Never at Dusk

Halfway through our sand-filled sabbatical, and I'm running dangerously low on angst. Maybe it's because I haven't worn sensible shoes in half a fortnight. Maybe it's because my biggest tactical decision has been when to flip the steaks. Maybe it's because of the freewheeling conversations I've had with my kids. Maybe it's because occupational frustrations tend to dissolve in saltwater. Maybe it's just the Maker's Mark. Whatever the reason, your normally coiled cameraman is only a notch or two above comatose. Personally, I blame the location.

By far the quietest of Brunswick County's three barrier islands, Sunset Beach is delightfully sequestered. To even get on the place, vacationers have to drive over a single lane pontoon bridge, one of - if not the - last of its kind still standing. That rickety treasure will soon be replaced by a concrete abomination, but for now travelers still thrill to its every staggered crossing and curse it when they have to pee. Once on the island however, suburban fanilies quickly find a lack of fast food places, a dearth of urban sprawl and an overwhelming absence of hassle. You might say there's nothing to do.

Which is exactly why families from up and down the East Coast seek it out. Unlike nearby Myrtle Beach - that wretched hive of tattoo parlors, trinket emporiums and cheesy theaters, it's a challenge to catch the clap at Sunset Beach. Sure, someone has - but most seven day inhabitants revert to more wholesome diversions. Sun worship, civilized sibling interaction, seashell procurement: these are the activities on Sunset's agenda. Why else would I drive four hours away from home just to play house? It ain't because of the flat as hell mattress I been riding all week. It's the scenery, the serenity, the seclusion that makes me forget how to even spell T-V.

Don't worry though; I'll be awash in flopsweat and apoplexy by late Tuesday. Wednesday, tops.