Among the squealing children and compassionate townspeople of North Myrtle lies a dirty secret: Beach Week 2k16. Bright and smiling faces slowly transform as the dark cloud of boozy college students rolls in, bringing their blindingly untanned library complexion and the sexual drive of one thousand feral bulls. Within these few days, an entire semester's worth of chaos was let loose, and these are just a few of the memories I can recall.
1. "Is this legal?"
When Speegee transformed into a "straight" club for the weekend to accommodate all the lonely UVA souls recovering from finals.
When Speeg charged $4 for a cup of water and $10 for entry.
When wildly drunken students drove away all the nice, vacation-having families within a six-mile radius.
2. "Are you serious right now?"
When the realization hit that there were more rooms to Speeg than just the sweaty bowl of soup that is the dance floor... and they were actually nice.
When innocent civilians (me, probably) ended up in the splash zone of nicely-marinated vomit, multiple times.
When the manliest, most testosterone-driven college men marked their beach territory with their frat flags ("frags?") on their flagpoles. They brought flagpoles.
3. "Oh my God"
When the older men participating in Bike Week starting hitting on everyone like their gene pool depended on it.
When people ran out of food long before they started getting low on alcohol.
When the line for the Taco Shack was impossibly long, until people started realizing that they weren't actually serving tacos anymore.
4. "I love UVA"
When the entire student body came out onto their Avista balconies and peer pressured one of their fellow Hoos to "THROW! THE! (inflatable) SWAN!" down five floors into the parking garage. And then proceeded to sing the Good Ol' Song. Go Hoos.
When the cashier at the liquor store asked "UVA kids, eh?"
When I got to scroll through mugshots of my peers on North Myrtle Beach Online.
5. "I'm definitely coming back next year"
I always try to convince myself throughout the school year that I don't actually need the mixed drinks in opaque Starbucks cups on the beach, or the threat of eviction from hotel management, but Dirty Myrtle always knows how to find its way back into my heart. Thanks for the sunburn, the emotional trauma, and the incredibly dense film of sweat I'll have forever as a memento of those mysterious Speeg nights. Until next year, Beach Week; it's been real.
