Rabbit Box Blog

My little brother Charles and I were very close throughout his life, and after I was married and moved away, we visited each other as often as we could.

When he married Sophia Martin in May 1979, Joyce and I drove back to North Carolina from Opelika, Alabama, where we were living at the time. After the wedding, the happy couple drove off for their short honeymoon (I think I remember they went to the mountains), and Joyce and I returned to Alabama.

Soon thereafter, Charles brought his new bride to Opelika, and the four of us set off for Fort Walton Beach, Florida.

None of us had been to the Gulf Coast, and we all had a little time off from work. Somebody in the family kidded that we were going on their honeymoon. To be honest, it sometimes felt that way. But we were all proper Southern Baptists, so nothing untoward happened.

One day we decided to drive down the coast from Fort Walton, and in those days there were long stretches of empty beach. After we had driven for miles without seeing even a car, we stopped to enjoy the beach and water. We splashed around for awhile, and Charles declared the Gulf Coast a bust—he loved body surfing at the Atlantic beaches he was used to, and the water here was too calm. Boring, he said.

“Let’s go skinny dipping,” Sophia said. We all looked at each other shyly, then said okay.

“But what if somebody comes and sees us?” asked Joyce.

“Nobody’s been here all day,” we answered. “Who’s going to know?”

“Well, maybe,” said Joyce, “but I’m keeping my suit with me. I don’t want to take a chance that somebody might come along and steal our clothes.” She obviously had seen a lot of comic movies.

“Fine,” we said. Better safe than sorry, we all thought.

So, standing neck-deep in the Gulf of Mexico, we all stripped down and held our bathing suits firmly in one hand. We might have tried to paddle around a little, but nobody made any revealing moves, and nobody saw anything.

After awhile we all got a little bored, put our suits back on, and went back to shore. Then we picked up our beach towels and drove back to town for lunch.

* * *

The trip somehow bothered Charles. Not only was the Gulf surf a disappointment, but he felt he and Sophia somehow owed us for our part of the trip. Soon he hatched a plan for us to go with them to Windy Hill Beach (now part of North Myrtle). One of Sophia’s extended family owned a beach house there, so we could stay free. Joyce and I were both teaching, so we had some time off during the summer, so we agreed. In August 1979, before the academic year started, we drove together to Windy Hill.

Yes, it ended up being part two of the extended honeymoon. We all had fun, but after a day or two Joyce and I started making ourselves scarce when the new couple clearly needed some time alone. One evening we were walking along the shore when we saw a group of people standing neck-deep in the water. They appeared to be two families—moms, dads, some older children—gathered in a fairly tight circle, laughing and not moving around much. As Joyce and I walked closer, some of them seemed to become uncomfortable, but it took us a minute to figure out why.

“Those people are skinny-dipping!” I said.

“No!” said Joyce. “On Windy Hill Beach?”

“Yep,” I said. “Let’s give them some room.”

So we turned around and walked away. After a decent time, I sneaked a look back. Sure enough, some of them were walking out of the water, while others were apparently struggling to get back into their suits without showing anything.

“Must be Baptists,” I said.