[Editor’s Note: This is Part 2 of a three-part series, read Part 1 here.]

This is one of my first good Charleston photos.

It was taken early on in my time here in the American South (sounds more prestigious when you say it like that) and the truth is, it was actually a lucky shot. I was visiting with Cam; he was going deep-sea fishing and I was going exploring, as is yearly tradition now. We were just pulling into town, crossing the regionally-famous Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge going 65, when he opened the sunroof and I stuck my camera out the top. The shot, by the grace of the photo gods, turned out nearly perfectly symmetrical. Towering beams rising into a cloudless sky; a spooky, haunted shade of blue.

“Let my brother drive while I shoot, team effort”

— 21 Savage "Jimmy Cooks"

I got the image printed on a large canvas and hung it on the wall at the front of the business that I came down to help him run in Myrtle Beach. Every now and then someone comments on it, even going as far as to say they have taken the same photo. ‘Great minds think alike’ I’ll go along. Hell, I’d venture to say half the people crossing the bridge at any given time are taking a photo of it, including the drivers. It’s hard not to.

But secretly I harbor a pride that stands as tall as the Ravenel columns. It’s necessary. I believe you should take pride; in your work, your hobbies, your passions. I’m proud because I care, so, so much.

No, you didn’t take this photo, I would think to myself. This is a bucket.

[Editor’s note: A term usually reserved for basketball (a made basket specifically) I’ve made it my own. It’s not just a good photo. It’s one that has meaning, one that shows determination, one that shows skill, care, and yes, sometimes luck. It’s been a decade since I started using it (shoutout Barn, he’s the first I can recall using it as a verb for taking photos) and my friends and family now use it without thinking twice. You know when you see it. That’s a bucket.

I built an audience using the pseudonym ‘Willie Buckets’ and used that for three years, including winning awards and being published under that name. I was eventually finally convinced to use my own name ‘Stew’ by a drunken stranger’s impassioned late-night speech in a Kansas City living room in 2018, advocating for me to really take credit for my work. Shoutout to that guy.]

But having that much pride like that can leave opportunity to be humbled. Loudly, publicly humbled.

The following Sunday after my best shooting day ever, the mighty Ravenel Bridge and the low-country heat came together and taught me a lesson.

Oh boy, did I get humbled.

First of all, I didn’t get into the same great routine I did the previous week. I was up late a lot, and if we’re being honest, I felt a little like I was playing with house money. I already had at least four photos from last weekend to enter into the contest. With maximum of five possible entries, that left me with two full Sundays to find a sure-fire fifth entry, and dare I say it… try to improve the unicorn photo?

[Editor’s note: This is the perfection-obsessed shit that is only admirable if you don’t have to see and deal with the behind-the-scenes. For example, the only thing my ex-girlfriends have in common is that neither could stand to watch me agonize for hours over the minutia of an Instagram post. Jokes on them, this one took seven weeks.]

“It’s late but still, today; gotta get off your ass, and LIVE”

— Isaiah Rashad "Same Shit"

I opted to pick up where I left off at the park in Mount Pleasant for two reasons: first, I ran out of time last Sunday and wanted to explore more thoroughly; but secondly, I didn’t want to limit myself to the peninsula. The contest tagline included a bit about including the surrounding areas so I didn’t want to box myself into downtown, although that’s what I consider the most charming and ‘So Charleston’ part of the area.

From dictionary.com, the definition for the word ‘loom’:

1. to appear indistinctly; come into view in indistinct and enlarged form.

2. to assume form as an impending event.

The Mighty Ravenel was, indeed, looming in the background - as it turns out, by both definitions.

[Editor’s note: there’s a third entry for ‘loom’ that just reads ‘Loyal Order of Moose” with no further explanation. That intrigues me.}

There are two times when it really hits you how big this bridge is: when you’re underneath it, and when you’re walking across it. I started the day with the former, checking out the pier that stretched out underneath it.

I wandered out to the end of the pier and shot around this wooden trellis. The early morning sun casted some cool shadows but I didn’t catch anything as cool as the fish this guy caught (shitty picture, great fish). I am just now noticing his stripes mimic the shadows created by the trellis.

After I had seen as much of the pier and park as there was to see, I had a decision to make: Am I going to go try to find parking downtown this late in the day? Or am I finally going to do what I’ve seen so many happy Charlestonians doing as I leave town each trip: trek the Ravenel Bridge.

I stopped in the lovely pier gift shop to cool off and something caught my eye. It was a Charleston puzzle featuring the bridge that towered above us. I was considering adding it to my collection but didn’t want to carry it all day. I asked the girl behind the counter what time they closed. 7pm tonight, she said.

Ok, I’m gonna go for a walk and think about it, if you’re still open when I get back I’ll probably get it.

She gave me a look that said: You’re gonna go for a 8-hour walk?

Yes, I am.

It really doesn’t look like much from here but I swear that place is magical.

First of all, I underestimated the size and length of this bridge even after standing under it. I thought it was a mile, mile-and-a-quarter tops. It only took a minute or two to drive over right? That’s always what it felt like. And there were always so many happy people, practically skipping across this thing.

But oh boy I was wrong.

It’s 2.25 miles and honestly a pretty daunting walk - and that’s coming from a guy who walked to Switzerland from Italy last year. There’s no stairs or direct way on to the bridge, at least on the Mount Pleasant side, so it’s a long gradual uphill walk even to get to the bridge itself. Then it’s another incline for a half-mile, with cars flying by at 65mph on your right, and the open expanse of the ocean blue to your left (it’s technically the mouth of a river but might as well be the ocean, it’s right there).

This, while not terribly aesthetically pleasing, is a ‘very Charleston’ photo. It was among the candidates for my fifth entry.

It was as uncomfortable as I’ve been crossing a bridge since Randa, but once again it wasn’t the height that bothered me. In Switzerland, it was the lack of solid ground, the fact that it was a swinging bridge that shook me up, literally and figuratively. On this bridge it was something different: it was the second time in my adult life that I can recall feeling megalophobia.

Back to Dictionary.com: “No results found”

Hmm. I guess I’ll have to do what I’ve tried to avoid doing a lot latey: Googling. I’ve been trying to use other searches or go straight to the source, which is why I ended up on Dictionary.com in the first place.

From the Google search ‘megalophobia definition -ai’: (that last part is key)

“Megalophobia is an irrational and excessive fear of large objects, that can occur as a result of a negative experience or due to an unknown cause.”

Yep, that’s it.

The funny thing is that the only other time that I’ve felt this was right across this very harbor, about five years ago. The megalophobia then? A dozen-story cruise ship towering - no, looming - over the quaint Charleston skyline. The size of it was was jarring. Un-nerving.

The irrational fear this time? The columns that make up the bridge, when you stand right next to them, are overwhelming. I literally didn’t like looking at them, so much so that I kept my head down. They were cold, windowless, lifeless… and too damn big. I love skyscrapers, I love big cities. Those, in my mind, are supposed to be enormous. Something like this, was just… overbearing. Brutal, towering bullies standing guard in the sea.

Seen from afar they pass as elegant, but standing up next to them they just felt… evil?

Yeah I don’t know but I didn’t like it at all.

Getting across was a bear. You have to share a lane with ‘serious bicycle guys’ who really didn’t do much to break out of their stereotype. You have to make sure nothing blows away (it’s windy up there) and there is nowhere to hide from the low-country sun. It felt like a solid five miles. I took a few decent pictures along the way but just getting across was the big deal. I needed to find water and sustenance.

As I began to walk the peninsula - one of my favorite things to do on earth - I was overwhelmed by another feeling. A strangeness. It felt different. Was I just dehydrated or was there more to it?

I was tired. The sun got me, the bridge got me. My ambition and creativity were on reserves. I was in survival mode, in a place where that shouldn’t be the case. That’s no way to be when out hunting for the last entry.

I needed a gas station, or a vending machine, and maybe even some rest in the shade in one of these beautiful parks around here. But where were they? It had now been a couple hours since I left the gift shop in Mt. Pleasant, and I hadn’t had any fluids or shade since. And I couldn’t even get across the street. I was stuck in some Truman Show style of endless traffic in the most generic, off-brand part of town I’d ever seen. This was not the Charleston I knew.

View from the bridge entering the peninsula - turned out to still be a long way from the magic.

I fought off the heat, hallucinations, and strange vibes and eventually found Meeting Street, where I ducked into a gas station and bathed in the AC. It was glorious.

I finally knew where I was, had some fluids replenished and started to see familiar scenes like this one:

I had two thoughts: either go back to the City Market and try to perfect the unicorn shot (shoot it wider, as to give myself more of a chance at the magazine cover) or go back to Hampton Park, where I visited in March, to relax a bit.

I opted for the park and shot what caught my eye along the way, which in hindsight turned out to be mostly just colorful subjects. There was nothing layered, no anticipation, no chess being played. I was using the same creative eye as a toddler, just shooting shiny objects and primary colors. I was, in no way, operating at the level I was used to. I was barely operating at all.

I wandered, and wandered… and wandered. I was thirsty again, and Hampton Park didn’t seem to be where I left it last. I saw a sign welcoming me to the West Side, which meant I needed to go north.

After walking what felt like an hour I decided maybe the angle of the peninsula steered me wrong, so I took a right. That should get me back to King at least.

I was correct, although it showed how turned around I got. I was way south on King. The only thing that caught my eye was this supercar, which is stupid but I took a picture anyway. Then I ventured off, once again, away from the buzz of the busy shopping district, into the neighborhoods of Chucktown.

I felt dogged. Hobbled. Sun-beaten. I didn’t take the task at hand as serious as I could have, and now I was paying for it. Semi-lost, snapping elementary photos while my car was in another town.

Alright I actually like this picture for some reason

I had to make a business decision, in the same way that a defender gets out of the way of Giannis thundering down the paint.

I decided to call off the dogs. Put the subs in. Looking at this month of trips as a series, I just lost Game 2.

It even crossed my mind to download Uber, which I have not used, out of some weird point of sobriety-pride, in many years. I guess I just associate it with being drunk and I’ll have none of that.

I saw the Ravenel in the far, far off distance, and headed towards it.

Almost the exact same picture as one shown earlier, taken several hours later.

The walk back to the car, although sore and hot, had a destination; an end goal, which acted as a carrot on a stick. As I was getting off the bridge on the Mount Pleasant side, with the late afternoon sun really running the score up, I saw a very, very large individual just beginning the walk.

It crossed my mind to make a joke to them about what a tough trek it was, hoping they knew what they were getting into. But I refrained, it was none of my business and I’m sure they knew what they were doing. After all, what kind of idiot would attempt to cross this megastructure without knowing what they were getting into?

I checked the time on my phone as I slogged into the park once again. 5:15pm. The gift shop was still open.

I grabbed the puzzle, as well as a pint glass with a painting of the Ravenel on it. The employees had changed shifts. There was no playful ‘I told you so’ to be had anyway. Yes, I made it back, but I got my ass kicked. And I didn’t get my fifth entry. If this was a three-game series, Charleston and I are tied up after respective blowouts.

My last and possibly best shot of the day. It shows the immenisty.

I would make it back to Myrtle to lick my wounds, watch some game-tape and drink some strawberry lemonade out of my new pint glass.

I’ll be back next week to break the tie.

To read what happened the following weekend and see if I got my fifth entry, click here.

[Editor’s note: My dad called me while I was writing this blog entry, literally as mad as I’ve ever heard him (which is saying a lot) because he wasn’t able to find the right buttons on a streaming device that I gifted him a few weeks ago, and was missing the Finals Game 3. Aside from being startled because I hadn’t heard him cuss like that in twenty years, I was also surprised by the fact that he still has that in him. I am a carbon copy of my father in many, many ways and my anger is one of them. No one makes us more angry than ourselves, and apparently that’s not gonna go away as I get older. I will write about that, visiting him in the mountains and why it’s ‘not OK’ when I don’t meet my own high standards, like when I missed the last exit on the way to see him the weekend after these Charleston trips. Link coming soon]

In the meantime, here’s one I took I titled ‘Dad’, dedicated to him.

I love you man. Happy Father’s Day.

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THE MIGHTY RAVENEL