15 June 2012
A hot July night was cooled a bit by an ocean breeze coming off the high spring tide, as the island's darkness was brightly illuminated by a beaming full moon. The crickets and whippoorwills sung their summer tunes as darting shadows silhouetted on my bedroom walls making monsters of the moss covering the swaying oak limbs. Windows were never closed as evening air was cooler than a house consumed in island humidity, making every outside sound and movement 'live' within most of the island's few homes.
In the 1960's air conditioning was rare, and even more rare on the remote barrier islands of Georgia, yet this was my place to hang out with its unprecedented privacy, isolated beaches, towering dunes, high bluffs, and refreshing ocean breezes. Plus I had access to my own jeep, island house, dock, boat and all the beer a teenager can drink and not get into trouble. Isolated islands are void of public highways and people (unless invited). And I liked it that way.
Traditionally, my teenage summers were spent roaming the coast, bouncing from island to island in search of new adventure. Various friends joined me in this incredible lifestyle, and like all youngsters we had our spots, our favorite island or beach, carefully selected according to the day's plan that included drinking, discovering, sunning, swimming, fishing, girls, and occasionally a party (or two). We strayed onto civilized islands like Tybee, St. Simons, or Jekyll - but only if something special was going on. Our real hangout were barrier islands with names like Black Beard, Ossabaw, Sapelo, and St. Catherine's.
Like all young men of that era, I had to work in the summer, and my job was conveniently chosen such that I could live on my beloved coast. At 15 I became a professional crabber, pulling 50 crab traps with an under powered motor that actually worked, but had to be hand-rope restarted 15 or 20 times to power me through my 50 trap run. Through three summers, I barely made any money, financing my traps and buying gas and oil from the dock master who also bought my crabs. My lowly 50 traps barely yielded enough to pay the bills, but I didn't really care - I was living where I wanted to be, and doing what I wanted to do. I seldom left the island, once staying almost the entire summer without returning to town.
Some years prior to my birth, my grandfather purchased a big chunk of the eastern side of Colonel's Island, a genuine low country river plantation called Maxwelton, named for one of its former owners, the Maxwell family. As kids, growing up on this property was special. We recognized, even as small children, that we were extremely fortunate to enjoy such a heritage. This land had once served as a working plantation supporting wealthy planters from a bygone era, and now provided a Mecca for the entire Sikes family. Thursday evening fish suppers, mullet jumping, hunting, fishing, and social gatherings were regular events for 50 or 60 years.
Even as a young teenager I wasn't afraid to be one of the few inhabitants on the island, but at times battled lonely fear that would almost paralyze me. I think I liked the challenge of conquering my fear, and staying alone on long summer night satisfied that. I would awaken the next morning like I had done something really special, always proud of my brave accomplishment.
Since early childhood, I heard all the old ghost stories, mostly from the few remaining children and grandchildren of slaves who lived in the area; all about Voodoo, haints, sea creatures, pirates, and modern day smugglers that supposedly made their presence known on the islands. This added to making isolated island living exciting, but also extremely frightening at times. This night would prove to be just that - frightening, and justifiably so! It is etched in my memory forever.
Our home, formerly an old oyster processing plant, faced east providing a visual connect with traffic in the Intracoastal waterway, and a direct easterly view of St. Catherine's, Ossabaw, Blackbeard, and Sapelo Islands. We can see into three counties, while standing in the fourth. Where else but the mountains can you do that? Maxwelton was chocked full of artifacts including Indian and plantation era relics. We never lacked for something to do, and our early love of hunting was satisfied by boundless amounts of wild game - deer, raccoon, squirrel, and wild hog, and a fox hunter's delight in the early years when fox hunting was still popular.
I spent every day possible on this plantation, and my earliest stories of coastal Georgia begin here, in the summer of 1963.
As I kept staring at the shadows being cast against the bedroom wall and the backdrop of the rising moonlight, I kept thinking I saw something of human form coming out of the river. I kept telling myself, "You are seeing things...quit scaring the crap out of yourself with your wild imagination!" As hard as I tried to not see the reflection of a human silhouette amongst the wildly waving moss, the fact remained I was seeing something I had never witnessed. It was a man, or an ape, or something really big and it was walking upright toward the house. I kept thinking my mind is really playing tricks on me - "that's just blowing moss flailing in the strong ocean breeze!"
I could no longer 'justify' the image 'out' of my mind. I was seeing an undeniable man-form coming from the river.
I was frozen - never been this afraid before! There was no phone or gun, yet this unknown creature was coming into the yard, and maybe even toward my window. I ducked under the cover in hopes I was dreaming, or just seeing things, yet when I looked again the incredibly large creature was standing near the house and my window. I tried to muster up a scream, but just like in a dream, nothing came out but my breath. I was literally frightened beyond words. I was going to be consumed by some sea monster nobody ever heard of, and likely nobody will ever know what happened to me!
As I lay there shivering, I awaited sure death. Would I be eaten alive? Carried down to the murky depths of some ocean? Or just killed right where I lay? The level of fear that gripped me was beyond words. Was this the end? Would my life end in a mystery no one would unravel? Why was a creature standing in my yard? My heart pounded through my chest. And then it hit me - I still had one remaining option! I could run, I would run like the freaking wind! In fact, I could probably run all the way to Midway, the closest thing to civilization at that time; and if this 'Thing' could catch me...well, he deserved to eat me! Renewed hope came from the normal emotional response that hits us all in times of great fear - fight or flight, and flight was now in full gear.
No sooner had the thought hit me that adrenalin flooded my body providing a surge of explosive energy. I was on my feet scrambling for the door. I knew I had to escape the front bedroom that faced the river, make my way to the back of the house, and out the back door before Sasquatch come around to the front. With one bound I was at the bedroom door, which occasionally would lock you inside the bedroom for no apparent reason (and had to be opened from the outside). Surely this would not be one of those occasions, and thank the Lord it wasn't, otherwise my hand or the doorknob would have come off that night! I covered about thirty feet in three steps as one remaining door was all between me and a death defying escape. It seemed like it took forever, but I unbolted the big wooden door at the back, and as I reached for the screen door about to marathon to Midway, I caught movement out of the corner of my left eye. The full moon revealed the monster had guessed my plan and circled the house into the front yard to intercept me.
As I pushed the screen door open, I saw my nemesis rounding the corner into the front yard, coming into full view of my retreat path. "I can still run, and he will have to catch me," I thought.
Just as I took flight I heard my named called. "Mr Sikes! Is that you Mr. Sikes?" In those days, particularly on the islands, older African Americans often addressed young whites as "Mister." I didn't like it, as I was surely no mister. Though I didn't know the voice, I immediately recognized the Geechee brogue of an older black man - the dialect of the coastal regions of Georgia and South Carolina. This Cajun pattern of speech has passed through generations of white and black families alike, the common thread being linkage to the coast. I stopped cold in my tracks as I was relieved, and at the same time remorseful at the sound of this gentle giant known as Roosevelt Moran. Immediately, I knew why he had paid me a visit, and I knew I had brought this unpleasantness upon myself.
You see, Roosevelt had run crab lines as long as anyone could remember. His lines and my lines ran opposite sides of the river, and we respected each other's territory, even though I was the new kid on the block. Someone continuously robbed my traps, especially the ones nearest Roosevelt's. I was told, and ignorantly believed, that Roosevelt was stealing my hard earned crabs. And like the juvenile delinquent I was I stuffed a sealed bottle in one of his traps with a shotgun shell inside stating that "the next one will for you if you steal any more of my crabs." My shameful act towards an honorable man dictated a face to face visit, no matter the hour.
Roosevelt let me know that he had never taken anyone's crabs though he often suffered theft at the hands of river thieves who abounded in that era. My earlier fright turned into regret and deep disgust at my immature actions. All I could do was deeply apologize for my unbridled and uncalled for behavior. Roosevelt lived in neighboring McIntosh County, and though I had heard of him, I really didn't know him until that night. His visit at such an untimely hour through me off, but as he explained in our fortuitous meeting - "Nothing more important Mr. Sikes, tha
An Island Misadventure • Opuss № I