I TOOK it as a good omen when I pulled my bathing suit out of winter storage last week and found a washed $5 bill in its pocket. That's about a dime for each summer my family and I have traveled to the beach, as a unit, in what amounts to a very cozy, if unvaried, vacation.

These vacations began the summer of 1953, when I, the oldest son, was 3, and continues this year, almost 50 seasons later.

Our version of a family vacation imposes a set of rigid requirements. We observe the rituals pretty much as we did in 1953 - a place on the ocean, most meals at home and lights out early. The more things seem just as they did all those spring and summer days ago, the better. In this case, we're not looking for variety, new destinations or challenging situations.

I like this same horizon, the one off the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk, the vista that looks out over the Atlantic and mouth of the Delaware Bay toward Cape May, N.J., and its spindly white lighthouse. At night, that lamp blinks about every 17 seconds and is clearly visible across those 18 miles of water. When I was 6 years old, my grandfather taught me to tell time on his pocket watch using that flashing beacon.

Thanks to the nice cottage my father continues to rent, I can stand on its front deck, a little elevated over a sand dune. On a clear day, it's easy to see the New Jersey coast and some of its landmarks. There's the lighthouse, of course, and also an old convent with a maroon roof. It's harder to make out individual buildings in the town of Cape May (the old Hotel Admiral was easy to spot, but it's been razed), but there are still some water tanks and transmission towers.

We all enjoy watching the parade of maritime traffic passing Cape Henlopen (just up the beach from Rehoboth) and Cape May. Watching these freighters and oilers requires a good set of eyes; this year, mine frankly gave out. At 52, my distance vision fizzled, and I got glasses. These specs are wonderful; maybe I'll see Wildwood and Stone Harbor, N.J.

With any luck, I'll spot the jackpot of all ship watching, a cruise ship heading out of Philadelphia one clear night. Large passenger ships are rare in these parts; at night, their decks are all lighted up, just like in the movies. I think of the old Chesapeake Bay steamer, City of Norfolk, as she made her way out of Baltimore in the 1950s, another very pleasant maritime vision. These Old Bay Line ships were not huge, but, at dusk, with their deck lights on, they made some fine observing.

This year, we'll have large numbers under the ocean cottage roof. I don't count; the dining room table is large, and I don't do the cooking. But if the children are going wild (the house has a spiral staircase, an invitation to trouble) I know how to divert their attention. All of a sudden, I spot an incredible freighter on the horizon. I produce a pair of binoculars and draw them outside, on the deck. Then we search for maritime traffic, who knows, maybe a submarine, for as long as it takes for the house to quiet down.