3 Sandy Island deaths reawaken concerns on river crossings

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Sandy Island

The residents of Sandy Island prefer the solitude of the 12,000-acre island that is separated from the mainland by the Waccamaw River.

SANDY ISLAND — Thick beards of Spanish moss swayed from the gnarled limbs of towering oaks as the Rev. George Weathers ambled down a gently sloping hill to the water's edge.

Dressed in a natty brown suit for a visit into town, Weathers stepped aboard a scuffed, well-used motorboat and fired up the aged engine, churning the glassine waters of the Waccamaw River beneath him.

The years have brought changes to this secluded island in the Intracoastal Waterway: electricity, cable television, city water, cell phones. But one thing has remained a constant: "You still have to get across that water," Weathers said.

Just 300 yards of river separate this 12,000-acre island from bustling tourist communities along the Grand Strand. But with access limited to boat travel, that has been enough to preserve a simpler way of life on this rustic island, home to 120 people. Most residents are kin to one another, descendants of slaves who worked on rice plantations before the Civil War. For more than a century, life here has followed the subtle rhythms of the seasons and the tides.

The waterway holds a key to the island's soul, serving as its buffer and protector from unwanted development and inquisitive crowds. But the Waccamaw also can be a nemesis, a treacherous highway of howling winds and shifting currents when storms come squalling.

Eleven days ago, the river claimed the lives of three islanders as they tried to navigate its deep, inky waters in a 15-foot boat on a stormy night. A mother, her daughter and a teenage cousin went to their deaths when the boat capsized just 15 feet from shore. An infant on board, just shy of his first birthday, remains hospitalized after being plucked from the chilly waters.

The tragedy shook this tightknit community and reignited talk of finding a better way for residents to get back and forth to the mainland. Some people favor building a bridge. Others want a ferry. So far, neither idea has gained traction, and no one is sure who would pay for such improvements. They just feel something should be done.

"These were great people who died, and we will never forget them," said Charles Alston, 40, an island native. "It's just sad that it has to take a tragedy and such a great loss as we have suffered to make people realize that we need to do something here on Sandy Island."

Residents and environmentalists fought developers' plan to build a bridge from the mainland in the 1990s, fearful of unbridled logging and building. The state eventually bought 9,000 acres from the developers, and that land is a preserve operated by the Nature Conservancy.

Islanders hunger for a safer passage to shore, but they don't want to sacrifice their privacy or the natural grace that makes this a special place. How to accomplish both missions remains a persistent quandary.

Located between the Waccamaw and Great Pee Dee rivers, Sandy Island always has been something of an anomaly in the Lowcountry. In a region as flat as a table top, Sandy Island is hilly like a giant, rumpled quilt. Fifteen thousand years ago, the Pee Dee River deposited huge sand dunes here. Longleaf pines now blanket the land with rust-colored needles and softball-size pine cones.

Clustered in two villages, the island's homes are modest, well-kept ranches and bungalows. Residents get around on a slaloming network of soft, sandy roads that crisscross the island, ending at a lone stop sign perched above the Waccamaw. Infrastructure is minimal — a church, tiny general store, old schoolhouse and small fire station. That suits people just fine.

"It can stay this way forever, as far as I'm concerned," said Herman Elliot, who was born on the island 55 years ago. "There is no place else I would want to be."

Elliot lived for a spell in Georgia and on Pawleys Island, but he always came back to Sandy Island. He missed his family, the common spirit of islanders, the quiet that settles over the land. On a recent afternoon, he stopped in his tracks along a sandy path and nursed a can of Milwaukee's Best.

"Listen," he said, grinning. "Most days, its just birds, if there is any noise at all. Across the water, though, they've got more noise than you can handle."

Most mornings, Elliot and other islanders board a hodgepodge of weather-beaten boats and make the five-minute commute across the waterway. They head down a sheltered canal to a small landing, where their cars wait to take them to work, the grocery store or other errands. The crossing is a part of daily life almost from birth. Children make the passage twice a day, boarding a flat-bottom boat that serves as the state's only school ferry.

It's a life that requires planning, grit and ingenuity at times. When an industrial-size deep fryer broke down on a recent afternoon, for instance, two men had to wrestle the heavy, stainless-steel contraption onto a bobbing johnboat and ferry it to the mainland for repairs.

Some natives have left the island over the years in search of better-paying jobs or a change of pace. But many find their way back, eventually.

After serving in the Air Force, Rommy Pyatt, 35, landed in Ladson and found civil service work in an area passport center. He still returns to the island every chance he gets. A few years back, he started a business running tour boats to Sandy Island on summer weekends. "This will always be home," he said. "It's just a unique place, far from the hustle and bustle of the everyday world."

His parents, Samuel and Beaulah Pyatt, run the canary-yellow general store where visitors can buy everything from frosty Cokes and Sandy Island ball caps to hand-knit quilts, sweetgrass baskets and Gullah artwork. A sign on the front door boasts "the best ice cream in town." Beaulah Pyatt just shrugged and laughed when she was asked who the competition might be.

She grew up 45 minutes away in Bucksport. She knew little about this place until she married an islander who refused to live anywhere else. She promised to give it a try. That was 38 years ago.

Island life took some adjusting to at first, and Beaulah Pyatt initially went back to Bucksport every weekend to get a break from the solitude. Gradually, the island's charm won her over. She learned to pilot a boat and read the tides and the weather. She loved the beauty, the camaraderie, the sight of her three children running carefree through the forested bluffs and cypress- studded creeks. "It became a way of life, and I wouldn't want that to change."

The sinking sun spilled into pools of lavender on the waterway as Beaulah Pyatt turned off the lights and trudged up the hill to her home, carrying a handbag and a life jacket. Two men waved as they guided their johnboat to the dock and tied up.

The tide inched away from the shore, revealing a carpet of pluff mud and oyster shells. A blanket of quiet settled over the land: the end to another day on the river.

Reach Glenn Smith at gsmith@postandcourier.com or 937-5556.