Photograph by Chris Moore/Getty Images
I can almost taste it: that thick, salty, marshy air that embraces me whenever I’m aboard the Cumberland Queen II on my way from the quaint village of St. Mary’s to the island that holds a holy place in my soul.
When we first talked about our “Great Outdoors” package, I thought of Cumberland Island. The first time I heard of the island was when I was about six years old and read a children’s book that romanticized the exotic wild horses that freely roamed about. The book made Cumberland Island seem so magical that I thought it couldn’t possibly be real.
Twelve years ago, I finally made my way there for the first time. My best friend and I attended a retreat on Hilton Head, and she suggested a day trip down to Cumberland afterward. It was a cold and blustery January morning when we boarded the ferry for the 45-minute trip. Still, we bundled up and sat outside at the front of the boat so we could take in everything around us: brown pelicans flying just above the water in search of food, the smells of the ocean, and even the flashing lights of the navigation buoys.
We hoped to encounter the wild horses; my friend had grown up around horses and had been a champion dressage rider. We shared an admiration for Carol Ruckdeschel—the longtime Cumberland resident known as the Jane Goodall of sea turtles—and we also hoped to stumble upon her as she made her rounds of the island on her three-wheeler. We encountered neither, and it didn’t matter.
When we arrived, the contrast between Hilton Head and Cumberland Island couldn’t have been more extreme. Where there had been six-lane avenues clogged with traffic, there were single-lane dirt roads. Where there had been fast-food restaurants and strip malls, there were old live oaks with canopies of Spanish moss. Where there had been gated beachfront luxury hotels, there were sand dunes. Stepping onto Cumberland Island was like stepping back hundreds of years in time.
By late morning, it was warm enough to walk barefoot on the beach. We collected seashells and explored the dunes. But mostly, we sat on the beach, because it seemed to be ours alone. We were there almost two hours before we saw another human, a solitary figure who appeared on the distant horizon and slowly walked up the beach.
My friend and I shared a kind of closeness where silence could be a meaningful conversation. Words weren’t necessary as we sat and soaked in the healing grace of the world that now surrounded us: the warm sun against our faces, the calming peacefulness of the waves crashing on the pristine white beach, and the cackling seagulls wanting to share our food. It was a perfect day.
An annual trek to Cumberland became our tradition. For one trip, I set up an interview with Carol Ruckdeschel, and my friend served as photographer. Carol is somewhat famous for eating roadkill, and she fed us delicious spaghetti with alligator and wild pig. Carol confirmed what we’d already observed about the wild horses: The island’s ecology is bad for them, and they are bad for the island’s ecology. Most of the horses we encountered were severely malnourished and struggling to survive in an inhospitable environment.
We slept that night in hammocks on the front porch of a house that Carol owns. In the complete darkness of the middle of the night, we were rousted by a terrifying rumble that turned out to be a group of horses foraging for food. We were up at first light to watch a fat red sun rise over the marshes of Christmas Creek.
Like the ocean tide, friendships can flow and ebb. Things change. Traditions fade. It’s been several years since my last visit. But I know it’s there waiting for me, a paradise that’s still pristine, beautiful, and largely untouched. Carol told me she’s lived on Cumberland Island for more than five decades because that’s where her heart is. I understand that feeling; a piece of mine stays there, too.
This article appears in our August 2024 issue.
