Three Manta Rays

My first encounter with a manta ray was while reading “The Girl of the Sea of Cortez” as a teenager. This novel by Peter Benchley is about a young woman that befriends a manta ray on a sea mount located off the coast of the Baja peninsula.

In an uncharacteristic Benchley style, there are no sea monsters or predator sharks in this tale. It is instead the story of young Paloma's struggle to protect the sea life that makes the mount its home. Fishermen, including Paloma’s brother, are eager to exploit the richness of the sea mount and her only help in foiling their attempts is her friend, the manta ray. Benchley's vivid descriptions of the underwater world make this book come to life. It is good stuff, especially for impressionable young women that love the sea.

Thus began my own quest to meet the larger, less threatening cousin of the common sting ray, the Manta birostris. However, it wasn’t until I was almost 30 that I had happened to chance upon a manta ray in the wilds of the Gulf of Mexico.

My father and I were out fishing in the relatively deep water at Coast Guard Marker 18 on the gulf coast of North Florida. It was a hot, lazy, beautiful day. We both had lines in the water, but we were more focused on conversation and philosophy than fishing. I was perched on top of the motor box looking south and he was lounging in a chair on the deck in the bow facing me.

The conversation had just turned towards the difficult choice between jalapeno or smoked sardines, when all of a sudden - with no warning - something huge leaped out of the water just south of the boat about twenty feet behind where my father sat.

My mouth opened in a big O of wonder as the big black manta ray came completely out of the water, high enough for me to see the bright white of his belly. He hung high in the air for just an instant, then crashed back on the surface, splashing my father with enough water to make him yelp in surprise.

Papa did not get to see the ray in the air, but he quickly turned around and we both saw it sport on top of the water for a few moments before diving back down into the depths, leaving only swirling water behind. It left us speechless and we did nothing for a while but smile at one another, delighting in our shared experience.

My next close encounter with a manta ray was alone. It was just after sunrise on a calm, early May morning in the year 2000. My husband and I were staying at our place at Keaton Beach and I decided, since it was such a beautiful morning, to take off by myself for a quick trip on the wave runner. My destination was a small, marshy, barrier island a few miles down the coast.

When I left the Keaton Beach channel, the gulf had not yet woken up for the day. The air was crisp and still, the water slick as glass and there was not a boat on the horizon. Fish breaking the surface could been seen for a half of a mile.

After a few detours to check out the swirls, Grass Island soon came into my view. Sometimes called just Grassy, it is uninhabited island, less than a mile off the coast and consisting mostly of marsh grass meandered with creeks, with a small shifting beach and adjoining sandbar. Although the island is surrounded by shallow water and home to mostly crustaceans and small fish, there is a deep tide-fed channel running along its southeastern end attracting larger marine species.

It was high tide and I could have cut across the sandbar on the back side to approach, but I chose to come around the front side of the island. When I neared the channel coming around the end, I cut the motor and drifted over the deep water, looking down hoping to spot a school of mullet.

All I could see below me was black in all directions and at first I was puzzled because the water was clear. Then, I realized what it was and from right under me came the humongous manta ray. He surfaced just in front of me, dwarfing and rocking my vessel. Then he looked me right in the eyes and roiled the water foamy before he banked gracefully to the right, and lazily cruised off towards the south. I could see the big upside down W trailing him in the water as he headed to Steinhatchee.

When my heart slowed, I drifted for a while and flirted with the idea of following. But then I reconsidered. Paloma was a lot braver than me. If I was going to befriend a manta ray, I was going to need a bigger boat.

Dekle Beach Inc.

This remembrance of a special time and place is dedicated to those that lost their lives in the 1993 Storm of the Century.

The bare feet of a child pad out of the hot sand and up the ramp to the covered wooden walkway. The carefree gait thumping against the pine boards echos on the water below and the structure shakes just the tiniest bit with each footfall. Then there’s the squeal of a screen door and “BAM!” as it slams shut. The little girl steps into the interior of the big wooden building and looks around. Behind the counter is an older woman sternly surveying the room. Salt encrusted children are sitting at tables playing games. Others are playing pinball and the sounds of bouncing dings and tings fill in the air. Her feet pick up the rhythm of Creedence Clearwater Revival coming out of the jukebox as they wind among the tables and then out the back door onto the deck. She gives a sidelong glance at the long-haired, freaky teenagers lounging in the sun and stops to peek down through the cracks at the kids lurking in the water underneath. Then she steps onto the weathered cypress planks of the boardwalk and her pace quickens as she joins a pack of honey-brown kids, and off everyone goes, loaded down with nets and buckets, headed down to the end of the dock. It’s Dekle Beach, 1970.

The Dekle Beach of yesteryear was a coastal resort - old Florida style. Their slogan was “For Relaxation - the Greatest Spot on Earth.” Promoted activities included fishing, swimming, water skiing, sun bathing, crabbing and scalloping.

Dekle (pronounced DEE-kle) is off the beaten path, hidden down a winding road leading to a secluded high spot nestled in the marsh. The beach consists mostly of shallow mud flats and marsh grass with limited access for boats to deep water, yet this little settlement on the northern gulf coast of Florida is fondly remembered by so many as an icon of the perfect summer.

Every summer, Memorial Day through Labor Day, Dekle Beach would fill with those seeking respite, leisure and fun. In addition to the residents that made it their year-round home, there were those with their own beach houses that moved in for the summer and, of course, the multitudes who came to stay in the rental cottages for a week or two (or more) every year.

Dekle Beach Inc. was a family operation that catered to families. For thirty years, the resort area of Dekle was owned jointly by Lewis (Ham) and Janie Hamilton and Willie Joe and Ann Moody. There were no white sandy beaches, big waves, or amusement rides, but it did have many things those sugar sand beaches of the panhandle coast did not - lots of character, endearing rules and roaming wild hogs.

Twelve dwellings were available for rent. The four main houses were situated on the front by the water with a full gulf view. The four apartments were housed in an old army barracks located near the boat ramp and docking basin. These apartments, along with the other four rental houses lined upon the road and ramp, all had at least a gulf glimpse.

Photo by Laurie Lilliot

The cottages were modest, wooden affairs, mostly built of rough cypress and pine, standing just a few feet above the ground and mean high tide. The bathrooms were tacked onto the back, like an afterthought. They featured small, slightly rusty (but very clean) showers with hot running water. House #4 offered the luxury of a bathtub.

The kitchens contained every mismatched cooking/eating utensil you would ever need, including those aluminum cups that made your lips freeze. An inventory of every item stocked was clearly posted and meticulously checked upon departure. There was a small gas stove for cooking, and a refrigerator. Defrosting and leaving these old fashioned models ice free and unplugged was a requirement before check out. The humidity in the air would cause a block of ice the size of a glacier to build up within a week.

Summer of '88 - the last time I stayed in a rental at Dekle.

Other amenities included a bottle opener nailed to the wall, beds everywhere, rocking chairs, and porches to catch the breeze. Rules discouraged use of the rare electrical outlets. Brave guests could chance plugging in their own fan, but the management frowned upon such extravagance. That’s what the porches were for. To turn on a light, you pulled a string from the ceiling.  

Photo courtesy Nancy Taylor Geohagan

The only communication guests had with the outside world was a pay phone centrally located along the beach and road. The phone booth was a hub of information. When it rang, someone was always nearby to pick it up, and a guest getting a phone call from town would soon be big news. 

The decor in the cottages consisted of solid pieces of painted wood furniture with the odd Formica accent here and there, and color pictures cut out of magazines neatly tacked to the wall. The management did not believe in frills, but you were well supplied with essentials. Some folks jokingly called these rentals “mansions” and in retrospect, they were. At $85 a week, it was a steal.

In addition to the rental houses, there was a store and game room, with a boardwalk extending out a quarter of a mile into the Gulf. The store and dock were the heart and soul of Dekle Beach.

Photo courtesy Debbie Simmons

Sitting out over the water, the store was grand central for kids and adults alike and literally pulsed with activity in the summer. Pinball was a featured pastime inside, but board games, books and a sitting area with tables and chairs were provided for those short on silver. Cold drinks and ice were available for purchase, and candy, snacks and coastal staples such as corn meal and cooking oil lined the shelves. The jukebox blasted day and night.

Just outside was the swimming area. At full tide, the water would come in high against the bulkhead, making it deep enough for actual swimming (if you were short). Steps led down to the water from land and the dock enabling easy access. Underneath the store, children could be found prowling around in the shallows in search of dimes that had dropped through the cracks.

The kid in all the color pics is my nephew Hogun Vaughan

The dock was long and winding, without a hint of railing. The weathered pecky cypress planks of the first section were crinkly and hard on the feet. The boards would narrow and become newer the farther down the dock you walked, indicating it had been repaired and replaced time and time again. Familiar names and wood etchings were carved here and there, including a very memorable set of Hang Ten feet.

The end of the dock was the prime destination for all who visited Dekle Beach. At high tide, splashes and squeals rang out as the packs of children leaped off into the deep water. At sunset, couples and families made the trek to enjoy the view.

The dock had a satellite, the ski ramp. Water skiing was a popular sport and the calm, bay-like water in front of Dekle Beach was perfect for it, especially with the built in audience. However, boats buzzing around the dock and swimming area were dangerous. So a 12 foot square floating dock was installed, anchored about 100 yards off the end of the main dock, as a base for boats and skiers.

Officially, it was for skiers. Unofficially, it was a meeting place for teenagers. Boys “banned” from the Dekle Beach proper were known to show up here in boats to meet girls. I will not elaborate on that, other than to say, it was a very popular and fondly remembered spot and the girls were quite motivated to make the swim from the dock.

Paralleling the dock on the south side was the Dekle Beach channel and at high and mid tide, boat traffic was brisk going to and from the boat ramp and docking basin. The unsavvy boater coming in at low tide would often have to get out and bog through the mud to drag his boat in. This would provide loads of entertainment for those on the dock and shore.

The management of Dekle Beach provided these many amenities, but perhaps the most important thing they supplied to their guests was peace of mind. Parents could relax or enjoy a few hours out skiing and know their children would be entertained and kept out of serious mischief. In short, kids were let loose to roam.

Photo courtesy Nancy Taylor Geohagan

Recreational opportunities for them were abundant, be it harvesting dinner from the sea, herding fiddler crabs, or hanging out in the store feeding dimes into a pinball machine. The clerk on duty was in a position of authority and the posted rules were (mostly) followed. Regulations were reasonable, but curt.

Absolutely No Beer, No Alcohol Nor Narcotics on the Premises (Absolutely! Strictly enforced around the store, spirits for adults were tolerated in the rentals)

No Spearguns in Swimming Area (good idea)

Drip Dry Before Entering Store (shirts and shoes were optional, but dripping water on the floor of the store was a high crime)

While all of the owners and employees of Dekle Beach Inc. were well loved fixtures, there is one figure that stands in the memory of every single child (and most adults) that ever stayed at Dekle. Mrs. Janie Hamilton ruled Dekle Beach and with the renters, her word was law. She could appear anywhere, at anytime and she kept all the kids on their toes. Generations of children and teenagers attempted to bypass the rules and walk down to the end of the dock (or prowl under it) at night after curfew only to be thwarted by Mrs. Hamilton time and time again. No foolishness was tolerated on her watch and it is perhaps because of her strict influence and watchful eye that Dekle Beach is remembered so fondly today.

Janie Hamilton - photo by her great granddaughter Laurie Lilliot

The children and many grandchildren of the owners, and those kids whose parents or relatives owned houses at Dekle, were also summer fixtures around the place. These kids knew every nook, cranny and creek of Dekle Beach like the back of their hand and served as unofficial tour guides. Their salty wisdom was respected and we vacationers and visitors relished their friendships.

It was from them I learned about the joys of such activities as mud-surfing and chasing the mosquito truck in order to breathe in the sweet (and now nostalgic) scent of malathion. I could continue with a list of vaguely approved of, yet somewhat reckless activities we enjoyed, but I will instead talk more about the sport of mud-surfing. This is perhaps the best idea ever conceived by the salt and sun addled brains of local coastal children. First, find an old piece of plywood and take it out to the mud flats out in front of the four main rental houses, far enough out to get to the good mud, but close enough to the store and dock to ensure plenty of spectators.

Low tide would leave the area deserted of water, except for small pools and a heavy sheen of moisture across the shell studded mud. In certain places, the mud was particularly viscous and black, with some sort of spongy, slippery grass growing on top making it super-slick. Jellyfish oozed here and there, and the gassy smell of low tide was almost visual it was so thick in the air.

The surfer would put the board on the mud, step back to get a running start and jump on it at full speed. They would take off hydroplaning for a few exhilarating seconds before either coming to a graceful stop, or wiping out and tumbling into a minefield of various sharp marine objects.
 

The lucky ones came away covered in black mud and smelling like low tide, but unscathed. The unlucky got the Mercurochrome treatment when they got home. The pain of this orange, mercury rich cure-all was usually worse than the actual cut and squeals of distress could be heard across the marsh.

Down on the north end of Dekle Beach, past the private homes and away from the action and supervision of the store, was Crab Creek. This tidal creek lived up to its name and children could assert their independence by catching dinner for their parents from the crustacean infested waters. The pungent aroma of boiling crabs wafted around the rental houses in the evenings.

Photo courtesy of Susan Moody

At high tide, the deep sandy spots in the creek were good places to swim. But nowhere around Crab Creek could rival the bridge itself for being the happening spot. It was a meeting, and hiding, place. If a parent had an AWOL child, a drive down to the bridge accompanied by a horn blow usually produced answering children from out over the marsh, or popping out from under the bridge.

Photo Courtesy of Susan Moody

My own experiences at Dekle pale in comparison to some of the other kids of the county, but I did get to enjoy this slice of salt life quite often. My parents would occasionally rent a house, and I would also stay with my cousin Rosemary when her parents would rent for a few weeks every year.

In the early 70s, we were renting one summer when I decided it was high time for my name to be carved into the dock. It was forbidden for children to wield knives around the store, but I had a plan. I would conceal a butcher knife (swiped from the many choices of kitchen utensils) in my bathing suit, then nonchalantly leave the house and slink off down the dock. My plan was foiled when my father noticed the saber hanging out of my suit as I creeping out the door.

He had a better plan. He got his pocket knife and we walked down to the dock and discussed location. My first choice was at the end. But he advised that structures on the coast are not permanent. Storms inevitably come, and often, the end of the dock was the first to go. The middle section was risky too. However, the first section, close to the store and built of sturdy cypress boards, that part might last longer. And that is where my name, carved in my father’s neat script, sat upon the dock for the next twenty years.

The Dekle Beach store and rentals closed in 1992. The Moodys and Hamiltons had been in business since 1962 and it was time for an era to end. The houses and property were distributed among the children and grandchildren of the owners and the store was shuttered. It was a sad time, but the structures still stood as monuments of the past, and they were still being enjoyed by those familiar, now grown-up, salty kids. Dekle Beach Inc. had gracefully retired.

Photo by Tim Tripp - Circa 1980

Then, in March of 1993, the Storm of the Century hit the Taylor county coast. This was not a hurricane, it was a massive, freak winter storm that struck during the night pushing a wall of water up onto the coast followed by strong, icy winds. Coastal residents woke up in the night to the Gulf of Mexico rushing into their homes and beds. 

The storm devastated our coastline and Dekle Beach was hit particularly hard, the landscape changed forever. The Dekle Beach store, dock, all the rental houses and most of the private homes not raised up on pilings were completely destroyed. Nine people lost their lives.

After the storm, the Dekle Beach residents slowly, and painfully, recovered. The wreckage was removed and many of the homes, and some of the rentals, were rebuilt. So was the dock, but the store is only a memory. It was a relic of the past, when buildings were allowed to be built over the water. The new homes are all modern affairs, on pilings twenty feet in the air. They are held down by concrete foundations on solid ground and built to withstand hurricane force winds.

Photo courtesy Jim and Christy Moody of the Eagles Nest

Dekle Beach is still a unique, charming place, enjoyed by many, especially new generations of children. Families continue to visit the rentals, now called the Eagles Nest, every summer. Most of them end up returning, year after year.

And I think the new way of living, twenty feet up in sky with magnificent views of the marsh and gulf, makes people more aware of the tranquility and beauty of the landscape that was there all along. It is a place where bald eagles and ospreys make their home, and great flocks of migrating birds find refuge to feed.

But no one can deny that something was lost. The vibrant essence of that beloved rustic beach resort was washed away in the storm, and now lives on only in our memories.

Special thanks to Nancy Taylor Geohagan, one of those salty grandkids, for sharing her grandmother's memorabilia and many, many details.

Black and white photographs courtesy of Florida State Archives Memory Project. All other photos, unless otherwise credited, belong to Rod and Polly Waller.

A version of the article was previously published in the Perry News Herald on April 29, 2011.
Copyright 2011 - Polly Waller

Dark Island

It is a salty, damp, safe place and the sound of bump-bump-bump at a rhythmic pace has lulled me into a deep sleep.  I’m just waking up as the sounds retreat into a steady, low idle.  I know we are back in the canal and almost home.  I’ve been under the bow of our boat sleeping in a wicker laundry basket full of wet towels and I’m almost 4 years old.  I crawl out and see my big sisters, both of them tanned a mocha color and squinting their eyes at the setting sun. Pam’s curly hair is wound up so tight from the water and wind she can barely blink and Peggy is still wearing her mask propped up on her forehead. Papa is sitting on the back of the drivers seat of the old wooden Sport-craft steering the boat and he smiles at me as I emerge from my hidey-hole. Mama, always busy and efficient, even in her cat-eye sunglasses and bathing cap, is gathering up our gear before we dock.  It’s Dark Island 1966.

Over forty years later, this place, my childhood home on Dark Island in North Florida, still holds a special place in my heart. I rarely visit, yet visions of those idyllic days of sun, salt and sand stay with me. Recently, a family photograph project took me on a trip back in time and reminded me of the reasons why I remember this place as such a paradise.

Polly and Pam on "our" steps

If I had to put one word out there that would sum up Dark Island for me in the 60s, it would be freedom. As kids, we had the freedom to roam, and to a child, that can be about the best thing in the world. First thing in the morning, Mama would strap my “bubble” on me and let me loose to play and swim with my older sisters and the other children of the island. If any of the Dark Island residents saw me without my flotation device, reports were made to the proper authorities. The Styrofoam bubble was later declared to be unsafe for children, but it did the job for me with style. Besides, I could swim like a fish, float like a cork and there was always an eye on me, be it parent, sister or neighbor. The booming voice of Broward Padgett next door used to ring out over the island, “Polly, put your bubble on!”

I was allowed to remove my clothes, but not my bubble

My sisters and I, along with the other kids on the island, kept our days filled with crabbing up the creeks in the marsh, fishing for shiners and mud fish, exploring the rocks on the gulf side and of course, swimming. The canal behind the house was still newly constructed with a fairly clean bottom and only the occasional barnacle. Our dock over the water had three decks to jump from, depending on the tide and your level of bravery. Splashes and squeals filled the air as we tried to one up each other on our cannon ball form.

Polly, Pam, Tony Tanner, and of course, a bucket of crabs.

My sisters had a 12 foot fiberglass boat (the vessel “Tapetanic” still sits in my backyard) with a little outboard motor. My mother would listen to the Burrrrrrrr sound of the motor for hours as we would ride up and down the canal. One day, there was a sudden interruption to the constant buzz and she perked up her ears when she heard, “Burrrrrrr...bloop, bloop.” Silence. Then the sound of Pam (the driver) crying. The motor had dropped off the boat. Papa had to put on his scuba tank to dive for it and for the next forty years, every time a female family member would drive an outboard, he’d remind us to tighten the motor to the transom.

Peggy, Pam, our neighbor Tina Sands and me.

Out in front of the house, facing west, was the beach. Maybe it wasn’t Daytona, but it was free from marsh grass and barnacles, with plenty of sand to dig. It was here that my sister Pam informed me of the questionable fact that if I dug deep enough, I would hit China. Visions of exotic people in conical hats danced in my head as I moved massive amounts of earth with my beach bucket.

On the front steps facing west. Neighbor Glen Padgett, Mama, Pam, and a topless Polly with obligatory cat.

Many evenings were spent with our neighbors, Wally and Mary Tanner, and supper was often a jovial affair. Platters of fried flounder (gigged right out front), mounds of hush puppies and great bowls of Greek salad graced the homemade picnic table on our porch. After supper, the clink of glasses and rise of the music level (Boots Randolph always reminds me of these days) encouraged us to go play outside in the evening air.

One night after dinner, all the kids got up and went outside leaving just the adults sitting at the table. The problem was, they were all left sitting on one side of a table made with the benches attached. As kids often do, we found something we wanted to share and called for our parents to look. They leaned back to look outside and...the table flipped! Food, drinks, dishes and parents all landed in one pile. Luckily, no one was hurt but we kids got a show. I remember Mary Tanner exclaiming, “I landed in the salad bowl!” Later we would request they try to do it again.

Neighbor Wally Tanner following the Dark Island dress code.

 Other nights it was just the five of us and we would sit out front facing the gulf and watch the lights of the shrimp boats in the distance. Sometimes, for a treat, we’d get to-go hamburgers from Mrs. Mayo’s Restaurant across the marsh. There was no TV and no AC. And for some reason, even though my mother was an excellent housekeeper, come bed time, there was always, always, sand in the bed. It was pure bliss.

Plumb blissed out.

 
This charmed life came to a close in the summer of 1969 when my parents built a new house in town. It was a sad day when we sold the beach house to the family from Gainesville. In later years I would ride by and see their name “Waller” on the mailbox and my eyes would narrow in jealousy. I wondered what they thought of the letters P-E-G-G-Y, P-A-M and P-O-L-L-Y that my father had spelled out in marbles permanently inserted in the concrete steps going down to the Gulf. Sometimes, when no one was home, I’d trespass and go sit on my steps or the sloping concrete seawall.

Trespassing at the Waller's in 1979. That's the table the parents flipped in the background.

That’s enough of my history on Dark Island, now for a bit of history about the island itself.

Surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico on the front and a canal and sea of marsh on the lee side, the Dark Island of today is truly an island, albeit a man-made one. According to the Abstract for our lot, the first owner of record for Dark Island and the surrounding area was James X. Towles (who is, coincidentally, my great-grandfather). He purchased the property from the State of Florida in September of 1890. He, and other cattle ranching families of the era, grazed their cows in the marsh and surrounding woodlands. He also operated the “James Towles Fishery” from this area although the records are not clear on where the establishment actually stood.

In 1899, the property passed from Towles to H. Williamson of Leon county. From 1900 to 1941 it changed hands more than a half a dozen times between the lumber and naval stores companies of the day. In 1941, the Brooks-Scanlon Lumber Company acquired the property and then sold it to Proctor and Gamble’s Buckeye Cellulose when they came to Taylor County in 1951.
 
Buckeye was in possession of the Dark Island property in 1958 when a land trade was made with local land developer Ben Lindsey. Both Buckeye and Lindsey were interested in developing the island, but at the time, buyers were few and far between in this area. Then a proposal was made to mill employees and the project began to gather steam.
 
The proposal was, for $500, a Buckeye employee could have a newly developed waterfront beach lot with a central water system. These lots were “given away” in a mill-wide lottery, of which there were 34 winners (for 34 lots).
 
My father, Warren Ferrell, was one of the 34. The $500 each lot owner paid was to finance the installation of the water system. Buckeye offered a deal for the first $250 to be paid by payroll deduction, and the remaining $250 paid over the next ten years at $28 a year. I can’t help but chuckle considering what a waterfront lot on Dark Island sells for today.

Buckeye supplied one months worth of drag line operation to build the road and canal and the lot owners did much of the work themselves, running backhoes, bulldozers and shovels. My interpretation of the notes, progress reports and memorandums in the files my father saved from the planning/building phase is that Dark Island was a cooperative effort between local land development (Lindsey), local industry (Buckeye) and private citizens (mill employees/union members), with additional cooperation from the county.

Soon houses began to go up, and it was not long before young families moved in and Dark Island began to shape up. As you can see by the aerial photo, in the early years it was mostly sand. That was something of a novelty here on the mud flats of the North Florida Gulf Coast.

We're the first house on the island. Aerial photograph taken in 1960 by Branson Fisher.

Through the years, Dark Island has seen its fair share of natural disasters and one particular event is still discussed in my home on a regular basis. On November 2, 1972, a tornado hit both Dark and Cedar Island. The Perry News-Herald reported that between the two islands, six homes were total losses and many more were damaged heavily. Total losses were estimated to approach a quarter million (1972) dollars.

Our house had already been sold, but the day after the tornado, the Ferrell family rode down to the island to see how the house had fared. The landscape had changed dramatically. Both the Tanner house and the Reams house, which stood on either side of the Waller’s, were leveled, but our red cedar house stood. It was damaged and missing a roof, and the family’s belongings were scattered all the way to Cedar Island, but the structure was intact. The Wallers were home when the tornado came off the Gulf and they weathered the storm under a table, escaping with only minor injuries. They soon rebuilt.

The morning after the tornado. No roof but the pictures are still hanging on the wall.

In the years between the ’72 tornado and the storm of ’93, things were mostly quiet on the island. Kids still crabbed and fished and families watched sunsets. Eventually, the sand disappeared from beds as the houses rose higher in the air, became air-conditioned and closed to the salty air and wind.

Then, in 1990, something happened. I met my husband by way of a mutual friend who thought the two of us had a lot in common (thank you Kenny!). As soon as we met and I learned Rod’s last name, a ringing bell began to register in my mind...he was one of those Wallers from Gainesville! His family had bought our house and his memories there were as fond as my own. He had sat out on those steps looking at the marbles and wondered who those girls were. We shared and compared tales of the island and he regaled me with stories (including showing off his scar) of surviving the tornado of ’72.

The first time Rod met my father, he praised Papa for his solid construction of the beach house, without which, according to my husband, the 15 year old Rod would have surely perished. Papa beamed a smile and told us the story of building the house.

He was a bachelor working shift-work in the lab at Buckeye and the island was virtually deserted when he began construction. He saved a few paychecks that paid for the foundation. Another few paychecks bought the lumber, another the windows. He’d work on the construction on his five days off and during the days of his midnight shift. Friends contributed labor and skills until finally, in the summer of 1960, it was time for the house-warming party.

Barney and Bobbie Ann O’Quinn were on the guest list for this celebratory event and they decided to bring a guest, a young woman named Tommie Towles. Papa made a date with her that night and a few years later that young woman became my mother. It wasn’t long before the bachelor pad had curtains on the windows and little girls running around in paradise. And that brings us back to where we began the story.

The Dark Island of 2011 is still the paradise it was in the 60s, although there have been some changes through the years. The marsh has encroached upon the sandy beach, the canal has filled in and become silty (if any kids swim there now, they are very brave), and the houses have gotten much taller.

Just a few of the original families remain, and of those remaining, most of the houses now belong to the children or relatives of those 34 men from 1959. The Waller’s sold their house to Alan Roberts in ‘79 and in ‘93, it was lost in the Storm of the Century (that’s another story). The lot stands vacant today. But the steps and marbles are still there, and every now and then, I am too.

A version of this article was published in the Perry News-Herald on January 28, 2011.

Copyright - photos and text
Polly Waller 2011