A nearly empty pier greeted us on a windy day when “Spanish” aka Spanish mackerels, were not running.

What do grits, moonshine, and grackles have to do with fishing? Stay with me and I’ll fill in the blanks. The opportunity for a completely different angling experience began with a text message from a former neighbor and fishing buddy who moved from the Pacific Northwest to South Carolina.

“I’ll pick you up at the Charlotte airport,” Tim wrote. “You can stay with Angela and I and won’t have to do a thing.” The planned itinerary included a “down home” barbecue, relaxing around their backyard pool, and fishing off the Carolina coast. We’d be put up in a one-bedroom mother-in-law suite and entertained by two 110-pound, tail-wagging Labrador retrievers.

Opportunity forsaken in local waters would be spring chinook salmon, the peak of smallmouth bass fishing, and opening day of stream trout. Regardless, tickets were purchased, arrangements were made to farm out our corgi, and we hopped on a jet plane.

Life is different in South Carolina. A gallon of unleaded gasoline is $2.99 at the pump. American robin song is replaced by the imitative whistle, yodel and trill of mockingbirds. Creeping “centipede” grass—not fescue or bluegrass— populates front yards. Roadside stands boast of boiled peanuts and peach salsa. Locals referred to my wife as “Miss Nancy” and answered my questions with a polite, “Yes sir.”

After a restful night’s sleep, we were treated to a $14 per plate Mother’s Day dinner at Mr. B’s family restaurant: grits, mac-and-cheese (aka a southern vegetable), dressing, mashed potatoes, brown gravy, creamed corn, green beans, butter beans, black beans, white rice, okra, collard greens, cabbage and onions, chicken (baked and fried), pulled pork, turkey, ham, cornbread, “angel” biscuits, and an assortment of salads and desserts. I confess to not sampling every dish, but also didn’t leave anything on either of my two serving plates.

The following evening, we drove down Old Possum Road to where Angela’s extended family lived. Stories about monster catfish were exchanged around hamburger-infused baked beans, coleslaw, and round buns stacked three-fingers high with the sweetest pulled pork I have ever tasted. Although the subject of “shine” came up, a Mason bottle was not passed around.

Southern hospitality is much more than exchanged pleasantries and the sharing of good food. Hugs and “you all come back now” handshakes with men and women I may never see again lasted until after sundown.

I would have happily settled for a bobber-and-worm experience on a farm pond filled with bream, catfish and crappie, but my hosts had something else in mind. They had recently purchased a two-bedroom house in Myrtle Beach within a crowded development called Ocean Lakes. “It’s only a block from the Atlantic Ocean,” Tim said. “Everyone drives a golf cart there.”

Meanwhile, hundreds of motorcycle enthusiasts gathered for the 85th annual Myrtle Beach Bike Week Spring Rally, an event purported to bring in 300,000 visitors over a 10-day period in May. The throaty growl of Harleys and the milling of tattooed men and women did not detract from our goal to fish from the Springmaid Pier.

Lacking appropriate gear, Tim and I borrowed spinning rod outfits from a neighbor who assured that “everything bites on shrimp.” Arriving at the pier, we purchased a daily license, bait and spare hooks, and found a place between a dozen other anglers. I lob casted a two-hook rig with a 3-ounce pyramid lead dropper from high above the water, rested my rod on a rail, and wandered the pier to gain insight. One friendly angler tells me, “They come and then they go.”

When I mentioned that I had traveled from Washington State, a nearby angler asks, “Have you met any rednecks yet?”

“I’ve heard about them,” I replied, “but haven’t met up with one yet.”

“You will soon meet one if that guy in the paddleboard gets any closer to where I’m casting.”

The blue gray surface of the Atlantic Ocean is shaded by ominous storm clouds. Jellyfish bob in the waves. Adventuresome swimmers populate shallows colored brown by the movement of sand. Off-key karaoke blasts from a nearby bar: Waylon Jennings, Metallica, Kid Rock. What began as a gentle southwest breeze turns to a stiff breeze and threatens to displace the “Gamecocks” baseball cap that Tim gave me to disguise my Pacific Northwest heritage.

Bites are infrequent and those fish we hook are small. Pesky grackles sneak in to steal bait and French fries. After four hours, our meager harvest consists of two spots and three croakers less than a foot long. Missing in our catch from the list of South Carolina coastal species are whiting, sheepshead, spotted sea trout, red and black drum, and Spanish mackerel.

Similar to other far-away angling experiences I have indulged in, there’s too much to absorb in a single afternoon. “We’ll stay in a cabin on the Santee River and fish for 20-pound catfish next time,” Tim says, when he drops us off at the airport for our homeward flight. His words remind that fishing is one sure way to rekindle a long-distance friendship.