Notes on Charleston: 99 Problems but a Beach Ain’t One

“Sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind but falling in love and not getting arrested.”

—Hunter S. Thompson

    After working seven days straight, I finally had a day off.  I woke up around 7:00AM with steak and eggs on my mind.  Feeling a bit lazy, I lounged around the apartment for another hour, drinking an energy drink, vaping, and writing before I hit the road.  I wanted to check out Sunrise Bistro on John’s Island for breakfast, but when I arrived, the parking lot was full and I didn’t feel like the wait.  I figured I’d just stop by the grocery store and cook breakfast at home.

    A healthy slice of cube steak and duck eggs hit the frying pan.  Toast jumped from the toaster.  I was just in time for brunch hour in the Holy City and poured a shot of Baileys into a cup of black Jamaican coffee.  Bougie on a budget.  Where I was headed, I needed to get into that grandiose, entitled mindset of the bourgeois class—Kiawah Island.  After breakfast I punched “Beachwalker Park” into the navi and made my way south down Main Road.  

    Too bad I didn’t actually listen to my navi.  Instead of turning right, I went straight and waited in line at this booth I assumed was the park entrance.  When I pulled up to the window, this cute girl in her late twenties asked “Where are you headed?”

    “The…the park.”  I stuttered.

    I felt out of place in my beater car with its torn and faded anarchist bumpersticker.  All the cars surrounding me were indicative of the upper end of middle-class.  The girl shot me this confused look and stared at me like I had three heads sprouting from atop my shoulders.

    “Um…Beachwalker Park.” I explained.

    “Oh. You just missed it.  You should have turned right.  Turn around here and make your first left.”

    A bit embarrassed, I gunned my car around the kiosk and did what my navi had wanted me to do all along.  The whole area was upscale and clean.  Bikers cruised down a walkway along the road and I crossed bridges that overlooked vast marshlands and saltwater creeks.  So this is how the other half lives, I thought to myself.  The road emptied out into the park and I walked down a long boardwalk over sand dunes until there it was, the Atlantic Ocean.

    Crowds gathered around the entrance beneath rented umbrellas as a helicopter flew overhead.  Kids played in the sand, old ladies power-walked along the edge of the beach, and couples played with their dogs.  I walked for a while until the crowds were but specks on the horizon and the endless stretch of surf and sand before me lay empty of these wretched bipedal creatures.  I could fish here, I thought.  Dawson said the whiting bite was usually good.  I strolled around for a bit and took in the beauty of it all.  The beach always leaves me with this feeling of freedom and peace, like gazing into the infinite at something greater than yourself, something wild and untamed.  Man has yet to conquer the sea.

    Back at home now, I’m trying to get some writing done while my roommates are at work.  I’m sipping mint juleps from a highball glass, eating cajun-spiced boiled peanuts, and just taking in the wonder of being back in South Carolina again.  I’ve missed this.  When I leave in three months, expect me to go kicking and screaming.