Myrtle Beach is the east coast mecca of sun and coastal family leisure. This iconic place, where the gaggle of red neon “Vacancy” signs is rivaled only by the gobs of beach towels, like tribal flags of unicorns, sea life, and northern ball teams, flutter along concrete balconies up and down the Grand Strand.

It’s a place where waiting, for what seems like hours, for mediocre calabash style seafood, is the right thing to do. A place where planes buzz the beach with banners selling hermit crabs, beachwear, and directions to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. Doing nothing is a non-contact sport and is required of all who go there. It’s a place children dream of. It’s a place where I grew up.

Myrtle Beach is where I saw my first wave, built my first sandcastle, and where I almost drowned in the deep end of the motel pool. I was just a blue collar kid who seemingly lived like royalty for one week each year.

My first glimpse of the ocean upon entering town, as the horizon opened between the myriad of hotels, from the backseat of our 1976 VW Beetle, was exhilarating. At that moment, I would’ve been content, even as a three-year-old, to have been dropped off at the first public access with some Little Debbies and a bucket, not to be seen, hide nor hair, for days. Sunscreen was too much of a bother and only slowed me down.

Jorts were acceptable “resort wear” and muscle shirts, adorned with Ol’ Glory and tie dyed in rainbow colors, dotted the beach. The smell of Hawaiian Tropic coconut oil wafted across the hot sand while tater brown bathing beauties shifted their chairs as the sun traversed the sky above.

White motel towels, for those who hadn’t yet made their voyage to the Gay Dolphin for beach supplies, lay about the pool deck, hither and tither. I recall Winston Red 100s was the preferred smoke and Budweiser the preferred beer of those who brought me there, at least from my vantage point. I can still smell bbq pork chops on the hibachi grill.

MB’Vegas was a light show after dark. The sun’s Bactine burn of the day was equal to that of my retina burn at night. Tank tops, salt water taffy, and cheap toys emptied tourist’s pocketbooks like a game of hungry hippos. Dads in flower print button-up shirts just purchased at the corner shirt shop, you know, to fit in with the hip crowd. Moms everywhere uttering the words “hooligans” and “ne’er-do-wells”, as young boys passed by, hootin’ and hollerin’, at the young girls. I think my dad may have been guilty of that as well…oops!

Theme parks, putt-putt, and ice cream shops were fancy living even Little Lord Fauntleroy would envy. Who knew you could top a sugar cone with anything other than vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream? Sprinkles were an upgrade.

I think my detour down memory lane this week is about to end. As I rolled my beach wagon down the strip yesterday, the flood gate swung wide and my reservoir of Myrtle Beach days overflowed.

The First Lady and I have found creating good memories for our kids, no matter how minor, is important so when times are tough, there’s a room they can rent for a moment to reflect on the feel goods that are now long in their rear view mirror. Times when joy and a sense of wonder filled their lives. A time when, perhaps as an adult, they can rebuild their sand castle before they drown in the deep end of the pool. For me, Myrtle Beach is one of those places. Yes, bedazzled sportswear is a thing and dad’s still wear clothes incongruent to their birth date, but it’s a place where families, who’ve saved their pennies all year, can come and exploit the best of being on vacation together…jorts, muscle shirts, and all.