Pirates on the Waccamaw
I love Charleston. I love the smell of pluff mud and the way the marsh goes gold right before dark and how the city somehow holds both history and traffic in the same narrow streets. I wouldn’t trade it. But there’s a different kind of good in going back to the place where your story first figured out how to be yours. Conway was dressed for Halloween, and it felt like the town had decided, unanimously, to be fun.
They had skeletons in windows, werewolves in yards, big goofy props all over downtown. It wasn’t just a couple of shops trying to be festive; it felt like civic participation. Like somebody said, “What if we made October for the kids?” and everyone said, “Yeah, why not?” That kind of small-town agreement is underrated.
We were there for the pirate ship ride on the river, the kids’ version, where you get water cannons and a mission to defeat some bony river villains. Kids love the kind of game where the bad guys are clearly bad, and the solution is clearly “blasting them with water.” The Waccamaw looked like it always does, that black water that knows more stories than it tells. We motored along and the kids let loose on the skeletons in the rowboat, laughing the way you only laugh when adults have officially sanctioned chaos.
I was really glad Joe could come. I haven’t seen him as much lately, not for any dramatic reason, just the routine thefts of adulthood. But having him there, walking past fake werewolves and real memories, made the day feel more complete. Some people are a compass more than a person; Joe is the voice that says “home” and somehow the map listens.
We met up with Haley and Lee and their son, Luke. Now, Haley and Lee are the kind of parents you hope your kids’ friends have, kind, steady, game for whatever. The parents who make everything feel safe but not boring. Luke has basically grown up orbiting Lolo and Wyatt, birthday parties, river days, all the kid stuff that braids families together over time. Lolo, Luke, and Wyatt move through days like a constellation: sometimes like comets, but steady ones, lighting the way together.
We did grab lunch at the River City Cafe, but the food wasn’t the point. The point was the table: Ms. Carole, Haley and Lee, and the three kids, each on their own adventure but for the moment synced up. Lizzie and me, happy to be part of this new adventure with everyone. I love those meals where conversation just hops, river stories to Halloween decorations to “remember when they were babies?” to “we should do this again.” That’s what makes a hometown visit feel like more than geography: the people still willing to meet you in it.
After we ate, we walked downtown so I could do the tour I always do. “This is where we…” “That’s the river where…” “We used to climb up on that trestle bridge and jump off into the Waccamaw.” I told the kids about standing way up there, heart hammering, pretending not to be scared in front of friends. That’s the thing about telling the kids old stories: you realize how much of your childhood was just negotiated bravery. We didn’t jump because we weren’t scared; we jumped because being together made scared okay.
Conway looked good. Better than I left it, honestly. A lot of people have a complicated relationship with their hometown, like, “I had to leave to become myself.” And yeah, I left. I love where I live now. But it felt good to come back and see Conway thriving, playful, in costume. Towns can grow up too. They can learn what makes them special and lean into it, the same way people do.
The pirate ride was the kids’ favorite, of course. Lolo and Luke were all-in from minute one, full pirate voice, water cannons blazing. Wyatt took a second, watched, figured it out, then joined in. When you get the opportunity to blast water at skeletons, you can’t just stand by and watch.
Later, scrolling through the pictures, I could already see the day in chapters: Conway in Halloween mode, kids with plastic swords, Joe mid-laugh, old bridges in the background like footnotes to my whole life.
I kept thinking how lucky it is to have multiple places that can claim you. Charleston is where I chose. Conway is where I was chosen. Going back reminded me that both are true. One is the life I built; one is the life that built me.
On the boat, the captain asked what treasure the kids wanted, and they yelled stuff like “gold!” and “candy!” and “more water!” Solid answers. But I knew what mine was: this exact mix of people in this exact town on this exact day. Joe beside us, the kids shoulder-to-shoulder, their forever-friend Luke, Haley and Lee laughing at the splash-back, Lizzie catching the light—my hometown in costume and everybody perfectly themselves.
We drove back to Charleston while the decorations of Conway stayed behind, waiting for the next family. The kids dozed pirate-tired in the back of the suburban. And I thought as I drove the Mustang: this is why you go home. Not to stay. To remember what you jumped from, so you know how far you’ve swum.