Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
I’m not an expert on the human brain’s melting point, or how much humidity it takes to vaporize intelligent thought, but anyone who lives along South Carolina’s coast has spent the summer observing this phenomenon in an unusual species we call tourists.
It’s not their fault. Doesn’t matter if they’re rocket scientists or worm farmers—when perfectly normal folks are released back into the wild after 11½ months in captivity, anything goes.
Here’s one scientific certainty: A tourist buying groceries for a family of 27, including every case of Budweiser the Clydesdales hauled here, will inevitably be checking out in front of you at Walmart in the “15 Items or Less” aisle. (That should be a felony, but they usually get off with a “bless your heart.”)
Summoning up every last crumb of Southern hospitality, locals just grin and bear it because another summer season is winding down, and we’re about to get our beach back. The truth is we’re spoiled. Most of the year, the few families who stick around past Labor Day share a private ocean, empty roads and deeply discounted hermit crabs, along with other perks.
In February, the average wait time for a restaurant table is 13 seconds. And the chef will gladly perform a vuvuzela solo—naked, if you ask.
During the morning traffic reports— from a real helicopter, just like they have in cities with real traffic—two whole cars are sometimes spotted within a mile of each other on the same road.
From October to April, a traffic snarl of this magnitude is breaking news here in the Lowcountry. To anyone who has camped between exits on I-95 during rush hour, it’s Comedy Central.
But the moment the weather heats up, we get company. Convoys of landlocked families mobilize their minivans for the annual assault on the coast.
Of course, they all want beach photos. So it’s not unusual to see someone leap out of a car with Pennsylvania plates to photograph a puddle. When tourists are on foot, they’re even easier to spot. From visor to flip-flop, many bear an uncanny resemblance to boiled lobsters. The only way they’ll make it home with a tan is if their skin peels off in one piece and they frame it.
But my favorite thing is the questions. A tourist recently stopped me at a traffic light to ask directions to Vanna’s house. You’re supposed to know that stuff if you live here.
Besides providing intel on where the lovely Ms. White polishes her vowels, locals must assist visitors with real emergencies, such as reptile intervention. For some reason, tourists sometimes miss those “Do Not Feed the Alligators” signs conveniently posted where carnivorous wildlife swim. Sometimes you’ll see a daddy hold his toddler over that same water, because “Little Abby wants to see a gator up close.”
Your civic duty, as someone who respects human life and tourist dollars, is to prevent little Abby from becoming an Abby-tiser. Sure, you could use verbal cues, but I find that grabbing the child, then banging daddy’s head on the alligator sign is a lot quicker. Hey, it’s been a long season.
If you need me for anything else, I’ll be at Vanna’s. You guys have her number, right?
Jan A. Igoe, a writer and illustrator from Horry County, is deeply grateful to beach visitors for an endless supply of material. She has only one bone to pick with tourists: They’re on vacation while she isn’t.