Summer on the Jersey Shore, After the Storm Piotr Redlinski for The New York Times Beachgoers are back in Seaside Heights, even as rebuilding efforts continue in the area. Seaside Heights historically embodied both the natural beach-encrusted splendors and the boozy, boardwalk MTV excesses of the Jersey Shore. That status was only enhanced after pictures of its half-submerged roller coaster, long a destination for families in search of fun, became a post-Hurricane Sandy metaphor in news reports for nature's triumph over what man had wrought. But on the beach under a brutal mid-July sun, all seemed as it once was. Teenagers frolicked in the waves like ponies, tossing their manes in the surf, while older couples contented themselves under umbrellas against the sun, and children built castles just out of reach of the waves. Then a small plane chugged overhead with a flying billboard that often touts the mysterious virtues of the Boardwalk hurricane drinks, but its message instead was a reminder that an actual one had perforated this place. "Raise your house in 60 days," it promised. The idea of resurrection, of rising up and restoring, is everywhere on the Jersey Shore, but then so are signs that it will take a while: While every public boardwalk on the Jersey Shore has opened, some businesses in commercial districts are shuttered, and nearby housing will take many more months and perhaps years to be rebuilt. In public statements, Gov. Chris Christie has suggested that 80 percent of the shore is back to what it once was, a generous estimate from the state's biggest booster that is hard to reconcile with some of the more devastated areas. Still, when the sun beats down hard on the asphalt of the city and the Garden State beckons, you can be sure that the shore is not just open for business, but is also a remarkable place to visit post-Sandy. As an immigrant to New Jersey, I take pride in the shore's rebuttal to jokes about the quality of life here, and four recent days on the beach did nothing to change my mind. The shore, with its necklace of jewels - some bawdy, some refined - still sparkles even though there are missing or damaged pieces. Governor Christie has said Sandy "messed with the wrong people," and given the manifest resilience, it's hard to argue with his Jersey-pride bromide. People don't want the Jersey Shore to be rebuilt better than ever: they mostly want it be the same as it ever was. Nostalgia is triggered in the nose, quickly followed by taste, and the post-Sandy Jersey Shore does not disappoint. From the first whiff of a funnel cake at Point Pleasant, memories come rushing back and the stomach begins to growl for the pizza at Vic's in Bradley Beach, the corned beef hash at Frank's in Asbury Park, and the burgers at Woodies on Long Beach Island. In the same way an army fights on its stomach, this place makes sure visitors find the food that they grew up loving. More so than the beseeching bumper stickers and hats about "Restore the Shore" and "Stronger Than the Storm," those smells suggest that not only will the shore be back, but in many places it already is. After days of reporting on the shore, I gave in to the heat and the remarkable beaches and plopped down on the sand in Surf City on Long Beach Island. There was trouble in paradise - the sand flies got the memo about Jersey being back and feasted on my ankles until I draped a towel in self-defense. But then as I lay back and closed my eyes, nature's metronome, a surf that came and went in a gorgeous rhythm that began millions of years ago, took over. I heard a distant rumbling and realized that an offshore rig was pumping sand onto the beach just down from where I was. That chug of renewal, of man pushing back on what nature had done, came to sound comforting as well. The shore was both back and not, damaged and renewed. It all depended on where you put your towel down. Asbury Park, Ocean Grove and Belmar look not so much remade as remarkably untouched. But Ortley Beach, Lavallette and Sea Bright still have deep, open wounds. After sitting in the water in Seaside Heights as an elegiac reminder of what happened on Oct. 29, the Jet Star roller coaster - a former giant amusement tossed like a broken toy - was demolished and pulled out in May. The crane came in by barge, and, like so many miniature ones in the arcades on the Boardwalk, picked at it bit by bit until it was gone. DAVID CARR writes the Media Equation column and is a culture reporter for The New York Times.