There are still refrigerators nestled in the foliage littering the roadside. There are piles of sand taller than buildings, deposited by the most recent round of storms. Two and a half years later, homes are still boarded up, the families sleeping in campers in their own driveways while they painstakingly rebuild their homes.
Two and a half years later, for sale signs lean in the windows of beloved restaurants and shops, now left vacant. “Opening soon” signs are more rare but still present signs of hope. Other buildings didn’t fare so well; gated off for safety, they resemble the aftermath of an explosion.
Two and a half years later, I sat on our patio looking out to the ocean. Construction noises clamored all around us, but we didn’t mind. To be back on the island was too surreal to notice anything else.
The healing process from a natural disaster is so much slower than I could have ever imagined. It takes grit and determination to rebuild. It takes accepting a lack of control and trusting the village that will help you put the pieces back together. Not to mention the myriad of unexpected roadblocks that will inevitably pop up along the way.
All the effort and waiting has left us with an immense gratitude to be back. To order the best breakfast potatoes from our favorite restaurant and to see the same waiters and waitresses stuck around until they were able to reopen. To feel like something was the same after all the trauma, even though the people themselves are weathered and changed.
It’s healing to realize other people care about something just as much as you do.
It’s difficult to put into words what the island means to my family and I. It’s a tie to our personal history, a connection to nature and peace that we struggle to find elsewhere. I can’t help but picture my great grandparents and grandparents when I sit on the porch and look at the water. I picture my dad and my aunt as young children, scouring the beach for shells in the same way they do now. I picture myself and my sister doing endless cartwheels in the sand until we were so dizzy we fell down, laughing the whole way.
To my surprise, the birds on the island were completely unbothered by the debris and construction. Ibises meandered around the heavy machinery to continue their hunting, and herons fished near trash still floating in their sanctuary. If you just monitored the birds, you wouldn’t think the storms had happened at all. Nature returns to normal before we do, it seems.
We biked over to the lighthouse one afternoon, and for the first time since the storm we could actually approach it. It was surreal; the beach was completely different, the trees and surrounding buildings were entirely wiped out by the wind and water. Officials have reinforced the beach significantly and gated off the lighthouse itself (it lost a leg during Hurricane Ian and had to be repaired).
The sight of it made me cry. I’ve always loved lighthouses. My dad and I joked that we’ve both looked at Zillow listings considering them as potential lodging. The symbolism of them has always been meaningful to me. The feeling of driving over the causeway and seeing the familiar light flashing, a signal of homecoming, never fails to make my heart swell. As we stood craning our necks to take it all in, an osprey swooped in and landed one one of the support beams, staying there until we left. Another moment of nature inserting itself into our brokenness.
I hope our hearts heal in a similar way—small beautiful things return slowly, poking around for sustenance in the rubble. Slowly but surely, the salt washes off the leaves and new flowers are able to grow. It doesn’t happen overnight and it certainly doesn’t happen on our timeframe. But one day, we realize the lighthouse has been shining for us the whole time. Two and a half years later, the world looks green again.
Olivia graduated from Calvin in May 2018 with a double major in business and writing. She now works as an editor in Nashville, Tennessee and is eating her way through the restaurants of her new town. She enjoys weekend trips with friends, petting other people’s dogs, and drinking coffee like a Gilmore Girl.
