The ‘Before Times’

We live on Pine Island, the largest island in Florida. Once upon a time, the little village of Matlacha welcomed us as we drove from the mainland to get home.

It was a place of sun and color, the narrow ribbon of land between sea and sky. It was a cluster of brightly painted houses, art-filled shops, and weathered docks that bobbed like sleepy sentinels along the saltwater’s edge.

During the high season, winter here in Florida, traffic was stop-and-go as pedestrians crossed the two-lane street to scurry from one shop to the next, purchasing original art, potted plants, fudge, ice cream, T-shirts, and flip flops. Small cafes and large dive bars offered fish sandwiches, margaritas, beer, and Island Pho.

Then, on September 28, 2022, Hurricane Ian swept through. The wind first came as a distant rumble. Soon, waves rose like cliffs, rain fell in curtains, and the horizon vanished in sheets of gray. The villagers watched as the sea lifted.

We huddled in our house, surrounded by protective mangroves, as the wind pulled trees from their roots and shredded neighbors’ roofs and lanais. Miraculously, the storm surge reversed before entering our home. We were safe.

But not everyone else was, and especially not Matlacha. Hurricane Ian killed at least 161 people, 81 in Lee and Charlotte County.

The sea swept over the beaches and into every building along its low-lying shores. Homes were torn open; roofs peeled away like petals. Shops were flooded, their treasures lost or ruined. The storm surge reached deep into the islands and the mainland, leaving ruins in its wake.

At dawn, survivors emerged from shelters, wading through mud and salt, and saw their village transformed into a fractured memory. Many buildings were gone, most were condemned, and some lingered half in the water, reminders of what had been lost.

The bridges connecting Matlacha to the mainland and to Pine Island—its slender lifelines—were battered and washed out. Powerlines toppled and blocked the crumbed roads. We couldn’t escape.

For a week, while the food and fresh water lasted, we cleared debris, cut trees blocking the roads, searched corners of the island for a cell signal, and bathed with filtered pool water. Eventually, we were told to evacuate because the island’s water treatment plant had lost its generator and had no fresh water. None was to be delivered by FEMA, so we joined our neighbors on a boat and left the island. We stayed with family for another two weeks until an emergency bridge span was erected to connect the island, and then returned home.

Locals rallied in solidarity, and for two years, the community rebuilt. Then, in 2024, Hurricanes Helene and Milton made landfall with high winds, high water, and tornadoes, and once again wrecked the communities already struggling to recover. Though Hurricane Ian brought ruin, it could not extinguish the heart of the village.

It’s a story of coastal life, one of bright, golden mornings after the storm. It certainly speaks to the need for bright colors to gradually return. But many scars remained: houses awaiting demolition, parcels of empty land where homes once stood, and delays in removing rubble that made outsiders think the village was dead.

In 2025, Lee County took steps to demolish dozens of unsafe structures, placing legal liens and advancing rebuilding efforts. This is possible because, for 360+ days out of the year, the scenery is beautiful, and island living is a thrill. People will return and spend their money, attracting more people to spend their money and enjoy another morning after.

I created a small memento for my friend, Penny Morse, that will remind her of what she loves about “Island Time” and living on Pine Island. This small booklet features urban sketches of pre-Hurricane Ian Matlacha.