Photo Story

Resilient Luxury: Standing tall amidst the wreckage, this Davis Island mansion remains untouched, a stark contrast to the devastation surrounding it. While others rebuild from nothing, luxury stands resilient against the storm’s fury. 

Rising form the Ruins: Amidst the rubble and debris, this building slowly takes shape again, a testament to the resilience of Davis Island’s community. Though Hurricane Helene left devastation in its wake, the spirit to rebuild burns stronger than the storm that tore it down.

Brewing Resilience: Once silenced by the storm, this Davis Island coffee shop now overflows with life, laughter, and the rich aroma of fresh brews. In the wake of Hurricane Helene, it has become a symbol of perseverance, proving that even in the darkest times, community and coffee keep the island going.

A Taste of Resilience: Against all odds, Oggi’s Italian Restaurant has not only survived Hurricane Helene but thrived, serving up warmth and tradition with every dish. Once battered by the storm, it now stands as a beacon of perseverance, proving that great food and strong community can weather anything.

Where Resilience Meets Rustic Charm: Surrounded by lush greenery and twinkling lights, Oggi’s outdoor dining space has transformed into a tranquil escape, blending nature with Italian tradition. Once damaged by Hurricane Helene, the restaurant’s unique landscape now stands as a symbol of renewal, where good food and great company thrive under the open sky.

Dimly Lit Hope: Under the quiet glow of its flickering OPEN sign, 220 East stands resilient, though the once-bustling restaurant now sees only a handful of late-night visitors. Despite the slow nights and limited menu, its doors remain open—a testament to perseverance in the face of Hurricane Helene’s lasting impact.

220 East's Quiet Nights: The once-lively patio of 220 East now sits in eerie silence, its empty tables a stark reminder of the bustling nights before Hurricane Helene. Though the lights remain on, the heart of the restaurant struggles to beat as it fights to reclaim its place in the community.

An Empty Pour: The bar stools sit untouched, and the shelves of liquor gleam under dim lights, waiting for the crowds that once filled this space. In the wake of Hurricane Helene, 220 East’s bar remains a quiet testament to a community still finding its way back.

A Quiet Resilience: Inside 220 East, one table is occupied, its lone guest a reminder that even in the stillness, the restaurant presses on. The space, once filled with laughter and chatter, now carries an air of quiet resilience as it slowly rebuilds, one meal at a time.

Anticipation in Silence: The empty tables outside 220 East sit in stillness, waiting for the day's first guests to fill the air with conversation and laughter. Before the doors open, the restaurant stands quiet, a symbol of the resilience and hope that drive it forward after the storm.

A Fading Glow: As the sun sets behind the blurry silhouettes of palm trees, a soft golden hue blankets Davis Island, hinting at a quiet evening ahead. The beauty of the moment contrasts with the lingering memories of the storm, offering a fleeting sense of peace amidst the aftermath.

The salty breeze that once carried the aroma of freshly grilled steaks and seafood now carried only the scent of damp wood, mildew, and loss. Hurricane Helene had struck Davis Island with a fury no one had anticipated, leaving devastation in its wake. Though weeks had passed since the storm, the scars it left behind were still raw. For many of the island’s wealthiest residents, the damage was a temporary setback—a mere inconvenience. Their waterfront mansions had taken a hit, but insurance payouts and swift construction crews had already begun restoring their lives to normal. Some had even relocated to their second homes in the meantime, far from the destruction that still plagued the island’s streets. But for the less fortunate, those who had built their lives on Davis Island without a financial safety net, the storm had taken everything. Apartments were gutted, small businesses stood empty, and the tight-knit community of workers who had once served the island’s affluent now found themselves struggling to survive. One of the hardest-hit establishments was 220 East, a beloved restaurant that had long been a staple for both locals and visitors. Before Helene, the restaurant was always alive with laughter, clinking glasses, and the sound of jazz playing softly in the background. It was the kind of place where you could walk in and immediately feel at home, whether you were a well-dressed businessman or a construction worker looking for a good meal after a long day. Now, it was a shell of its former self. The storm surge had flooded the dining area, ruining furniture and expensive kitchen equipment. The bar had been completely destroyed, and the once-proud sign that read 220 East now hung crooked, barely clinging to the building. The owners, a family who had run the place for decades, had fought tirelessly to reopen. But without full insurance coverage and with limited funds to rebuild, they were forced to make do with what little they had. The restaurant had reopened, but just barely. The menu, once filled with an extensive selection of fresh seafood, pasta, and specialty dishes, had been stripped down to a handful of items—mostly whatever could be cooked on the few working appliances they had salvaged. Gone were the famous crab cakes, the lobster bisque, the sizzling steaks. Now, they served simple sandwiches, soups, and a single fish special, made with whatever they could get their hands on that week. Despite the limited options, people still came. Not because the food was the same, but because 220 East was more than just a restaurant—it was a symbol of resilience. It was a reminder that, even in the face of destruction, the heart of the island still beat strong. Meanwhile, just a few streets away, the stark contrast between the rich and the struggling became clearer with each passing day. The wealthy had their homes repaired within weeks, their yachts back in the marina, their lives relatively unchanged. They still dined at the few high-end restaurants that had reopened, still drove their luxury cars down streets lined with debris from the homes of those who had lost everything. For the island’s working-class residents, there were no quick fixes. Many had no homes to return to, their apartments deemed uninhabitable. Some had been forced to leave the island altogether, unable to afford the rising costs of rent even before the storm, let alone after. And yet, places like 220 East gave them a small glimmer of hope. It was one of the few spots on the island where the divide between rich and poor seemed to blur, even if only for a moment. Wealthy patrons still came, out of nostalgia or a sense of duty, while displaced residents stopped in for a familiar face and a cheap meal. The owners of 220 East didn’t know how long they could keep going. The bills were piling up, the repairs still far from complete. But as long as people kept coming, as long as the lights stayed on, they would fight to keep their doors open. Because if there was one thing Davis Island needed now, more than ever, it was a reminder of what it once was—and what it could be again.