping down a watery cup of neglected iced coffee in the cup holder, a forgotten packet of M&Ms, melting away on the dashboard which was probably littered with school flyers and sun-bleached stickers: the average American family vessel.
A barefoot bald man in a stained wife-beater and cargo shorts suddenly approached our open window. His fanny-pack overflowing with cash told me he was the parking attendant.
“Fifty for the day,” he said, like it was his job… I suppose it was after all.
“Can we pay hourly instead?” asked Dave.
“Nope,” he bluntly replied, without an ounce of uncertainty.
“Okay then we’re all set, can we just get out of he-“ before Dave could even finish his sentence, the parking mogul was already aggressively waving us in the direction of the exit. I assumed we weren’t the first, nor last, vehicle to change our minds based on the price.
After being flagged down by a few more parking people, one of which I swear to god was eight years old—which is not at all surprising given the context of OOB and their non-existent labor laws—we decided a farther walk was better than wasting money and opted to park in a free side street spot down the road.
The walk towards the pier offered a sneak peek of the people-watching to ensue. We passed families with tired mothers, loaded beach wagons in-tow; drunken fathers with empty pockets after spending the afternoon at the pub and handing theirchildren each a $20 bill to get lost and have fun. We passed sunburnt kids who must have refused to put on sunscreen hours ago and now complained about their pinkish shoulders chafing against their swimsuits; panting leashed dogs who weren’t given nearly enough water throughout the day.
I’m oddly loving this, I thought to myself, I love that I’m not these people right now.
Once we reached the main downtown area, we popped into the first store we could find. It was a custom T-shirt shop with some unnecessarily intense name, and I was immediately hurdled back to 2010. The neon jerseys, sweatshirts, and hats sat on every shelf, begging to be airbrushed with a girl’s name or stickered with a predictable vinyl phrase like “Life’s a Beach” or “Lifeguard off Duty.” I remember spending some of my very last dollars at shops like these with my friends in middle school. Back when the thought of not having matching “Thing 1,” “Thing 2,” and “Thing 3” hoodies felt like the worst-case scenario.
We continued to move about the store, picking up random shot glasses adorned with boobs and rifling through the cheap jewelry that read “Locally Maine-made!” despite the little golden oval on the bottom proving Chinese manufactured origin.
We left empty-handed and strolled through a few more shops selling the exact same merchandise as the last, before making our way to the star of the show: the beach!
If you haven’t been to OOB (although if you’re reading this, I’m assuming you have) here’s the lowdown: there’s the main “downtown” so to speak, which consists of four or five streets dotted with ancient hotels, tiki-themed beach bars, overpriced restaurants, and carbon copied storefronts. Then there’s the actual entrance to the beach which is a paved square housing more food vendors selling gourmet cuisine like the famed “Pier fries” and an assortment of fried candy bars. To the right of that is Palace Playland, a substantially sized arcade and assortment of about a dozen carnival rides including a Ferris wheel and roller coaster. The Pier, arguably more sought after than the beach, is a long standing dock with multiple 21+ bars, food stops, and touristy services like hair wraps, henna tattoos, and fortune telling.
Lastly, you have the actual beach, AKA the worst part of the whole experience.
Crammed like sardines, sun seekers of all ages flock to these sands to lay shoulder-to-shoulder with an overweight speedo-wearing Frenchman only to cool off from frying in the sun with a dip into the frigid and brazenly brown, Atlantic Ocean.
No hate, but once a lake gal, always a lake gal, and I do prefer swimming in water that I can actually see my feet in.
After taking in OOB’s panoramic view that I hadn’t witnessed in years, I realized that nothing had changed here. Everything from the menus to the patrons, to the game prizes, to the signage, to, let’s be honest, probably the screws keeping the amusement rides together, hadn’t shifted. I hadn’t missed a thing.
And I think that’s sort of beautiful, some stuff remaining constant that is. It’s not unlike your high school basketball court or the candy aisle at your local Hannaford or your neighbor’s fake Christmas tree that never seems to fade. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that some things don’t grow with you but can spark joy when you need them just the same.
Drawn in by the bright lights, digital dings, and laughter erupting from Palace Playland, Dave and I subconsciously floated towards the arcade. Although almost all of the original Skee-Ball lanes and claw machines from the 80s were intact, the addition of newer, high-tech games was a welcome surprise. My only gripe was the loss of coin-op, which seems to be a common theme amongst most arcades these days. Long gone are the days of quarters, tokens, and physical tickets. They’ve since been replaced by plastic cards and receipts, which in my opinion, lacks all the tangible glory.
Dave and I spent our arcade “credits” on a few rounds of Skee-Ball, Deal or No Deal, and of course, Dave’s claim to fame, the high striker “Test of Strength.”
Naturally, our $10-minimum investment in game credits won us a measly two airheads and miniature rubber duck.
After the arcade escapades, I felt the sudden urge for a massive, sugary, cold drink—a craving that could only be satiated by a lemonade the size of my head. Lemonade in hand, Dave and I took to strolling through the pier. Halfway down the wooden corridor was a live band, playing what I would describe as emo beach rock? The singer had a haircut that rivaled Avril Levine and her mini plaid skater skirt gave off Dolls Kill vibes.
At one point along the pier, the wall opens up to offer a birds-eye view of the beach. It reminded me of a movie cover. Vibrantly colored towels and umbrellas created a natural Tetris game on the sand while the quintessential Ferris wheel sat on the horizon, quietly overlooking the hundreds of ant people below.
The actual act of walking on the sand is near impossible at OOB without tossing someone’s bag of chips or accidentally stomping a sandcastle. And yet, the beachgoers never seem to mind, in fact they almost appear to thrive in such a claustrophobic seating arrangement. As if the sheer amount of people there justifies their decision to spend a day at the beach. Albeit uncomfortable, a beach walk on OOB is necessary given the observational content, the real people watching.
Similar to a high school cafeteria, there’s a certain categorizing of those who idle along the shore of OOB. You’ve got your classic Maine families of course, who quite literally keep the place financially afloat. These parties always seem to have an exhausted mother, a snoozing dad, two small children, one, a calm and picky eater who gets tired easily, and then a stubborn yet lively emotional one that mom is too tired to fight with over eating Oreos for lunch.
Next is the teenagers. More often than not, these are groups of girls on the beach. The boys are usually seeing who can score a beer first or ogling at the paraphernalia at a local adults-only shop. Tanning with a sticker on their hipbone, these girls rarely swim. A. Because they’re sole mission is to reach premium skin damage and B. To avoid washing out the copious amounts of hydrogen peroxide and lemon juice in their hair for that perfect summer blonde highlight which unbeknownst to them will fade to a harsh shade of brown come late fall. Believe me, been there.
A trip to OOB is incomplete without an interaction with the Frenchies and I hate to say it, but the Canadians do uphold a consistent stereotype as the most scantily-clad on the sand. I’m not sure where the confidence is derived from in order for some of those men to walk around in spandex the size of an ankle sock, but I’d love a dose.
Of course there are endless other archetypes that fall in different places on the grand OOB spectrum of customers, but I suggest a visit yourself to decipher the rest.
After contemplating hopping on a ride or two—which for reference is around $17 for two to go on one—I chose to put my money where my stomach is instead. Off a whim I bought some chicken tenders, which, in retrospect were pretty bad, but in the company of a carnival and a ravenous appetite, anything drowned in honey mustard tastes pretty alright.
Not long after, Dave and I agreed upon departure. We came, we saw, we won, lost, ate, drank, and most importantly, actually had a pretty good time.
As I left the beach, a sense of nostalgia and pity again washed over me. For myself, OOB is the epitome of summer Americana. It’s a Budweiser on the Fourth of July, it’s wet hair and a sunburnt nose, ice cream for dinner, riding in the back of a pickup, and drinking two too many frozen daiquiris. It’s corny mini golf and giving in to the simple pleasures of being a kid again. OOB is not the Cocacabana or the white sands of the Maldives and no one would ever fool you into thinking it was.
I love OOB for it’s shocking authenticity, brown water, mediocre fried food, insane parking and all.
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