would pedal the length of it on my bicycle, over and over. Many of the streets weren’t paved at the time, and I remember the week when the big trucks rolled up and laid a sheet of asphalt over what had been a sandy, pitted road in front of our small house on Juni- per Drive. Wooded, undeveloped lots were all we could see in two directions. My brothers nailed a basketball hoop to a pine tree. We’d hear squirrels chatter and the hoots of owls at night. I learned which nearby houses were summertime “guard houses” where college-aged boys would live together and work as lifeguards. I didn’t trouble myself with their rowdy parties, but in high school (Socastee High held its homecoming pa- rade each year on Surfside Drive)I learned about love in Surfside Beach, with lovesick tears, and kisses on dark beaches where the only light is a silver line across the water, straight from the moon.
For teenagers, it was relatively easy to get a sum-
mer job. Friends washed dishes, cooked on the line or waited tables at seafood houses. My brothers worked at the Plitt movie theatre in Surfside and could wrangle discount tickets and buckets of popcorn for their little sister. My own summers were spent with a different job every year or two—scooping ice cream at Painter’s Homemade; folding T-shirts and arranging bikinis at O.D. Surf Shops; and registering drivers for “licenses” at the Myrtle Beach Grand Prix. And, of course, we had the hot and hazy days at the ocean and Water World.
My friends and I couldn’t get enough of the beach or
the sun. Usually we kept close to the pier and the ar- cade there, with its jukebox that played “Tainted Love” on a too-frequent rotation. Connected to the arcade was the low, concrete block wall where the surfers would gather to check the waves. Some afternoons, I’d go with a group of friends to the Holiday Inn Surf- side’s pool, where Mick Mako and the Party Sharks of- ten played—Mick with leopard skin pants and spiky Rod Stewart hair. One day I borrowed a boogie board
and gashed the arch of my foot on something sharp underwater. I remember stepping back on shore and seeing blood on the sand. A lifeguard scooped me up and carried me past the sunburned crowd to an am- bulance. I ended up hobbling up to Water World the next day on crutches. I’d gotton several stitches and instructions from the doctor not to get my foot wet for a while. For most of a summertime month, I was stuck with my foot propped up behind the ticket window, while I dreamt of swimming. I couldn’t wait to dive back into saltwater.
Eventually, I’d get a degree in Journalism at USC and start writing for The Sun News and then for other newspapers and magazines. By 1991, I moved down the coast to Charleston. Last Christmas, my parents— who still live in Surfside—showed a video that my brothers made in 1989 of an antique car show my fa- ther had organized as part of the 25th anniversary of Surfside Beach. The event drew a small crowd, and family and friends were there. Jugglers and clowns performed in front of the old IGA Supermarket. A five- man band in white suits played beach music in front of the Village Café. As I watched the video’s pre-Hur- ricane Hugo scenes of Surfside Drive, I thought more about those 1980s days spent around old beach hous- es and the sound of waves. We had no Facebook or smartphones to interrupt us. Arguments, accidents and other sadness and stress definitely took place. But whatever happened, we could always walk or pedal past the park and the fat oak trees and out onto the beach. We could watch the water, breathe and get centered again. A person can still do that. I do that. The last time I was at my parent’s house I stepped into the yard around midnight and heard an owl call- ing through the trees.
The old waterslide is gone. Two miles long and a half-mile wide doesn’t sound like much. But in my life, Surfside Beach has not been small at all.
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