The South Carolina sand of Myrtle Beach, smooth as baby powder, coats the bottom of my feet as I make my way across it, deep in thought. I have come to this place, not far from where the Little River meets the Atlantic Ocean, to better understand where my body fits in U.S. history. Mere decades ago, my great-grandfather Moses Graham would not have been able to walk here as I do today.
As a Black man in the 1940s, living under Jim Crow laws, Moses had only a four-block stretch of nearby Atlantic Beach open to him. In its heyday, this area was referred to as the “Black Pearl.” There were hotels, motels, and dance and music halls; Black artists touring on the Chitlin Circuit came through town because they could perform, dine, and stay at the same venue. Musicians such as Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday, and Little Richard played a little farther down the strip at a Black-owned entertainment space called Charlie’s Place.
Much has been written about the lack of Black visibility in our national parks, but less is reported about Black people’s historically restricted access to “blue spaces,” including lakes, beaches, and other waterways, as the result of slavery and segregation. That’s the problem with history that happens by the seaside—water doesn’t preserve evidence the way land can.
I’ve spent much of the last decade investigating the larger question of who gets to recreate where. I’ve sought out why these exclusionary policies existed, and what’s left to mark this history. These inquiries have led me to places such as Highland Beach, Maryland—founded in 1893 by Major Charles Remond Douglass, son of abolitionist Frederick Douglass—and to American Beach on Amelia Island, Florida, established in 1935 by A.L. Lewis as a recreation space for Black Americans.
There are sites such as Freeman and Seabreeze beaches in North Carolina, and lesser-known areas of major cities, like Chicken Bone Beach in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and Mosquito Beach on James Island, a short ride away from the cobblestone streets of Charleston, South Carolina. Whether banned by law or social custom, Black folks made their own oases across the country, from stretches in Manhattan Beach, California, to others on Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts. Each place stood in contrast to white-owned operations and the humiliation and denigration that came with being turned away from restaurants, hotels, and gas stations throughout the first half of the 20th century.
Illustration by Hayden Goodman
Now, when I plan my trips, I ask: What is the history of this place, and where could historically marginalized people relax on a day off? Where do they go now? Understanding the specific context of lesser-known spaces means that I can find ways to mindfully engage with and support the local businesses at the heart of these communities and the organizations working to share their stories.
Ahead of my travels, I search for recognized or proposed National Heritage Areas along the water like the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, a stretch of coastal lands and islands from North Carolina to Florida. Designations like these are meant to preserve a region’s cultural traditions while promoting sustainable tourism and providing economic opportunities for locals. The African American Heritage Water Trail in Illinois, which highlights the stories of Black Americans who made their homes along its waterways, is another route.
Today, Charlie’s Place in Myrtle Beach is a business incubator offering workspaces to entrepreneurs and a museum that gives weekly tours highlighting the venue’s role in American music. A mile away, the Myrtle Beach Colored School Museum and Education Center details the contributions of African Americans working to create better opportunities for the future.
Guides such as the Martha’s Vineyard Black-Owned Business Directory spotlight where to eat, shop, and stay on the island, while the African American Heritage Trail of Martha’s Vineyard offers narrated tours. Through exhibits, museums like the Southampton African American Museum in Southampton, New York, illustrate the enduring legacy of a population that has called the area home for generations. Taken together, these cultural spaces are a testament to the Black communities who persevered despite policies and practices that limited their access to the nearby ocean.
Over time, water reshapes everything in its path, for better and worse. But if you look closely, every landscape tells the story of the people who have passed through it.
