Hammocks, Howling Winds, and the Absolute Necessity of Cheese
The shift from the professional hum of a Friday to the open air of a weekend getaway is a vital reclamation; it’s the moment you stop being a resource and start, once again, being a human being. On a recent Friday, after the work day finally surrendered, we packed our bags and broke camp for Myrtle Beach, seeking a brief reprieve from the demands of the work week.
Our journey took us through Pawleys Island, where we found a restaurant called Local tucked behind a hammock shop which is, in my opinion, an extraordinary place to find anything, let alone a culinary revelation. We shared buffalo mac & cheese bites that were genuinely spectacular. I opted for a whimsical take on chicken and waffles featuring chicken nuggets, while Lizzie enjoyed a French onion soup. The warmth of the staff and a shared round of wine and cider provided the perfect preamble to the rest of our drive.
We reached our condo around 9:00 PM. From the summit of the parking garage, I observed the sprawling neon glow of Myrtle Beach engage in its nightly struggle against the Atlantic, a buzzing, electric defiance that tries its hardest to pull your eyes away from the vast, natural majesty of the water and the sand. Navigating the building required a bit of patience, as a sign near the elevator warned of garage repairs and ongoing floor maintenance. When I finally reached room 2003, twenty stories above the sand, the world became entirely about the air. The wind didn’t just brush against the glass; it sang with a persistent, steady frequency that felt like the wind in our sails, propelling us into the weekend ahead. There is a specific, vertigo induced joy in being that high up, a feeling that you aren’t just looking at the world, but that you are, for a brief window of time, on top of it. We leaned into that vibrant energy, curling up to watch The Pitt on my MacBook, a small, glowing island of shared story set against the immense rhythm of the Atlantic.
The following morning offered a sliver of sunrise through the clouds. A brief, private moment I chose to witness without the mediation of a camera lens. After breakfast at a charming shop called Honey Bees, we discovered the streets were alive with the motivated souls of the Myrtle Beach Marathon. As a photographer, I couldn't resist the opportunity to capture a few frames for Humans of Charleston, finding something moving in the collective effort of so many people running toward a single finish line.
We spent the afternoon being tourists in the best possible way. We walked the mile to downtown, visiting Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, where we encountered a dinosaur foot that once traversed a very different version of the American landscape. We browsed airbrush t-shirt shops and stopped by The Bowery. Along the boardwalk, I convinced Lizzie to pose for more photos than she likely desired, though she is, as always, an unfathomably graceful subject.
The culinary climax of the trip was our first visit to The Melting Pot. While she is a wine enthusiast, and I prefer beer, we are in total agreement regarding the necessity of two things… cheese and dogs in one’s life. We committed to the full four-course experience. We dipped everything from bread and vegetables to duck and salmon, eventually surrendering to the glorious excess of melted chocolate.
We ended the weekend by meeting Joe Floyd for breakfast. Joe, who stepped into the role of a father figure after my own father passed away from cancer, listened as we regaled him with stories of our travels. He offered a bit of wisdom in the past that has stayed with me: sometimes, a small break from can lead to a breakthrough.
The world is a beautiful, sprawling mess of ancient starlight and boardwalk neon, and the best way to see it is with your best friend. On that twentieth floor, the wind howling, it was a reminder that even when you’re on top of the world you can still have the wind at your back.
