It started with a beached jellyfish. Hardly the meet-cute of a summer rom-com, I know, but life rarely follows Hollywood’s script—especially in Myrtle Beach, where every stranger feels like a background extra in someone else’s vacation montage. Anyway, I was walking along the shoreline, shoes in hand, marveling at the way humid air seems to hang heavier during late July sunsets, when I saw it: all translucent and tragic in the sand. The jellyfish, not the stranger.

Before I could properly inspect it or contemplate my nonexistent knowledge of marine biology, a voice called out. “You’re not gonna touch that, are you?” It was a man in his forties, weathered like a paperback novel left in the sun too long—think Danny Ocean by way of discount Margaritaville. He had the kind of confidence only a tourist with nothing to lose and a fresh sunburn could muster. I didn’t answer right away, unsure if I had unwittingly stepped into a conversation I wasn’t prepared to have.

“Don’t flip it over with your foot,” he continued, striding closer, carrying an air of unsolicited expertise. “They’ll sting even when they’re dead.” He’d been carrying a metal detector, now leaning it casually on his shoulder like he was auditioning for a pirate biopic. Up close, I noticed he had the distinct aroma of sunscreen, sea air, and mild conspiracy theories.

I assured him I hadn’t planned on touching the jellyfish—foot or otherwise. Still, he crouched next to it, pulling a plastic spoon from his cargo-shorts-pocket arsenal and delicately nudging it back into the surf. Watching him scoop the dead sea blob with the kind of reverence typically reserved for delicate soufflés, I wanted to laugh. Instead, what slipped out was more like, “Are you always this prepared?”

He smirked. “A good beach guy always is.”

At the time, I didn’t have much patience for his schtick. I thought he might be one of these characters Myrtle Beach locals encounter in the summer—someone passing through with too many questions and too few intentions. But soon, he dropped some wisdom that’s stuck with me ever since. And no, it wasn’t about jellyfish.

The Boardwalk Philosophy of Life

We walked a little further along the shoreline, because let’s face it—once someone rescues a jellyfish in your immediate presence, you've tacitly agreed to be their temporary companion. He started telling me how he’d been coming to Myrtle Beach every summer since the ‘80s, back when the boardwalk had fewer neon daiquiri huts and more wooden planks in need of a power-wash.

“I used to think this place was huge,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the boardwalk lights twinkling behind us. “It felt endless—like maybe you could meet anybody and be anyone here. Funny thing though … all these years later, I realized it’s not about the size of the boardwalk, but how you walk it.”

Now, if you’re like me, your first thought here is likely, “Did this guy just serve me a fortune cookie in real time?” But before I could roll my eyes too hard, he followed up with something that made me stop.

“Everyone remembers the big moments in life—the fireworks on the Fourth, or a splashy new beginning. But it’s the small stuff, the little toss-away interactions, that stick with you longer than you’d think. You ever notice that?”

I had. I just hadn’t thought about it in a long while. Maybe it was the humid air messing with my clarity, or maybe it was his undeniable vibe of secondhand-wisdom-meets-uncle-who-gives-strangely-excellent-advice, but I nodded. He went on to explain that sometimes, we’d be better off approaching relationships and life the same way you approach the boardwalk: one step at a time, pausing for popcorn when you need to, tipping the street performers when your heart moves you, and not rushing to make sense of every encounter.

Love, Jellyfish, and Saying Yes to the Unexpected

We ended up talking for another hour, combing through stories about the people we’d loved, lost, or never really understood, set against a backdrop of crashing waves. He told me how he’d once fallen hard for a girl he met at a beachside game arcade but was too shy to ask her name before she disappeared into the ocean’s vacation-time void. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Some people are meant to skim through your life like a skipping stone—they don’t stay forever, but they make ripples you’ll remember.”

Okay, call me sentimental, but by this point, I was fully invested in his ramblings. It wasn’t that he had profound answers to life’s questions; it was more that he didn’t pretend to. He wasn’t trying to win me over with some grand thesis on the Meaning of It All—he was just a man who’d lived enough summers to know that most of life is unpredictable, and that’s where the magic lives.

He had a point.

Think about it: How often do we let ourselves be open to the unexpected? Whether it’s dating, friendships, or even the person standing behind you in line at an over-hyped taco truck, there’s something to be said for the connections we don’t go looking for, the ones that just happen. Some of the best relationships aren’t built on elaborate plans—they’re the result of saying yes to a moment you didn’t see coming.

Lessons from a Stranger: Little Ripples You Carry Forward

When it was finally time to part ways, my jellyfish-saving friend shook my hand like we were colleagues who’d just closed an important deal. As he walked back toward his metal detector and the people waiting in his orbit, I realized he’d gifted me three oddly practical lessons without even meaning to:

  • Be prepared for jellyfish (metaphorically and literally). Not every situation in life will be clear or straightforward, but you can still show up with a metaphorical plastic spoon to handle it with care.

  • Pause for the popcorn moments. Life isn’t about rushing from one big milestone to the next—it’s about savoring the fleeting experiences that make it all feel real.

  • Let some people just skim through your life. Not every stranger is here to stay, but that doesn’t mean their presence is meaningless. They may reset your perspective in ways you won’t fully understand right now, but someday it’ll click.

Walking Into Your Own Ripples

When I got home, I wrote all this down so I wouldn’t forget. Sure, maybe it’s not an earth-shattering revelation, but here’s the thing: it doesn’t have to be. Life’s not a fireworks show every single night. Sometimes, it’s a quiet sparkler held in someone’s hand. Sometimes, it’s a stranger with a plastic spoon facing down a jellyfish who shows you that the little ripples really are the whole point.

So here’s my takeaway: The next time you’re walking your own proverbial boardwalk—whether that’s in the world of love, self-discovery, or just figuring out if you want dessert—let yourself say yes to life’s small, unexpected encounters. Because who knows? One of them just might stick with you longer than you think.