 ) Myrtle Beach AFB RedevelopmentBy Marc "Devil Dog Of The Web" Iseli / Updated Dec. 2025 Myrtle Beach Air Force Base: once a proud patch of tarmac where the Zoomies strutted around pretending they were in Top Gun, officially shut its doors in '93. Fast forward, and the place got a facelift. Now it’s Market Common, Myrtle Beach International Airport, and a bunch of overpriced condos where the only thing flying is the HOA fees. In 2004, I got dropped into this FUBAR as a superintendent for a company barely old enough to shave. We somehow scored a gig breathing life back into the old base, which was about as lively as a mess hall on liver night. The place got mothballed just like MCAS El Toro, another ghost town for the military’s greatest hits album. Walking those cracked runways again was like time-traveling back to when the only thing more common than jet noise was bad chow. The Market Commons project was just getting its boots on the ground, and half the old buildings were still standing, probably out of spite. Market Commons was patterned after New York City, complete with shops, apartments stacked on top, a movie theater big enough to land a C-130 in, and grocery stores for the new breed of civilians. I was wrangling a ten-man crew, making sure doors and windows went in the right holes. Like, try herding a bunch of high-testosterone cats, but with more cussing. The best part? Half the base was still a jungle, with buildings hiding under enough brush to make a recon Marine feel at home. After hours, I’d saddle up my mountain bike and cruise the busted-up roads, hunting for relics like some boot on a scavenger hunt. Ammo bunkers, maintenance shacks, even the building where they hung drag chutes to dry, still reeking of hydraulic fluid and porno graffiti. I lugged my camera around, trying to capture the place before the bulldozers finished the job. One day, the local PD rolled up, lights blazing, because apparently a guy on a bike with a camera just after 911 near the airport is a national security threat. I told them I was a Marine who used to live on bases like this. They looked at me like I’d just asked for their last beer. Turns out, that and a buck fifty won't get you a coffee but a one-way ticket to the pokee. Sixteen years since I bugged out, and I’d bet my last MRE all that old-school grit is long gone, just like El Toro. We’re all just dust in the wind, and all your moolah not another minute will buy . Cue the tiny violin and pass the tissues, because nostalgia just hit me like a DI with a clipboard Feast your eyeballs on these Market Commons construction shots from 2007. Mud everywhere, dirt roads that could swallow a Humvee, and enough racket to wake a sleeping Gunny. it reminds me of being back on the flight line minus the hyd fluid and JP-5 running down my arm. The only thing missing was the sweet aroma of jet exhaust and the sound of someone cussing out a power cart.
Alright, you glorious Rat Phixers and Phlyers, if we ever survived a TAD, a Det, or a BOHICA, who haven't, and you didn’t think I was the biggest gaff off in the squadron. Got a sea story, or some grainy photos your ex didn’t set on fire, and they’re only slightly illegal? Send ‘em by email, snail mail, or safety wire it to a carrier pigeon. I collect ‘em all, just nothing that would incriminate me. 80svmfp3@gmail.com Return To The Home Page  |
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