My grandparents rented the same tiny room near Point Pleasant every summer for eleven years.
It had one fan, two beds, and a little table where my grandmother cut tomatoes with a pocketknife. They were not vacation people in the fancy sense. Grandpa worked at a machine shop in Newark, and those four days at the shore were what he saved for.
He walked the boardwalk slowly, bought one bag of saltwater taffy, and acted like the ocean belonged to us for the weekend.
That is the New Jersey I remember best.