"Charleston at Table" is a limited series by Thomas Ellen. It is in the fashion of Eugene Briffault's "Paris à Table".
Click here to read the other parts in the series.
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It is rather easy to fit in here. To fit in entails striving to have the experience no one else had, the one set apart, the one desired most of all. It is not the chase itself that matters, not the journey, but the catch: for all are endlessly pursuing the one authentic experience—and only so many can have it. So, the best way to stand out is to step aside, to let them all go before you, and stand at the starting line muttering about Time and the wallet at his back? That’s vanity, that’s poor form.
There is a period between the afternoon meal and the evening where these experiences are at their most possible. Reinvigorated, feeling loose—depending on what one ate and drank—the craving to become, werden, reaches its peak. The greatest poem of the English language, the conjugation of the verb to be — I am / you are / he is / she is / we are / you are / they are — resounds from the depths of the soul. The sun is at its apotheosis, and we know it only wanes from here on out. Our day cannot end like this: something profound must occur. We must go forth.
To achieve the extraordinary, it requires taking on the customs and attributes of the eternal. But what means do we have here on this plane to wear the vestments of the celestial, to take on the personalities of those loungers above? Very simply, we drink.
But very specifically, it must be wine at this hour. With one glass, there is light beneath us, our gait pétillant, our I tottering on the edge of the Cartesian abyss. We begin to look into our separate selves: Selves — goes itself: myself it speaks and spells. And we lrp the distilled vegetable kingdom, the channel of communication between gods and man. It awakens us to life, and we begin to plan the immortal work, the grand conquest, the triumphant career, or the new arrangement of our studio apartment; our feelings break free, we find love lost and won, enemies no longer such; irresistible delight sweeps over us and warms the heart. Our palace gleams, and the horizon is without limit.
Yet we know it will all be forgotten tomorrow. This radical change in our being, the soaring and plummeting from one life to another and back again.
Beware, some stand against this. There is a pernicious campaign afoot to stigmatize our artifice of the divine. They would rather you sip a thin imposter. But don’t judge!—they’re having just as much fun as you!—in fact more!—and if anyone should be judged it is you for trying to pressure them by the act of drinking alone! I, a bore? You, a boor! Ah, only the sober could be so clever! And onward spiral till no one wants anything to do with the other. Anomie, cradle us. Joie de vivre, spare us.
And so, you’ve had your drink—likely a vin ordinaire, perhaps a bottle of La Vieille Ferme, or as some call it, Skinny Chicken—and you are walking to Colonial Lake up Broad Street to take in the radiance, or maybe you are lingering around Upper King after the thought of going up on a roof seemed to be your idea of achieving the sui generis that all crave. But you then receive a message, perhaps from a friend, perhaps from a superior at work, maybe even a rival. And there it is, in plain text, the experience that settles social status once and for all, that clearly marks and ennobles you: you’ve been invited on a boat.
How does one receive such an invitation? It’s not that hard, like so much in life one need only be interesting. There are of course the immutable traits—how attractive one is—but do not be deterred: anyone can find themselves drenched in the golden glow upon the harbor with the right social strategy. If you are of the fairer sex, it is prudent to choose a male companion that is sociable. It is mostly incumbent upon him to secure a position aboard. I have seen women near-tears from envy upon hearing of a girl they consider their inferior getting a ride out to the beach. But it is not their fault, but their man’s. He is, simply, not clubbable. He is likely gruff and considers himself too highly though his achievements are mediocre: congrats on being employed, but who do you know and what aspect do you bring to a circle? And as for men, it is recommended you carry yourself, simply, well. This means refraining from braggadocio—as you do not have a boat, at least not yet. Dress well, attend a church two or three times a month. Seem like you have your life together. All of this will inevitably lead to you acquainting yourself with a boatowner. However, do not ask about the boat, merely note the weather, say you fish, say you wonder what it’s like to swim out there as you have a drink with the boatowner at Vendue rooftop. If none of this works, say your lady has always wanted to go on a boat ride; follow this up by suggesting her single friend has never even seen an outboard.
It is upon the water we get our miracle, the day unlike any other. It is where exploration does not cease; it is where we arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. It is there our pleasure reaches beyond measure. It is where moderation in all things, especially moderation, is revealed. Take a gentleman I will call Ashby as an example of the boundless cheer one experiences on the thalassic plain.
He is the quintessential Renaissance Man: crooner, strummer, scribbler, venator, piscator, and able tosspot. For an assignment, he was tasked to document a sailing regatta launching from the Carolina Yacht Club. Though not a member of the CYC, he was welcomed as near a celebrity as one can be in this puddle of ours—announcing yourself as a member of the media causes the people to leap. And so, their cooler became his cooler, their buffet his buffet.
With the briny air sweeping in, the suspense built for the competitors, their adrenaline increased, their minds sharpened on the task. For the onlookers ashore and the many who took to their boats on that summer afternoon the breeze twirled up a gyre in each and every. Ashby afloat upon the bow of a center console, blurry-gazed out at windbound sails as clouds puffing. Tacking and gybing before full sail bloom. Heeling and hiking the race glides silent but for the melodious chop upon the hull and keel. These sounds of globe-spanning empire now reduced to mere hobby.
Ashby would get maybe four good pictures that afternoon. He’d continue his day at the basement of La Banque. Four or five Kronenbourgs later, his affianced arrived for the evening meal and, sadly, his enthusiasm was too much for them to be seated. Before he left, he assured the maître d he had been escorted out of worst places.
But center consoles and being on-the-job while on-the-water are not what the many envision when they think of boating in Charleston and the status conferred from it. They think instead of the very best: they think of booze cruises on yachts.
Your odds of getting on a yacht are slim to none. And yet, we cling to the slim. A booze cruise on a yacht is considered by many the pinnacle of high-status experience here. And so we continue to crave, to seek, to find, and not to yield. There are of course the sordid ways to gain entry, but these will not be delineated here: this physiologie is for all age-groups. But it must be mentioned in passing, as it is an aspect of this era. The other avenues of entry are more difficult. Most of all, it sometimes requires what some call luck. This means you meet the right guy in the right mood in the right setting. Or a friend of a friend finds your sense of humor agreeable one evening at one of the various clubs that play host to the legion of middle-aged single men (and let us be honest, thirty-five is nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita). This friend of a friend, it turns out, is a scion of some industrial entity, and that joke you made about class distinctions in occupations so tickled him he says to your friend and his fraternity brother that you—yes, you—should join them on his family’s yacht next weekend when it pulls into the marina.
This may sound fantastical, but I assure you it is not. There is one such case I know of, and his many dozens of friends and acquaintances do too.
The man I speak of is massive, in physical frame and in personality. He is the Prince of the West, as he hails from the Rockies. Many know of him, as he is gregarious almost to a fault. He is a resident of our city, traveling the world for months and reappearing here without warning. He can speak on just about any subject, as nothing eludes his curiosity. And what does he do for work? He will tell you he has been in the military and finance. You may question this initially, but his knowledge of these sectors cannot possibly come but from someone who has worked in them. All who know him wait in suspense twice a year, once in the fall and the other in the spring, for him to send out his invitations to hop aboard his sixty-footer, one of four of the make and model, to burble across the harbor.
You do not know if the booze cruise will happen until the inboard starts. You hold your breath with anticipation as you hustle on the pier, looking for any sign of the yacht amidst all those many boats in the marina. With the sight of it and the Prince, you slow down—you don’t want to appear too eager! You are asked to take your shoes off before boarding—good thing you trimmed your toenails last week! The crew of three offers to help you in, but you’re an athlete—middle-aged!—but an athlete, as there are girls watching your arrival, and you don’t want to embarrass your host. Finally, aboard, you introduce yourself to the elect. They are a mélange of the Prince’s social circles and further proof of his sociability. You shake the hand of one he met while at Dispensary one evening; you nod towards another he met at The Guild while they relaxed in the communal room. There are couples and singles, a healthy mix—for the Prince has an eye towards how to host a booze cruise. There are no fewer than a dozen all attempting to show poise and indifference to the position—but they all know.
And off it goes, gliding across the chop of the Ashley.
All get a drink and walk to the bow. There they peel off their loose layers—and all are gorgeous, man and woman alike. Some recline on the padded hood and others stand and mingle.
It’s time for small talk.
And what do you do? She’s a wedding planner, and her minimum cost is a quarter-of-a-million. Another works in publishing, as she went to a top university. This other is still trying to find herself—but you are told, at a whisper by a gentleman, she has over ten-thousand followers on some social media platform or another.
First destination: Drum Island. There the remotely operated anchor is launched, and the yacht is held in place for the revelers to disembark into the water if they please. One gentleman—the one the Prince met at Dispensary one evening—has brought some gadget: a surfboard, an electric surfboard, that sports a keel under it allowing him to appear to fly as it rises a few feet above the water. Music is played at an appropriate volume over the yacht’s speakers, but the presence of this ship drowns out the many smaller ones ashore on the island. These some-dozen appear to the onlookers on the beach as a cohort of the sturdiest and bravest, like a hardened troop stands out amidst the green. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t exercised in over a decade, you still emanate beauty thanks to the more attractive around you!
Drenched in drink and sun, it is time to depart from here and to Daniel Island. There the yacht will be tied up, and all will go ashore to the bar where food and more drink will be had. There evening plans are conjured, adventures are recounted. You fit right in with this crowd that you know will never speak to you again in the city. But here, you all are tasting luxury.
The Prince rallies his group, and to the yacht again, and to the river. The sun is behind the city. Many pictures are taken with the steepled skyline. None have too much—it is impossible to have too much! The coolers never seem to suffer a dent in supply: as if they are endlessly refilled after each visit.
The crew does their work effortlessly. This sixty-foot behemoth is shimmied between two lesser at the marina. Lines are tied, and shoes are laid out for the passengers to claim. All bid farewell. Some say see you at (insert gaudy club) in a few. Others know they must go home, but they are more than satisfied with their afternoon. They will likely take a nap from all the sun and booze.
Will this be their last time, some think. If it was, then a damn fine one. Cherish it, a husband says to a wife, who knows where we will be next year—we could have a kid by then, and our adventures will be completely new.
To get on a boat is a serious endeavor. It requires a certain social flexibility. You must at once be interesting and fun, and yet serious and put together—no captain wants a loose cannon aboard. If you find yourself on one frequently, do not speak too much of it. No owner wants to attract more attention.
But enjoy yourself. Take it all in. Truly, it is—among the teeming—the highest status experience one can have here.
And please note: the omission of those who rent boats was intentional. They are not to be considered when taking to the sea.