Sullivans IslandI eased my ancient rust infested blue Volvo station wagon into a parking spot at the head of the beach path. My car fit nicely between a golf cart and two cans of beach trash. I peeled my hot, sweaty body from the black leather seat and rolled out of the car. I stood in the shadow of a giant black and white structure, the Sullivan’s Island lighthouse. It didn’t look like the pretty postcard pictures of northeastern lighthouses that I was used to seeing in bookshops or on tourist kiosks. It looked more like a grain elevator. I was drawn to this ugliness, this starkness, and solitary presence on the light grey rolling dunes. Like a queen this light sat on her throne surrounded by orange and black coreopsis, dainty yellow dune flowers and large blooming yucca. The sound of waves invited me to stroll down the beach path. Cardinals and wrens darted back and forth eating juicy, wild blackberries. A snake slithered into the underbrush. A horn-headed lizard paused, turned his scaly head my way, blinked his black eyes and took a look. What did he see? Another northerner invading his territory for a day at the beach.The temperature was in the nineties when I approached the crest of the dune. The air was thick, damp and smelled like mollusks and sea salt. In front of me laid a panoramic view of an almost deserted rustic beach. Green-grey waves caressed the shoreline depositing bits of decaying seaweed on the shore. This spectacular place took my breath away. Time stood still as a primordial knowing touched every cell in my body. “Someday I’m going to live here. I don’t know how I’m going to do it but I will. I have to live here someday.”Some people have these intuitive feelings about their significant other. At first sight they knew they were meant for each other. A mother takes one look at her newborn, hears one cry and she could pick her baby out of a hundred other newborns in the nursery. A puppy runs into your arms at the pound, you put her down and walk away but she follows, nips at your heels, she’s meant for you. At first nip you knew you would take her home. We’ve all had that experiences when we knew we were ‘goners.’ For me it was a place, Sullivan’s Island. For me it was love at first sight.It took me sixteen years, a move to England, Hawaii and countless other moves up and down the eastern seaboard as a Navy wife before I returned to Sullivan’s Island.When my husband retired from the Navy I headed straight for South Carolina and my barrier island. I studied the real estate market on Sullivan’s Island trying to find something we could afford in our retirement. I found a beach cottage, more shack than cottage but the price was right. Our ‘cottage’ had two bedrooms and a miniscule grey pink tiled bath. The enamel bath tub had sundry chips. There was a wonderful brick fireplace in the living room that kept our toes toasty when the cottage turned drafty and cold in the winter. The windows were original, old, cracked and difficult to open. Our living room/dining room combination accommodated our mismatched furniture from twenty-one years of marriage and our world travels. A small kitchen was fine. I had learned to feed the multitudes from small spaces when we lived overseas. We didn’t have a garage but there was a space under the house where we parked one car. This space flooded during high tides, heavy rains and sometimes when my surfer son and his buddies left the outdoor shower running too long. This flooded area was the main entrance to our home. It took a few inches of water before we would circumvent our garage entrance and go to the front yard. Here access was granted by climbing an eight step ladder onto a porch that dropped you back into the living room. We had a grand total of approximately 1,000 square feet of island living.
After I bought my island shack I invited my parents to dinner. My only stipulation was that they wouldn’t make a negative comment about my house. They taught me, “if you can’t say something nice don’t say it at all.” I didn’t feel bad repeating their words back to them. It was very quiet for the first hour of their visit.
My parents thought I had lost my mind. They wanted me in a nice brick house with hardwood floors and white pillars lining a porch. They never could understand why I wanted to live on a piece of floating sand.
I’ve lived on Sullivan’s Island with the pelicans, seagulls, island eccentrics, and my husband for sixteen years. During those years, my son, who spent his teenage years on the island, returns often to visit his favorite surfing spot. My parents died, my dad of a heart attack and my mom to pancreatic cancer.
In 1999, days after Christmas, my cottage was donated and moved to Mt. Pleasant. It sits off Highway 17 on Hamlin Road. The current residents love the cottage as much as I did. I drive by often. My cottage looks lovely with year-round Christmas lights. An unusual island snowstorm blanketed my lot the day it was cleared. My father loved a snowstorm. Maybe this was his way of sending a blessing before construction started on my new home. Our new home was finished in time for the family to move back to the island and into our new home to celebrate Christmas.
My new home is large, at least by cottage standards. I designed it to look like an old island home. Visitors think my home has been on the island for years. It has white pillars lining screened porches. It has antique pine floors. I wish my parents were here to enjoy my island home. I would ask them not to comment if they couldn’t say something nice. I don’t think there would be a silence this time.