A mere seven purgatorial miles in to South Carolina lies a town that God either forgot about or gave up on. I don't mean to belittle the weekly worship of the loyal churchgoers of North Myrtle Beach (and I've met a few, including the apparently not-so-literal Barefoot Community Church), but let's just say sinning never felt so right as it does on South Ocean Boulevard.
After two semesters of Duke, the celebrated college life eventually crumbles down to a rational exercise. Soon, everything is planned, from studying to partying; even eating becomes a budgeting of a dwindling food point total. Here in North Myrtle, we have a golden opportunity to shatter this mindset, if but for a weekend in the sun.
Trained in the Blue Zones of Tailgate, you and your peers will live the pure life for a whole week (or until you get evicted) rather than a few costumed hours on a Saturday morning, that, when compared to Myrtle, will seem as brief, awkward and unenjoyable as high school sex. (And don't even get me started on whatever you called that trip after high school graduation when you got your older sis to buy you some cases and a fifth of Jack. Personally I rarely make it to the beach and I've never been allowed to stay a week, therefore the term should only be accompanied by over-emphasized air quotes, if at all.) No, this is something different.
The sheer existential bliss of not having any responsibilities outside of personal survival is enough to set you off. Your domain can shrink down to a space as small as one floor of a decrepit beach house. Hygiene is optional and food can be narrowed down to three possibilities, making almost every decision an easy one. Pent up aggression and evil urges spill out like a tipping water tower and, at times, people will be horrified. This kind of freedom is just short of a psychological necessity for the Duke student.
In a sense, Myrtle isn't a physical space or even a theological anomaly. It is a Dionysian state of mind, where destruction becomes creation and creation becomes lame.
William Golding rubs his hands together and shrieks with delight as he watches us perform our merry Myrtlean comedy. Dirt cakes to sweaty legs and clothes are rarely changed. The air is hot and thick and slows us down in the peak of the day. Eventually, the sun begins its descent and the distorted shadows of the crosses supporting the screen of the porch crawl across the tired, warped lumber. A palpable excitement gradually builds from somewhere in the house.
"Night" and "day" shortly become just words and that part of you that loves Disney movies and hot chocolate and running down the stairs on Christmas morning and cuddling dies a little more as the shadows fall on our faces like war paint and the white moon shines off of our white grins. If we are but actors for the Gods then this is our sold-out, eternally recurring shot at immortality. Bring them to their knees.
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