As a kid, I never realized my parents took us on vacations to Myrtle Beach to travel on the cheap. They packed the cooler with sandwich meat, clean the garden out of fresh vegetables, and then we hit the road. Somewhere between here and there, my dad pulled the car over and we ate lunch at a picnic table. My mom peeled cucumber after cucumber for my sister and me, an addiction I’ve yet to break.
We loaded back in the car and drove for a few more hours, finally arriving at the ocean. We never had reservations, resulting in us cruising up and down the strip, stopping in to check rates and availability. My mom would ask to see a room before we unpacked the car. Motels in our price range might be sketchy, so putting eyes on them was non-negotiable.
Left to right: My dad, me, and my older sister.
This vacation found us in Canton at the Pro-Football Hall of Fame.
Cold sandwiches and a meager room – sure – but we didn’t care. We had the beach! We spent out week splashing in the water and riding in the waves. I don’t recall ever playing putt-putt golf or any other attraction which had an admission fee, and I don’t remember ever wanting too. My parents might have different memories, but in my mind, we were exactly where we wanted to be, doing what we wanted to do.
Full Disclosure – The featured image of this post is not Myrtle Beach. Somewhere I have digital photos of the my vacation there with Jay a few years ago, but I couldn’t place them. This photo is from a cruise to the Bahamas he and I took in 2015.