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For all the gripes I’ve had about South Carolina over the years (too flat, too hot, too boring, to start), “the beach” has never been one of them. Growing up in the Palmetto State, going on vacation to the beach was just something you did. We didn’t have our own beach house, but we had friends who did, and that’s why we got to go for a week every summer to someone’s little slice of heaven perched on a swath of sand along the South Carolina coast.
There were a few we visited more than others, and some only once, and we had favorites. For all the differences (are you seeking a commercialized strip full of board shops and mini golf? Or do you want a quiet respite away from it all?), we pretty much loved every beach we went to.
Myrtle. Folly. Pawleys Island. Edisto. Garden City. Litchfield. Hilton Head. Isle of Palms. Murrells Inlet. Fripp Island. Seabrook Island. These are all beaches and coastal towns I’ve spent days and days at, some again and again. Most of them with family, then youth group, then in college with friends. And back to family again.
The beach in summer was paradise, if you didn’t mind having sandy toes all the time. We’d wake up early to get to the water, go boogie boarding or body surfing with my dad, wear ourselves out, come back for turkey sandwiches and watermelon, wait impatiently while my dad took a nap (I get it now), then go back in the afternoon for hours more of the same. Sometimes sandcastles were built, sometimes balls were thrown on the sand, but we were mostly in the water. Evenings would be spaghetti and board games at the house or out for popcorn shrimp and hushpuppies at Lee’s Inlet Kitchen and then to the Garden City arcade or mini golf.
We’d fall asleep, sand in the sheets, feeling gently pushed and shoved by the waves, and then wake up the next day and do it all over again. Definitely paradise.
We went in the summertime, always, but one time we stayed at Carmen’s house in Folly Beach in the winter. The house was incredible—it even had an elevator—and was right on the beachfront (first row, second row—these things all matter in a beach house). I loved the seashell pink decor and imagined that we were at a fancy hotel. (1990s fancy, of course).
It was December, but I still walked onto the sand barefoot, wanting to stick my toes into the Atlantic, certainly not the temperature of bathwater like it usually was. There was lots of sea foam washing up and clinging to the sand, and I’d never noticed it before, and for the first time I remembered Hans Christian Andersen’s story, in which a little mermaid is given a terrible choice and throws herself back into the ocean, her body becoming the foam that floats on the sea.
Another time, I rode down to Charleston with my mom in early October. It was 1989, I was 10 years old, and Hurricane Hugo, South Carolina’s worst hurricane, had swept through the lowcountry just a few weeks before. Everything was a mess. Familiar scenery had turned unfamiliar, with downed trees and wrecked boats, houses in places that they shouldn’t be/weren’t before. I remember one street with a large pile of detritus blocking a driveway, and a gleaming white toilet sitting on top.
My mom told me that my favorite seafood restaurant had been swept away. (It was never rebuilt). It was the first time that something I thought would always exist simply didn’t anymore.
I used my camera to take a whole roll of film of Hugo’s devastation. (This was one of the first times I was trying to be “artistic” with photography). Something happened to the film—likely it got exposed, because I was ten and didn’t know how to handle a camera—and those photos couldn't be developed. They had been taken into the light, but as a comforting consolation, for Christmas that year my parents got me a coffee table book on Hugo’s devastation. It wasn’t the same, but I was glad to have it.
So I don’t have those pictures, but here are some others of my visits to the beach over the early years.
Thanks to Heyward, Number One Bryan Adams Fan*, for introducing me to Bryan Adams, who became my first favorite artist! Ah, to be twelve and learn about romance through lyrics like “You taught me to fly like a bird/You made love to me/Like it oughta be” and “We got the bases loaded/Home run, power play/Tonight’s the night we’re goin’ all the way”. Those innocent days at the beach really were the days…
To be continued!
*this is probably not true but who’s to say?
Reflection Questions:
Where were the vacations you took as a child? What made them special?
Were you a car trip family, a plane trip family, or a staycation family? Looking back, do you think these vacations reflected your family’s financial status?
Where’s your beach (or mountain, or lake, etc.)? What is its name and why is it meaningful to you?
The coast of South Carolina is home to many tribes and nations, including the Chicora, Pee Dee, Sewee, Kusso, Waccamaw, Winyah, and Catawba.
All photos by me or family members.
So many memories! My family never made it to the beach until I was about 12 or 13, however we went back pretty much every summer after that. We mostly spent time at North Myrtle Beach (hey... we were from Ohio), yet I also have memories of Atlantic Beach (NC) and Charleston.
When I began to date (later marry) a Charleston girl, I discovered the joy of Folly Beach and IOP. Now I live here and go to IOP all the time. Through her, I discovered the joy of boiled peanuts and the delight of chilled cherries on the beach.
Thanks for stirring up memories of family vacations. Yes. Sandy feet, campfires, nighttime giggling in the tent trailer that accommodated all six, dad pumping the “white gas” to light the camp stove in the morning, mom driving a nine passenger station wagon and pulling that tent trailer. The Adirondacks, Williamsburg, VA, Hershey, PA, Amish country……