With the wind in my hair and the always-lingering smell of Banana Boat tanning oil, I was captivated once again and opted to stay in South Carolina, but just a few miles south in Charleston. We gasped at the paper mill–scented Georgetown, looked for dolphins on Pawleys Island, and stuck our arms out the windows for every shred of sunshine, eyes following violet flashes of wisteria.
Together, we rambled up and down Highway 17, skirting the coast and wailing along with T-Pain and Lynyrd Skynyrd. We shared equal reverence for long drives and loud music, and wanted to get back in touch with whatever magic led us here. Redemption came in the form of three blondes-Steph, Jenny, and Karly-my new best friends and the yings to my brunette yang.
Turns out adulthood isn’t an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast buffet. A beach-obsessed teenager from Rhode Island, I remember staring into the Atlantic’s seemingly endless horizon line, thinking-yes, this must be paradise.īut when I landed back here for college, things didn’t initially click in the same way. After sixteen hours in a rented minivan, my family settled into an oceanfront resort and lived like Myrtle Beach royalty for a week, spinning through every mini-golf course, seafood calabash, and Waves store in sight. Like many folks, my initial introduction to the Grand Strand was a childhood summer vacation. This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.
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