Long ago, in Arthurian times, Avalon was a mist-shrouded island, a place of healing and magic where Arthur’s sword Excalibur was created and where the great king was taken to recover from the grave wounds he suffered at the Battle of Camlaan. It is as much a symbol of Arthurian mythology as Camelot or Merlin or Lancelot and all the other knights of the Round Table. There are even those who still believe Arthur never truly died, but will someday return in splendor—Britain’s eternal monarch, its “once and future king.”
Today, Avalon’s precise location is well known, although a bit more mundane. It’s on a barrier island just off Exit 13 of the Garden State Parkway. I know this because that’s where I am this morning, visiting friends who annually vacation on this seven-mile long island that stretches from Stone Harbor to the eponymous town of Avalon, New Jersey. I haven’t encountered Arthur yet, but I’m on the lookout.
My wife loves the beach. Any beach. She can sit for hours with her toes in the sand, chatting with her friends or family. I don’t how she does it. I run out of words in a matter of minutes, but am perfectly content to watch the waves and the human beach scene while keeping an eye out for someone—anyone!—vaguely regal.
This is the first time I’ve been to this little corner of the world, the “Jersey Shore.” We’re more Delaware Beach people. The two seasides are similar, but there are subtle differences: this Jersey beach seems wider, the bordering dunes higher, and the houses newer. In fact, every house here looks brand new, as though some precocious kid has been playing with an infinite set of Lego’s and decided to build an entire beach town over night. There are no shanties here, only palaces worthy of a once-and-future king.
Trust me: I’m not complaining. In fact, just the opposite. Yesterday, I had to run into town for some essential supplies I forgot to pack, and all the shops were open and there were parking spaces galore. That never happens in Rehoboth except on Christmas Day when I don’t need to buy a t-shirt.
Anyway, our specie’s summer obsession with the beach must have its roots not in legend, but in some atavistic craving having to do with our single-cell ancestors who emerged out the primordial muck eons ago. I am a confirmed Darwinian, but it still boggles my mind how some creature crawled out of the surf with legs and lungs, spawning all this wondrous diversity that is life as we know it today. Just think about it: how could a rhinoceros and a butterfly have a common ancestor unless Avalon was, and still is, such a magical place.
“Avalon” derives from a Welsh word that relates to fruit trees, specifically to apple trees. Hence, Arthur’s Avalon might once have been an island of apple trees. There is no concrete evidence of this, but it’s not a long leap from that etymology to the Garden of Eden, another fabulous location shrouded in legend and the mists of time. As far as I know, there were no snakes on Arthur’s Avalon and I doubt there are any on this bustling island, but you never know. For now, I’m content to sit on Avalon’s wide, sandy beach, watching and waiting for the return of our own once-and-future king.
Well, maybe not a king.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores. His newest novel, “The People Game,” hits the market in February, 2026. His website is musingjamie.net.
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