Myrtle Beach, North Carolina 

I like to think that people who don’t enjoy the beach just haven’t had an experience worth remembering. 
Or they’re very pale. 

I’ve never understood the words “I don’t like the beach,” or “I’m not a beach person.” Don’t get me wrong I may live and breath the beach atmosphere but I do understand the struggles one might encounter if they’re scorching in 104° weather or burnt to a red crisp. 

But personally I’ve never had the problem. 

I love the freedom the beach brings, those butterflies in my stomach when my feet leave the deck and sink into the whitest, thickest sand. My skin nearly fried by the time I’ve sprinted across the beach until the fire under my feet has been cooled with the soft, wet sand closest to the water. 

I love the ocean the beach has, untamed and unpredictable, similar to myself, as it works up giant waves crashing into people. Knocking me over off my feet that barely scrape the oceans most shallow part, head engulfed in the salty clear water as I squirm up for air. A smile creasing my tanned face and fingertips aching to be kissed again by the waves. 

I love the cool breeze the beach brings, relaxing me back into my sun decked chair while humming along to the string of chords played by the live band. The salty puffs of air grazing my tangled mess of hair and dampening my saline lips. 

Myrtle Beach is located in South Carolina, and anyone who goes always comes back. The 60 mile string of beach drawing in all walks of life is a family tradition. 

We used to live in North Carolina only an hour from this beach. Going nearly every weekend during our summers, my parents and I could stay for days on end. 

Dad and I would wake up before the sun and hunt for seashells. With the beach vacant, my 5 year old self would search for ones that were odd balls, cracked in skilled places or darker shades of purple and sun kissed orange. Dad would bring my bucket, we would fill it up to the top with our favorite seashells and bring them back up to our room; I gazed at those things like they were fallen stars. 

He swears getting up that early killed him, made him tired throughout the day because I wasn’t an easily occupied child at the beach. But he would get up at 4:30am everyday of his life just to see my hazel eyes light up like they did when my fingers touched the morning sand. 

Eventually we stopped coming, dad got a transfer to Texas and our weekend trips turned into one week out of the summer. I longed for it when I was little, and I still do; Myrtle Beach was dad’s and I’s place. 

Despite whatever financial state we were in, which happened to be always be irregular around summer time, he always took us at least once a year. 

It’s been two years since I’ve gone. Mom ruled it out as soon as our hotel service began to lack, but I didn’t think it was big enough for her to give up our beach. 

The last time we went I had a feeling it’d be the last. We had taken our family friends to share the glorious beach with and of course they loved it. 

But I stood at the edge of that ocean, peacefully allowing its calm waves to flush across my toes. I sunk them deep within the quicksand, eyes set out across the water wondering how far it reached and if the waves were more aggressive where the water got darker. I craved to be with it, I craved to be apart of the beach and everything it stood for, my happy place. 

With summer here and beach trips nearing, I thought I’d write about my favorite beach. And while many things have separated me from it, deprived me of the sandy smile once a year, I stand with my Beach because I know it’s the memories and people that make Myrtle Beach my home. 

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