The classic preppy beach experience

If you've been following this blog for a while, you already know that I have this odd fascination with "preppies," the privileged, popular, athletic, seemingly carefree folks I grew up around but never really cared to socialize with, even though, without even realizing it, I was raised in the same manner as they were, if only under more modest circumstances. Now that they've matured and I've matured and we get along more easily, I've come to accept and even embrace this unique subculture in which I was raised. So, in addition to my other ramblings, I wish to publish a series of articles all about the Preppy lifestyle. Taking a cue from my latest interior decorating plans, I'll begin with a description of the preppy beach experience.

The preppy beach house is ideally located in a quiet neighborhood in a small seaside town populated by other preppies. My family stands apart from the preppy norm in this regard because our house is in Myrtle Beach, the antithesis of the preppy seaside locale. In our defense, the house was purchased in 1941, when Myrtle Beach was just another sleepy little beach town with a few motels and isolated oceanfront cottages. We could not predict what a ghastly, sprawled-out, Yankee-infested, neon hellhole it would become, but the property itself and its furnishings adhere to the preppy standard. Designed for casual comfort and somewhat rough use, furnishings are selected with damp swimwear and sandy feet in mind. Dishware is sturdy, often mismatched, and acquired on the cheap, either from a garage sale, Wal-Mart (yes, preps do set foot in Wal-Mart), or left over from Dad's first apartment. Art is beach-themed but tasteful, perhaps painted by an artistic family member. Bookshelves are stocked with well-worn novels donated by various family members and guests, decade-old issues of Southern Living, a Scrabble game from the '40s, incomplete decks of cards, and seashells gathered by Grandmama from her daily walks on the beach. Closets contain coolers scratched up from years of being dragged through the sand, can koozies with humorous messages about being a functional alcoholic, floppy straw hats, faded golf umbrellas, a Calloway Golf rain jacket, nearly-empty bottles of liquor purchased at least 10 years ago, rusty folding chairs, and cracked but still usable sandcastle molds. And of course no two beach towels are ever identical. The fridge houses a permanent collection of condiments, tonic water, pickles, little glass bottles of Canada Dry ginger ale, and cocktail olives, all of unknown vintage. If there's a landline phone, it may still be listed under a deceased relative's name. The entire house is permeated with the odor of seawater, salt, sunscreen, and just a little mildew, a fragrance nearly impossible to replicate elsewhere.

Children spend weeks on end here in the summer with Mom, with Dad coming to visit when he takes a couple weeks off from his law firm or medical practice. Sometimes adolescents live here all summer while working at the fresh seafood restaurant down the road.

The vacation begins upon crossing the last bridge into town, when the cares of city life are symbolically cast away over the rail. The SUV, its windows decorated with European-style oval stickers that proudly proclaim the family's allegiance to the beach town, rolls into the driveway after dark, and upon exiting the vehicle, the weary travelers fill their lungs with the humid, salty air and feel instantly at peace. After scrambling to unpack everything and mildly cursing about having forgotten something, the vacationers either kick back with some refreshments and conversation, go out and party, or crash for the night.

Each day begins at the preppy beach house whenever you feel like getting up. Breakfast is picked at lazily on a breezy porch. The rest of the day is wide-open. You may just sit outside all morning, coming inside for lunch and maybe a nap, then more beach sitting until about 5 or 6. Or, if you're the sporting type, perhaps you'll take the boat out for a cruise and do some fishing, maybe stopping for lunch at a seafood joint with docks where you can park your boat and walk inside. Homemade dinners consist of local seafood and items from the nearest farmer's market, and if no one feels like cooking, there are plenty of restaurants that preppy families have been going to for decades offering delicious, moderately priced seafood, pizza, and burgers, operated by down-home people who are not preps but whose families have lived in the area for generations. Rainy days are spent napping and reading or going shopping and dining out. At night, at least in Wrightsville, you walk to the nearest watering hole, get hammered, dance the night away, and stumble back home in the wee hours.

I love the beach, and I can't help it. It's practically hereditary for preppies. A love for casual, yet gracious, beach living is passed down from generation to generation in the prep subculture, and, maintaining the preppy disdain for change, the succeeding generation enjoys the beach in exactly the same manner as its forbears.