BEACH MUSIC

We were living in Washington DC in the summer of 1962 where my father, after returning from the Second World War and Korea began working as a cryptographer at Fort Mead for the National Security Agency. It was the start of the cold war era and the beginning of tensions between the East and West as the soviets pounded their chest in defiance and sought to conquer the world. It was also the start of a relationship between Cuba’s leader Fidel Castro and the leader of the Soviet Union, Nikita Khrushchev who held the US in fear with statements like “We will bury your dead” and “Your survivors will envy the dead” as he shipped nuclear missiles to Castro’s small island 90 miles south of Miami. Tensions were extremely high and my father, upon learning from the intelligence community that Washington DC was most likely going to be ground zero of a nuclear attack, packed up my mother, brother, cocker spaniel named Big Boy and me sending us to Myrtle Beach South Carolina. A small beach resort on the northeast coast of South Carolina where a few years earlier they had purchased a small, faded white and grey, two bedroom cottage sitting on cinderblock footings with a screened front porch, sandspurs the size of marbles, beaver tail cactus at every step and sidewalks made from warped, nail exposed, pine boards which lead to the road and beach. A place where dreams were born and where this 8 year old believed he had discovered a door into the adventure of a lifetime. Where old white and grey beach houses rested along the windblown sands of time and day after day, crystal blue skies welcomed the warmth of an early fall sun. Where walks along beautiful sands and dark blue waters with sunsets of orange, yellow and red welcomed billowy white clouds that darkened upon reaching the shore welcoming blowing hot winds that whistled through the front porch screens. Where we watched dark purple and black storm clouds growl and swirl in the distance, rattling the weather beaten wooden windows in this pre WWII cottage signaling the a late summer rain and the closure of another day. Where cottages over the decades had blistered in the heat causing their pine and cypress sidings whitewashed decade after decade to peal in an array of muted colors from the salty humidity and intense southern sun of summer. Where the smell of tanning lotion, flounder being fried for supper and low country marshes blossomed in the breeze and the rumble of stock cars racing on an old dirt horse track near what we called the “Hill”, filled the air. This was the south few people know, a romantic past buried deep within my heart with scents and sounds still treasured today in memories I call, “Beach Music”.