Myrtle Beach -2021
Put a 70 year old body into the driver’s seat of The Hoovermobile. Add sandwiches, bananas, and a pot of strong coffee. Point the Hoovermobile south, and let the miles roll by. 20 hours and 1100 miles later, babbling incoherently about trucks and the price of gasoline, I arrived at Deer Creek Condos in Surfside Beach, SC.
There have been some major changes to the site at Deer Creek. As reported two years ago (the last time we were here) the two unused golf courses came out of litigation, the land has now sprouted a new batch of vacation homes and timeshares. Gone is the creek, but we now have a pond, though I am concerned about the ducks we usually see. A fence now stretches around the pond, and that might be an issue for our fowlish friends.
As I sit here the second morning of this trip, I’m still not sure what direction this journal/story is going to take. It’ll reveal itself eventually, but for now I think some observations will suffice. We are staying in a different unit than we usually have in March. It’s the same 4 bedroom setup, so we’re comfortable. What is different is the view from the back porch. The other unit used to have a creek. That is gone, paved over for condos, but this unit has a large pond full of turtles and various water fowl to greet me as the sunrises. What it also has is an open view of the night sky that is less subdued by civilization than my view from home. This morning I saw the Big Dipper hanging majestically in the pre-dawn bright. At home I see the Little Dipper all of the time, but not the Big, so this was a delightful discovery.
One of the enduring traits of Hoover Joe is his ability to mix up words in a text message. As he stated so eloquently, “Phones are meant for talking, not %^%$$& texting. So, on occasion, we recipients of the text have to decipher what Joe’s fingers have typed. In this instance, the name Graig is used instead of Craig (a rookie Myrtle Beachite), when asking some question about the upcoming trip. Bret, however, is known to none of us, though deciphering determined he meant to say ‘bet’, as to who will win the first hole this week. Naturally, my Muse suggested that Graig and Bret should be the focus of this year’s Hoover’s in Myrtle Beach tale. I agreed, but only after insisting on a minor role for them. Here’s one of them.
A brief update on the first round of golf, and a Public Service Announcement – even with 5 hours of sleep the night after the trek, golf the next day was probably not a good idea. It seems that exhaustion impedes one’s ability to hit dimpled spheres with crooked sticks, oft times the dimpled sphere was propelled into unknown regions never to be seen again, or to sleep in the murky depths with the turtles and fish. And oh by the way…the course we played today is the easiest one we’ll play all week. Hope springs eternal, however, but if things are ugly today, I may have to release the full panoply of verbal utterances. Hold your ears and hide the kids. The end result of coming in last, hell even Graig and Bret did better than me, wasn’t totally unexpected. But to paraphrase The Dude, “this regression will not stand, man.” I mean Craig managed to almost beat Rick, and even got a birdie. It might be time to let the secret weapon out of the golf bag, a weapon so formidable that it is under discussion at The Hague to be banned.
I read about the miracle cure for wayward launches of the dimpled sphere in the book ‘A Good Walk Spoiled’. Since then, I’ve occasionally utilized this wondrous product, albeit to mixed results; apparently some swing flaws are incurable. However, so far this week I’ve played poorly: club slamming, curse words uttering poor. Therefore throwing caution to the wind I’m bringing out the petroleum jelly. Just a little dab on the club face acts as a deterrent to the laws of physics: to wit – a ball spinning in the wrong direction will invariably land in inhospitable territory. Halt the spin, and the dimpled sphere will fly straight and true, well most of the time, there’s still those pesky random non-golf thoughts that creep into the conscious mind during the backswing. Not even generous slabs of Vaseline can fix those.
There are other, more insidious forces at play with the future of the annual Hoover migration. Aging is a cruel bastard. We joke about it all of the time, a kind of gallows humor I suppose, but the bitter truth is laid bare every time one of us gets up from the couch, clambers up the stairs, or even more present is the absence of Jimmy.
Rick and I briefly touched on the subject while sharing the golf cart on Sunday. We’re both not sure these trips will continue, we hope they do. Rick made this rather telling observation, that the week in Myrtle is no longer about the golf. Twenty years ago we had elaborate scoring systems, an impressive trophy to play for, team rivalries; now it’s more about the camaraderie. Even the simple daily tasks such as cooking meals, cleaning up after, and most especially the chatter around the table; those things make the week worthwhile, yes including the 20 hour drive.
Inevitable Consequence of Progress
My first trip to Myrtle Beach was in 1995. I’ve been coming here every year since then, except for 2019/2020 due to Covid. In the early days of my golfing vacations, the area was still developing more golf courses. The stretch of miles between Murrells Inlet and over the border into North Carolina offered this golfer a veritable cornucopia of choices. In those early trips, I was in my mid-40’s, and thought nothing of teeing off at the crack of dawn, then playing an afternoon round at a nearby course. The chart below illustrates how energetic this man was in those days. However, it’s also an indication of the changing times: seven of those courses no longer exist.
| Possum Trot | 1/24/1998 |
| Possum Trot | 1/24/1998 |
| Eagles Nest | 1/25/1998 |
| Eagles Nest | 1/25/1998 |
| Sandpiper Bay | 1/26/1998 |
| Sea Trails/Jones | 1/26/1998 |
| Angel’s Trace/North | 1/27/1998 |
| Carolina Shores | 1/28/1998 |
| Marsh Harbour | 1/28/1998 |
| Possum Trot | 1/29/1998 |
| Robber’s Roost | 1/29/1998 |
| Pearl/East | 1/30/1998 |
| Pearl/West | 1/30/1998 |
| Colonial Charters | 1/31/1998 |
I was both amazed and saddened by the amount of housing construction going on in the greater Myrtle Beach area. Evidently the landowners discovered there’s more money in condos than in recreation. More housing means even more traffic and more people making tee times on a diminished number of courses that have raised their fees. For the first time since 1995, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it any longer for the Hoovers to travel here. I know of some great golf in Northern Michigan. J
A Typical Morning
As I always wake up before anyone else, I am the designated brewer of the delectable dark roast coffee we crave for its life giving essence. While sipping my first cup, I peruse the Web, checking ball scores, and to see if my books have made me rich yet. My second cup is usually when Joe ambles down the stairs, mumbling something about needing coffee, or perhaps it was the Red Sox needing a new manager. It’s kinda hard to decipher his pre-caffeine dosage. His jovial demeanor ramps up upon finishing his giant bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, usually resulting in him asking me if I’d written the journal yet. Most mornings I do attempt it, but the Muse is a fickle minx.
By the time Craig and Bob come groaning into the kitchen, I am brewing the second pot of the morning hoping there’s still enough left in the thermal carafe to keep the teeming horde happy. When The Rick descends from the palatial penthouse bedroom, all talking ceases as we await the royal command, “We must have bacon. We need bacon.” Even though this happens most mornings, the peasants are genuinely surprised and elated by this royal decree. Craig adds to the festive mood declaring, “Eggs, we need eggs fried in the bacon grease.” And the peasants rejoiced.
A Hoover Fairy Tale
Once upon a time in a land far away called Hooveropolis, there lived the strange creatures called Hoovers. Existing among a landscape teeming with golf courses, the Hoover clan spent their days with dimpled spheres and crooked sticks in search of the ever diminishing chance at improving the ever present mediocrity of their golfing abilities. Each morning at the crack of dawn a hearty breakfast of bacon and copious amounts of strong coffee was consumed while world problems were discussed and resolved. Then the conversation will turn to where to ply their search for golfing immortality. Five simultaneous smartphone searches later, five aging bodies clamber into the mythical Hoovermobile. The daily optimism of a new venture permeates the interior of the vehicle enveloping them in an almost Cannabis-like contact high, buoying them with confidence. A rather cheerful disposition that will continue until the first shanked shot, missed putt, or lost ball. From that point on, the day is ruled by their unrelenting foes, the demonic forces known as Graig the Misnamed and Bret the Gambler. The insidious invasion of a Hoover’s mind by this duo of golf swing destroyers brings out the deep-seated angst and frustration. It’s not a pretty sight when a Hoover is in the throes of that angst and frustration.
A Typical Evening
Among the highlights of many of our recent trips is having dinner at The Villa Romana for excellent Italian food in a most pleasant atmosphere that includes a roaming accordionist. One of the menu items that keep us coming back is their Tiramisu, a concoction fit for royalty. As I neared the end of my delicious manicotti entree, I hesitated before taking the last bite, calculating if there was enough room for it, and the Tiramisu. Realizing that it didn’t really matter, I was gonna get the Tiramisu.
Our server was a most engaging young man. He had to be when he announced that they were out of Tiramisu. It could have been an ugly situation given that the five of us were already beginning to salivate over what was coming next. He managed to calm us down explaining that someone screwed up the restaurant’s order, and that he would bring that person over to us, except he was off that night. Five disappointed Hoovers took the blow like the heroes they are, clambered back into the Hoovermobile, sated with good food, but still missing that last piece. Fortunately I had a pint of Chunky Monkey waiting for me.
Given that this time of year is MLB Playoff time, we didn’t watch any of our favorite movies, or even play Cards Against Humanity. Given that the Red Sox were in the playoffs, we were doubly interested, and Joey was able to utilize his vast array of verbal assault weapons as the week deteriorated when they lost. In past years, before I finally acquired hearing aids, I was not subjected to the full force of the detonations. Fortunately, a couple of clicks on the device shield me from the shock waves.
By the time the ball game is over, heck even before that, the crowd begins to thin, and I am dozing. We are a lively bunch of geezers. Joey is usually the last one to make the ascent up the stairs. Our parting words were always, “See you at 6 for coffee.”
Too Soon, the Time to Depart
Another idyllic sunrise greeted me the final morning. The Big Dipper slowly faded; a sort of bittersweet farewell to a trip rife with emotional memories. We lost a dear friend and it’s hard not to think of him: everywhere we go, everything we do evokes sweet memories of James Ouellette, or as he was fondly called, Jimmy Two Birds. Jesus, I’m breaking down writing this. I wrote the story below years ago when we still had a thriving creek behind the condo. Every time I watched the swans on the pond this week I thought of the year we had that swan nest.
JIMMY’S SWANSONG
At the back of our condo there is a small creek that feeds a multitude of waterfowl. There are always Canada Geese, a trio of Mallards and a mating pair of swans. This year the swans have blessed us with a huge nest right opposite our back door. The other day she laid at least three eggs so the male has gone into super protective mode. This morning Jimmy was standing next to the swing in the yard and the male decided to investigate. Now in the interest of a good story we are going to have the swan attack Jimmy like in an episode of When Vacations Go Bad. The male swan, who we have dubbed Gus, is a good sized bird. His long and muscular neck on the end of which sits a powerful beak swings back and forth in a threatening manner as he rushes at Jimmy. Jimmy is none too nimble these days and he only makes it halfway to the condo door as that menacing beak crashes into his groin. Jimmy staggers back and falls to the ground, Gus astride his chest, tail feathers in Jimmy’s face slams his neck and head repeatedly into the torso and regions below. Meanwhile, the female known as Miranda, is now standing on the top of the nest, flapping her wings and mimicking Gus’s neck thrusts, encouraging her mate to protect her from this fiend and intruder. Jimmy tries to cry out but his mouth is full of swan feathers and all he can muster is a muted bleating. Rick, startled into action by Jim’s muted cries, races out the door armed only with The Harry A. which he brandishes like a club. Swinging it and screaming like a madman, Rick chases Gus off of Jim and back into the creek. Jimmy is now in the fetal position clutching his groin and moaning, “Oh God, this really hurts.” Paramedics now arrive on the scene having been summoned by Joey’s call to 911. After 15 minutes of coaxing, the EMTs finally persuade Jimmy to relax and uncoil from his rigid man hold. They discover nothing more serious than swan down in Jimmy’s nose and an angry red genital, so they leave him with some balm and a stern warning to leave the wild life alone or next time he could really get hurt.
It is Saturday morning. Rick and Craig flew home yesterday. Joe and Bob are flying out this afternoon. The Hoovermobile is packed, and I’m ready to start the drive home. I tell the swans goodbye and smile.
Wit,Wisdom and a Wandering Mind 