The White Water Band IV(b)
We arrived in Myrtle Beach sometime in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. Terry had never seen the ocean before, and when we got our first full view of it--that beautiful dark blue underneath the blue sky--he said, "It looks higher than we are! Why ain't it comin' in on us?"
We knew the name of the hotel where we'd been booked and the name of the guy who'd booked us, and we went directly there, intent on causing a disturbance. With the big blue bus parked out in the parking lot, we all went into the hotel and headed for the club. I can picture us now as we strode across the lobby and headed for the top floor. I have it in my mind that we were too ready to rumble to wait for elevators, and the six or seven of us there hit the stairs running, taking them two at a time. Imagine what we looked like coming out of that stairwell--a handful of mountain boys, unshowered and unshaven and probably in the same clothes we'd worn on stage (and then slept in) the night before in Hickory.
The manager happened to be there, and Harlan and Jim--their southern Appalachian manners and sense deference kicking in at the last second--sat and talked with him civilly. They liked him. While the rest of us wandered aimlessly around the big shiny room, such a contrast to the homley little place we'd played just a few hours before, they found out that it wasn't this fellow who had screwed us but the booking agent. Apparently the agent had attempted to get us a booking and failed, but his failure came after he'd already told us we were in.
So, here we were in Myrtle Beach on a Sunday afternoon. No place to stay. No money to speak of; we lived in a time before debit cards or ATM machines, and none of us had a credit card. I might have had $10 in my pocket. We'd been expecting this hotel to house and feed and pay us, but that wasn't going to happen.
We figured pretty quickly that we couldn't afford even one room in a motel, so somebody came up with the idea of a campground. We headed south along King's Highway. We pulled into the first campground we came to, and the blue bus stalled out about 50 yards short of the main office. Harlan and Jim got out to go see about a space, and somebody else got busy trying to get the bus started again. The guys came back and said that they were told it was a family campground. Rock-and-roll bands weren't welcome. This seemed okay because we were all eaten up with mosquitos and weren't interested in spending a night as food for the bloodsuckers. We got the bus going again and headed on down the highway till we came to Ocean Lakes Family Campground.
Terry was the smallest of us, and his hair was longish and blond. So, having been made aware of the "family" requirement we migh encounter, we stuffed his shirt to give him breasts and put him back in one of the bunks we'd built on top of our equipment. Our stupid plan was for Harlan to go in claiming to be a member of a family band--think "Partridge Family." Terry was either his sister or his wife and we were all to be related at no greater distance than cousins. We watched throught the windows to watch how Harlan got along and to see if anybody was going to come out and check his story. He stood in the office, talking to this fellow, and by the shaking of heads and the glances toward the bus, negotiations didn't seem to be going well. Then a young woman came out of a back room. We could see her smiling and saying stuff to the fellow behind the desk, and then Harlan was back with a place for us to spend the night. Apparently the woman was the daughter of the owner, and she teased the young man, who had been about to turn us away, into letting us have a space for the night. They assigned us a spot in a back corner of the campground, and we made our way there.
It was late, but we went down to the beach anyway. I remember being chest-deep in the ocean, with nothing but the stars and the campground lights around me. The distance was dark. The water was dark. Some few weeks later, I would lose my breath thinking of this moment spashing with friends in the dark water as I sat by another friend in a dark theater watching the opening scene of a new movie called Jaws.
Fortunately, no sharks attacked, and we spent a decent night in the campground. I slept on top of the bus again and tried to ignore the growling of my stomach.
245
We knew the name of the hotel where we'd been booked and the name of the guy who'd booked us, and we went directly there, intent on causing a disturbance. With the big blue bus parked out in the parking lot, we all went into the hotel and headed for the club. I can picture us now as we strode across the lobby and headed for the top floor. I have it in my mind that we were too ready to rumble to wait for elevators, and the six or seven of us there hit the stairs running, taking them two at a time. Imagine what we looked like coming out of that stairwell--a handful of mountain boys, unshowered and unshaven and probably in the same clothes we'd worn on stage (and then slept in) the night before in Hickory.
The manager happened to be there, and Harlan and Jim--their southern Appalachian manners and sense deference kicking in at the last second--sat and talked with him civilly. They liked him. While the rest of us wandered aimlessly around the big shiny room, such a contrast to the homley little place we'd played just a few hours before, they found out that it wasn't this fellow who had screwed us but the booking agent. Apparently the agent had attempted to get us a booking and failed, but his failure came after he'd already told us we were in.
So, here we were in Myrtle Beach on a Sunday afternoon. No place to stay. No money to speak of; we lived in a time before debit cards or ATM machines, and none of us had a credit card. I might have had $10 in my pocket. We'd been expecting this hotel to house and feed and pay us, but that wasn't going to happen.
We figured pretty quickly that we couldn't afford even one room in a motel, so somebody came up with the idea of a campground. We headed south along King's Highway. We pulled into the first campground we came to, and the blue bus stalled out about 50 yards short of the main office. Harlan and Jim got out to go see about a space, and somebody else got busy trying to get the bus started again. The guys came back and said that they were told it was a family campground. Rock-and-roll bands weren't welcome. This seemed okay because we were all eaten up with mosquitos and weren't interested in spending a night as food for the bloodsuckers. We got the bus going again and headed on down the highway till we came to Ocean Lakes Family Campground.
Terry was the smallest of us, and his hair was longish and blond. So, having been made aware of the "family" requirement we migh encounter, we stuffed his shirt to give him breasts and put him back in one of the bunks we'd built on top of our equipment. Our stupid plan was for Harlan to go in claiming to be a member of a family band--think "Partridge Family." Terry was either his sister or his wife and we were all to be related at no greater distance than cousins. We watched throught the windows to watch how Harlan got along and to see if anybody was going to come out and check his story. He stood in the office, talking to this fellow, and by the shaking of heads and the glances toward the bus, negotiations didn't seem to be going well. Then a young woman came out of a back room. We could see her smiling and saying stuff to the fellow behind the desk, and then Harlan was back with a place for us to spend the night. Apparently the woman was the daughter of the owner, and she teased the young man, who had been about to turn us away, into letting us have a space for the night. They assigned us a spot in a back corner of the campground, and we made our way there.
It was late, but we went down to the beach anyway. I remember being chest-deep in the ocean, with nothing but the stars and the campground lights around me. The distance was dark. The water was dark. Some few weeks later, I would lose my breath thinking of this moment spashing with friends in the dark water as I sat by another friend in a dark theater watching the opening scene of a new movie called Jaws.
Fortunately, no sharks attacked, and we spent a decent night in the campground. I slept on top of the bus again and tried to ignore the growling of my stomach.245
posted by mac | 6:56 AM
1 Comments:
at the age 16, I think I was still playing with toys..lol. I wonder if it help's a person muture more experiencing life like you did at such an early age. Probably..
Post a Comment
<< Home