Ocean Drive - I Hope you Know Such a Place

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Beaches are like the palettes on which life’s stories are sketched.  Each day, a new experience is carved into the sand, and when its course runs, the tide rises to wash the sketch away and leave the palette clean once again.

When I was young, family rituals in South Carolina always included a beach vacation.  Many in the upstate sojourned to Ocean Drive Beach, a popular spot just shy of the North Carolina border at the far north end of what has become the Greater Myrtle Beach Grand Strand.  Colloquially called “OD,” the area was famous for glistening wide beaches at low tide.  It also boasted a Pavilion with an old fashioned arcade, a merry-go-round, and a Ferris wheel that at its apex gave you the most spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean – especially on a moonlit night when you were stuck on top.  Some say that the genre of Beach Music originated at “The Pad,” a rustic beer joint next to the Pavilion.  There’s little doubt that the “Shag” (now the state dance of South Carolina for which your Grandad Captain actually voted when he served in the SC House of Representatives – but that’s another story) came into its own at this iconic place.

We rented the same house at OD every time, one named Albejose which I assume was an acronym for someone named Albert and possibly his wife, Josephine, or maybe a brother Joseph.  Folklore rumored that Albejose once stood on the beachfront, but by the time we used her, the fury of Hurricane Hazel in 1954 had moved her lock, stock and barrel to the third row where she looked out over empty lots with unfettered access to the beach and ocean.

Our first visit to Albejose came in August of 1956, almost two years to the day of your great uncle Gene’s birthday.   I was eight and great uncle Bryant, ten.  The drive from Greenville to the beach took almost the whole day since there were no Interstate highways and very few four-lane roads.  We had no air conditioning, so all the windows were rolled down.   The time also predated seatbelt laws, and we passed Gene around in the car like a baby doll trying to keep him occupied.  Somehow, it didn’t matter.  The adrenaline from excitement flowed, keeping us from overheat, crankiness and exhaustion.

Once we arrive at the old draw bridge that crossed the Little River just outside of Conway, SC, we knew we were close to our much anticipated destination. Great granddaddy Schaefer always proffered a bet – Would there be a shrimp boat coming through the bridge or not?  Even though we were ready to get there, the clanging of the bell and lowering of the guard arms on the bridge always brought squeals from both the winners and losers of the bet.

By late afternoon, we pulled into Albejose’s oyster shell driveway.  The grey asbestos-sided house stood on stilts as was common after Hazel in an attempt to keep the main body of the house safe from any future storm surges.   This provided a convenient place for parking the car and storage rooms which housed folding chairs, umbrellas, crab nets, and other beach paraphernalia.  White wooden stairs angled up to the main door with a huge wooden boat wheel attached to the front of the banisters announcing the house’s moniker.  A showerhead, old and corroded from the salt air, perched in the crook of the stairs.

We literally burst out of the car, glad to be there, glad to be free from its confines.  Every square inch held something and it took a while to haul the suitcases, sheets, towels, toys and Gene’s folding playpen up the stairs.

I remember the interior of the house as if it were yesterday.  Not big or pretentious like some of the mansions on the coast now, Albejose broadcast a purpose of warmth, relaxation and fun.  Every wall was pine paneled with sturdy hardwood floors designed to withstand the wear and tear of beach-goers.  The living and dining rooms traversed the entire front of the house.  A huge circular Oak table with an enormous Lazy Susan dominated the dining area. 

The kitchen housed a hodge podge of tables and cabinets inserted among the appliances.  They appeared to be random, but each had a special purpose revealed over time as crabs were cleaned or shrimp peeled or fished scaled.  Every known size of pot and pan either hung from the wall or nestled in its assigned place. 

There were three bedrooms along the hall opposite the kitchen.  Bunk beds lined an enclosed porch on the back of the house off of the kitchen as well.  Great granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary slept in the back bedroom because it had a window fan.  Bryant and I always brought a friend so we each took one of the other bedrooms and hoped for a sea breeze to blow air through the house.  Poor Gene – as he grew older, he had to sleep in the bunk beds on the porch.  No amount of sea or breeze could get any coolness to him. 

I’m telling you all of this to set the stage for some beach stories.  Hopefully, over the upcoming years, we’ll have adventures of our own to add and I can’t wait.