On the last day our annual migration, the wife and I ushered our girls aboard what can best be described as a kick-ass speedboat. The skipper of the Sea Thunder was a jovial sort; he leaned back in his chair and cracked stale jokes over the loudspeaker as he piloted the brightly-colored craft with one hand. Minutes outside the channel, the skipper leaned on the throttle. My wife smiled at the horizon as I watched the kids react to their first high-speed lunge into the open sea.
Soon we were bobbing in the waters off Bird Island, ‘No Woman No Cry’ wafting over the boat’s many speakers. Scanning the shore for the Kindred Spirit mailbox, we gave up when a throaty rumble of a competitor’s craft hove into view. Obviously, the Sea Screamer was laden with the Great Unwashed, nothing like the erudite yet shirtless denizens of my fine vessel. Still, we stared at each other as both boats pitch and dove. Before either cruiser could launch a salvo, three dolphins splashed out of the water as if on cue.
Both crowds gasped as schools of silver swimmers cavorted about between the two boats. Executing coordination unknown to man, the gleaming divers danced in unison around the watery arena. The skipper goosed the engine for a better view and ran his best ‘Flipper’ material. Each attempt to capture the mammals with my digital camera was met with yet another shot of unfocused sea. Did I mention the first mate sold ice cold Bud Lights straight from the official Sea Thunder cooler? Dollar a pop - in port and underway.
After the swimming mammals hit the showers, The Skipper fired up the twin outboards, sending our sleek craft into a determined trajectory South, parallel to the sandy shore known as Cherry Grove. There our captain stopped and pointed out c-list celebrity homes, a Nascar driver, a has been and another sports figure I’d never heard of. Truth is, I spent most of my time watching my girls as they tasted the spray arcing off the boat’s sleek hull. I’m no more master sailor, but my time aboard the U.S.S. Mount Whitney did teach me the intrinsic value of daydreaming at sea.
In the end, we covered 15 miles of shoreline, from the northern edge of the Grand Strand to the weedy backwaters of workaday Calabash. At the turnaround point, Skipper held our position off north Myrtle and started talking of cannons and condos. I thought he was kidding until he sounded battle stations, causing First Mate Noah to look up from the cooler long enough to pull a cord. ’BOOM!’ went a midships cannon, it’s vibrating echo bouncing off the high-rises in staggered concert. As the returning booms washed over the boat, passengers squinted and grinned (minus one kid who was obviously sleeping off some late night Kool-Aid binge). I was among the awake and grateful, happy to be making memories that had nothing to with deadlines and live shots.Remind me of that tomorrow when I’m hashing out my third vosot of the day.
Once in a blue moon, I'll have that dream, more of a flashback really. There I'll be in the studio, rolling that pathetic red barrell out to Marvin while the local car commercial audio echoes from the rafters. Good ole Marvin takes the barrell, unlatches the door and reaches way down into the crush of thousands of hand-scribbled postcards. Pulling one up, he reads an awkward name from Lizard Lick or some other such forsaken place.
My favorite gate crashing iconoclasts are at it again! Seems the 
Next up, the electronic jesters travel to Pittsburgh for a slightly lower-key approach to media discourse. Seems the 
I have not always been kind to the newsroom intern. It’s nothing personal. You see, as a struggling raconteur and a fully-licensed cameramanthropologist, it’s my sworn duty to bag on the unpaid assistant. For years, I’ve answered that call - portraying all interns as overenthusiastic nimrods, underdressed strumpets and myopic intruders of my personal space. Most times I was right. But as I get a little bit older (and a lot less bolder), I find myself reconsidering the apprentice broadcaster. 
But this post isn’t about my undying bitterness toward an inherently evil ex-employer. (I'm saving THAT for the book.) No, tonight we’re talking interns - more specifically the oddly astute duo now regularly appearing in the shotgun seat of my battered news cruiser. Intern Mike Crump (that’s what we call him; Intern-Mike-Crump) has insisted on showing up every day this summer for another round of chase-the-deadline. So far he’s proven immensely helpful, especially when it comes to locating a certain forgetful lenslinger’s keys, sunglasses, motivation, etc…This alone should win that dude a medal - or a chance at a real career (not one as silly as mine). Another unsalaried accomplice who’s quickly earning his keep is Scott Myrick (pictured here). This Elon University student is back for his second internship at El Ocho. While normally I’d prescribe some kind of ointment for that particular condition, I know a terminal newsman when I see one. Yep - Scott’s got it bad. I recognize the symptoms from my early days as an edit bay outpatient. If I’m not careful, I’ll be working for him someday. Lousy punk!
We were biking along the shoreline when we saw them: stock-still humans knee deep in the surf, staring off into the distance like sunburned zombies. On instinct, I dropped my bike and signaled my 11 year old to do the same. Approaching the crowd, we fished my camera out of a bag, guessing aloud what might be holding our fellow vacationers so enraptured. A swimmer in trouble? A stranded whale? Weird pod-creatures from a crashed UFO?
Alas, it was only a fisherman, a lone figure in shorts and ball cap, reeling in a bent-back pole for all it was worth. As the stranger wrestled with the unseen beast, murmurs of delight and concern floated up from the crowd. Sensing tension, my daughter held back a bit as I approached the center of the pack. Amid the moms and kids I spotted a dad or two sporting their own lens. Challenged by their unspoken presence, I jockeyed for a better shot...
...just in time to get the landing of the phantom creature. As the silent fisherman hunched around his reel, a slopping black mass rose to view in the surf. Suddenly applause broke out amid the Soccer Moms and beat-red kids. The fisherman looked around uneasily as he pulled his quarry closer. Oohing and aahing, the crowd leaned in to see. A stingray! Or skate! No one officially proclaimed the gleaming black swimmer as either, but the visiting crowd splashed around and gleefully debated the matter.
Hook deeply engorged in it’s flesh, the stingray/skate convulsed and whipped its thin long tail. A few feet away, a three year old in arm-floats squirmed in her father’s arms as she screeched at the sight. A clutch of women in an unfortunate bathing suits stood about and shaded their eyes from the sun. Camera pressed against my face, I circled the crowd and collected close-ups. Watching my daughter with one eye, I scanned the curious pack as they peeked and commented on the flopping fish-thing. Something about this feels familiar...
Well no...you’re not gonna keep it are you?” Something in the tall Dad’s tone reminded suddenly reminded of the PETA photo-ops I’ve covered.
Looking back at the squinting onlookers, the fisherman wisely acquiesced, shuffling off in deeper water to free the beast. Whatever his initial mission, he must have figured a floppy skate-ray wasn’t worth fighting Tall Dad and the Soccer Moms. Can’t say I blame him.