The Carolina in My Mind
Part of a Series on Travel in Each of the 50 States
When a wave crashes against the shore, there is a single moment when it is completely still. It is as if the wave has gripped the beach with outstretched fingers and hangs there for a second, trying to hold on.
In that instant, I feel compelled to try and stop the inevitable. I put my feet in the ocean and brace myself for impact. When time continues its course, I feel the rush of the water slipping through my toes. I have not only failed to prevent nature, but soon I have trouble lifting my own feet.
Why do I rush in?
Do I see this is like trying to keep sand in the top of an hourglass?
The ocean in this story is the Atlantic Ocean, and the beach is Myrtle Beach. After my struggle with nature, I turned around. The few people outside had their faces obscured by umbrellas.
I walked along the boardwalk, passing empty benches and abandoned hot dog stands. I soon came upon a stony eyed sea turtle, staring through me. She was painted bright purple and loomed over me, larger than life. Behind her were two friends, one forest green and the other eggshell blue. If those three had any qualms about the weather, they didn’t say.
When I came to the great Ferris wheel I looked up. It was impossible to tell where the top began and the bottom ended. I kept expecting a tinted window to open and a face to emerge from the highest car. I looked down and found the wooden sign with the big, black letters. No tempest could obscure its message: CLOSED TODAY. I guess they were keeping the seats equally drenched.
I went back the way I came, although a road looks different in the other direction. My feet hit the ground at a steady rate, past the turtles and benches and deserted gift shops. Suddenly the whole scene washed over me at once, sped up and in reverse, leaving me right where I had started.
Instead of turning back towards the beach, I went into town for a cup of coffee. I prepared for the drive south, which would take me through coastal villages, retail hotspots, and many other touristy locales. I would visit both the Pineapple Fountain and a Waffle House. For now, I just sipped my coffee and enjoyed the pleasant sounds of drops hitting the glass.
It was just as the driver had told me that morning. The first such weekend in Myrtle Beach in months. To some this would be quite the disappointment, a relaxing Saturday ruined. Yet I welcome the rain.
For newcomers to this series, here is some context:
When I was seven, I convinced my father to drive from the California side of Lake Tahoe all the way to Reno, Nevada, for no other reason than for the thrill of visiting another state. This was the beginning of a calculated set of domestic adventures that spans almost twenty years.
At the time of this writing, I have visited every state except for Alaska and Hawaii. South Carolina was number 45.
According to my definition, visiting an airport does not count as visiting a state. Neither does merely driving through. One must have their feet on the ground on at least one occasion and complete at least one activity of personal significance.
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