WTF?
View From the Edge… By Brian Sanders
Hot and humid! That was the forecast. And the forecast was correct, and had been correct for three weeks – almost a month. Not a drop of rain in that time, temperatures in the upper 90s, and humidity a constant 100 percent. Most vegetation was dead, dying, wishing to die or regretting having not died. You could almost feel the asphalt getting soft, the heat waves floating and blurring even short-distance vision. There was a slight breeze, however, this being Folly Island.
Yes, an ‘island,’ located between the Atlantic Ocean and the Folly River. The “Edge of America” or “Mayberry by the Sea, with a Buzz” as it is known, depending upon whom you ask. You ask me, just another summer on Folly Island, the summer of 2011. A Tuesday in fact, followed by W-T-F.
I live and work on Folly, a mere minute’s walk to the East 2nd Street beach access. On this sweltering workday I decided to take a long lunch break at the beach. As a reminder of how blessed I am to live here, I try to go to the beach at least once a day; I may not always manage that, but I try. During the spring, summer and early fall I usually go for a swim. The rest of the time I simply walk my dog, grab a few shells or other Atlantic up-chuck, perhaps take some photos, or just lay back in the comfort of a sand dune.
So, with my beach chair in one hand, a lunch cooler in the other and a towel over one shoulder, I headed for the beach. Blue skies ahead! I can smell the ocean.
I hadn’t even passed the sand dunes at the end of the East 2nd Street access when I noticed a group of folks: four large adults, two scrawny adolescents, a baby and a diapered toddler. They had erected a black and red pop-up canopy at the edge of the sand dunes and their spread was…(can I say ‘red-neck’ and still maintain some degree of political correctness?) Anyway, their ‘spread’ seemed to match their faded canopy – the chairs, a table, coolers, floats and even a radio that, unfortunately, was blasting suicide country.
The ‘matching’ aspect was UGA – University of Georgia, the Bulldogs. My vibe meter was screaming ‘Doh!’ but I simply pushed ahead. I could not, however, go without giving them a second look. Okay, I was freakin’ gawking. Something wasn’t quite kosher. WTF?
They didn’t have matching clothes; not UGA specific anyway. NASCAR was prominent in that respect. The main thing I noticed, and the one that really piqued my curiosity, was the large pit two of the kids and an adult were digging between the canopy and the sand dunes. The adult was supervising, pointing and barking from the pit center. The pit was at the base of the sand dunes, and I was a little put out by this. Okay, more than a little.
The sand dunes are a staunch barrier; a fragile ecosystem preventing erosion along our island. The dunes provide nesting ground for loggerheads, forage (and nesting) for an assortment of birds, and a place for me to lay at the foot of and relax – sans the turtles and birds, of course. But I had my hands full and an agenda. I would check back on this after a swim. Down to the Atlantic’s edge I continued and got ready for that much-awaited swim.
The ocean, despite being the temperature of bath water, was as refreshing as I had dreamt when considering my long lunch break. I swam out past the breakers and floated on my back and through slit eyes watched seagulls and pelicans float on their tide of wind; the pelicans diving for fish, the seagulls fluttering and screaming at each and every scrap of whatever, or each other for that matter.
The ocean swells lifted and lowered me in a shared hammock of the same whatever matter. The current eventually carried me toward the pier, so I bobbed up to locate my beach chair and swam back, slightly past the chair, a good five minutes of combined free and breast-stroking against the current. A good lunch workout, and I loved it. I floated some to catch my breath, swam some more, and after a few peaceful minutes of final floating, I waited on a good wave and body-surfed back to shore. I was thinking hard about the turkey club and Cape Cod chips I had carried for lunch. Hungry was I.
It was after a quick dry and putting on my sunglasses that I noticed something odd going on at the UGA tailgate. Perhaps ‘odder’ is the correct word. Their pit was complete now and they were tossing items into said pit; what, I couldn’t tell, because it was a ways off. Was it some sort of a new beach game? Bocce ball with a hazard? Lawn darts? A new version of corn-hole, perhaps?
Okay…I looked at my lunch cooler, then looked back towards the UGA pit and…let’s go have a look-see, I decided. I walked their way with the best of intentions, but a tad suspicious I have to admit. “Be nice,” I reminded myself.
After covering about half the distance I realized just what they were throwing into the pit. It wasn’t Bocce balls, or bean bags or even lawn darts. It was not a new beach game…it was garbage! I back-tracked, got my phone and jogged back. Nice is over. A large, short man with a gargantuan gut muscle turned as I arrived. He seemed to be supervising the disposal of refuse in our sand dune.
“You can’t bury your damn garbage on the beach!” I said incredulously. The guy with the giant gut lowered his silver Smokey and the Bandit sunglasses to the tip of his nose and gave me a hard stare. The other three adults, all in equal states of obesity, turned in my direction and stepped to the edge of the canopy. Yes, the silence was deafening.
“There are garbage cans and recycling bins right over there,” I added, pointing toward the junction of the East 2nd Street access with East Arctic Avenue, the green receptacles and blue bins within clear view. I had also moved my sunglasses to the tip of my nose to return his hard stare. Damn you Mr. Gut!
“Are you the guddamn beach police, boy?” Mr. Gut replied, adjusting his NASCAR wife-beater, pushing his sunglasses back up his nose and taking a wide stance, fists on hips. The other adult male came and stood beside him, striking a similar pose. I began to intently process, shaking my head and rubbing my chin. WTF?
At the far edge of the pit, the two adolescent boys, each about nine or ten years of age, gave me a quick and startled glance, and then looking at each other, shrugged their shoulders. I returned my attention to the pit, taking a closer look. In addition to various bags of trash, a broken beach chair, and a snapped cheap boogie boad, there were diapers in the pit! I was livid.
“Either carry this s*^t to the trash cans or I’m calling the police,” I said, flipping open my phone. I dialed the Folly Beach police anyway. I didn’t think this Laurel & Hardy duo could beat me up, but I wanted ‘the man’ there just in case I became tired of beating their behinds and tossed them into their darn trash pit. But, I digress.
“You a*^h$le!” barked the other male, tossing his blue Pabst hat to the sand between us. He kinda looked like Barney Fife – very skinny arms and legs, no chest muscle, but a pot-belly. He tore off his Tony Stewart tee-shirt (to reveal his bird chest I’m guessing) and his Dollar Tree sunglasses went flying. “Damn,” I thought, “he’s a wrastler.”
“We jus trying to have a good time. Ain’t hurtin’ nobody!” he added, flapping his arms like a broken chicken. He tossed his shirt on the ground between us. It landed beside his PBR hat. It was as if he were marking his territory. “Has he peed in the pit?” I asked myself, concluding that they all probably had. Hell, there are diapers in the pit… Even the babies have pissed, and worse, there.
“Are you serious?” I laughed, more to myself or perhaps to our unseen, odd-humored God. Is that my phone ringing or the theme song from the Twilight Zone? Nope, my phone is ringing, but it’s the usual tone.
The Cro-Magnon duo nodded at each other and did some kind of a lazy, awkward, botched double hand-slap. I turned my back to them to further process this mess. Oh, and to laugh. It had the potential to be a ‘snart’ – where you laugh so hard that you snort and fart. I didn’t ‘snart’ or ‘shart’ but I was laughing out loud. They seemed to not take my outward laughter in good stride, however. Was I really gonna have to fight these two obese red-necks? Perhaps they would simply fall into the pit unaided… My phone continued to ring, sounding even more like the Twilight Zone. WTF? I need to change dial tones…
“This is public property,” countered the one with his shirt still on; the one with the biggest gut muscle, his arms raised as if to include the entire world around him. I lifted my left hand, palm forward and quickly displayed my still ringing cell phone with the other hand. I was busy. Simmer down Mr. Gut. Finally, the dispatch answered.
“Send an officer to the Folly Beach East 2nd Street access. There are some ummm…people burying their garbage on the beach, and within clear view of the trash cans,” I calmly say into the phone. I didn’t give her a chance to ask the usual litany of questions, such as: Is this an emergency? Is the victim conscious? I hung up. Perhaps this wasn’t an emergency, but it was a travesty. There were no unconscious victims…yet.
“Take your damn trash to the trash cans,” I reiterated and walked away, glancing over my shoulder in case they charged me. They simply stood there glaring. Then Laurel and Hardy began to argue with each other, then with their wives, and finally all four adults were cursing and yelling at the two adolescents. The baby began to scream.
Back at my beach chair, I turned so that I could see this tirade unfold. As I was eating my turkey club and sipping my Corona (in a plastic cup, of course), I watched the obese quarto make the two little boys carry the trash to the trashcans. The toddler with the diaper (said diaper now riding low, almost dragging the ground) stumbled toward the pit, but was eventually snatched up by one of the obese females. There were now two screaming infants. Again – WTF?
Though I haven’t spent all of my life here on Folly Beach, I’ve spent a good part of it here. As a wee lad and pre-teen (1970s) I enjoyed my summers on the east side, my grandfather owning a house here. It’s the old red brick house with the totem pole in front. It was the Red Cross station during WWII and the staging area for the ‘Home Guard’ (old salty dogs not drafted but armed with WWI rifles) as they kept a watchful eye for German subs. The house is probably one of the oldest structures on our island of Folly. A spooky, yet cool old house…506 East Ashley.
I can vividly remember the old pavilion, the views of the ocean, and smiling people of all ages. Pinball, pool, ping-pong, volleyball, horse shoes and just running crazy into the ocean; last one in is a rotten egg! I don’t think I, nor any of my childhood friends, really knew the smell of a ‘rotten egg,’ but we knew the more pleasant and poignant smells of sun tan oil, cotton candy, popcorn, ice cream, boiled peanuts and hot dogs loaded with greasy chili.
This was when there was no Holiday Inn (now “Tides”) and you could actually see the beach as you came down Center Street. Particularly when, as a nine-year old, you could either stand up in the back seat and excitedly bang your head on the roof of our Ford Fairlane, or just hang your head out the window like a dog and inhale the wind of pluff mud, salt and creosote. Blue skies ahead! Going to the beach! I can almost see the ocean…
I can also remember (a little older then) the uproar among many of the locals when Holiday Inn was applying for permits to build there. In particular, I remember the posters plastered everywhere featuring the old lady from the Wendy’s commercial: “Where’s the beef?” and how the irate locals had adapted her words to say: “Where’s the beach?” I sure wish I had a copy of one of those posters.
As an adult now, and having been a full-time resident for a few consecutive years, I’ve seen a lot more, perhaps understanding more, actually. But, I’ve never seen as gross an example of ignorance, disrespect, laziness and resulting littering as the one described above. They were actually burying their trash in a sand dune. Really? But, are they to fault? Yes, me thinks. But…did they not get enough hugs from ma and pa? Perhaps a good spanking from ma or pa would have been more in order.
Folly Beach was as popular ‘back in the day’ as it is now, but the Charleston area has had a population explosion. The ability to travel is cheaper and easier to access, so there are more people here and from even further ends of the globe, and thus, a wider variety from different cultures. This isn’t all bad, because there is something to be said about how cosmopolitan Charleston is. I kind of like the diversity and even the eccentricity you find therein. Be eccentric or whatever, but behave.
The landmass of our island hasn’t expanded (quite to the contrary, Mother Atlantic is chewing at our shores), and there are more accommodations, mainly via the ‘stack-a-shack’ condos that line the beachfront, blocking out everyone’s view. But I digress into my pet peeve: Where’s the beach? Oh, and WTF?
With the aforementioned number of folks coming to our island increasing every year, there is undoubtedly going to be more bad apples in the bushel. The ‘bad apples’ in this proverbial bushel are ‘bad’ because they don’t respect or follow the rules. When I say ‘rules,’ I don’t just mean the laws that are on the books, such as ‘no littering, speeding, fighting in public, and no peeing in a front yard other than yours’…It’s simply the basic rules of respect – respect for the land, respect for your fellow man, respect for yourself.
As a child I once asked my grandfather, “What does it mean to be a ‘southern gentleman’ grandpa?” I had heard this phrase so many times among the adults, most of them holding a ‘southern gentleman’ in high regard. I was quite curious in that nine-year-old way. He chuckled in his Santa Claus kinda way (he was a short, red-faced and rotund Irishman) and said:
“Just be nice and respectful.”
Brian Sanders owns the Lunch Hook restaurant on Folly Beach. You can reach him at bp.sands1034@gmail.com.
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