Point of View: Sand
Published 9:30 pm Wednesday, July 23, 2025
Author’s note: This is a writing I did after the dreadful day when Smokey Bay crashed in Nanwalek. The pilots who serve us become community members, they check in with us, talk to our children, share TikTok, share stories, share hugs and smiles. It was tragic that day, a scar that does not heal.
As we stood in front of the class, talking about history, culture, family names, those little minds trying to soak up all that was being shared by me and Ataka. Photos of the village taken before these children were even born, in fact even before their parents were born. The photos kept their attention to what we shared.
“Did you know there were two men who helped create Nanwalek as an Orthodox community, John Kvasnikoff and John Moonin’s son Nicholas Moonin?” The oohs, when sharing the photos of the two men.
“Look on the beach, those are the last two seal skin qayaqs that were made in Nanwalek. Our Ancestors traveled in those qayaqs, to hunt, to find food, traveling sometimes all the way to Prince William Sound.”
Those inquisitive eyes are hooked to hear more. Ataka shares her stories inserting Sugt’stun vocabulary. She tells about going to the beach to find food after big storms, there were no stores to shop from.
We start to hear a plane coming in to land, there is a weird sound that came with that plane. It is then you hear, “The plane went down!” No! That is the last thing you want to hear.
I try to continue, as I look around, the students know something is not right. Time is sucking the breath out of me. Finally, I walk down to the office, no one is there. As I walk down the hallway to find a staff member, the teacher and I make eye contact, you know it is not good news!
The students were out in front of the school as the teacher stood holding the door open as she says, “The plane crashed on the beach in front of the priest’s house!”
Well, what do we do? My thoughts were scrambling, finish the classroom presentation, one step at a time.
The teacher in charge of the 3-5 grades, looks at his students and says, “I am going to be honest with you all, we just had an airplane crash.” Those eyes were filled with confusion as those little students try to grasp what was just said.
Ataka and I walked out of the school to find so many people on the airport running toward the beach, clinician staff, school staff, community members working together as the tide was coming in. It was too shocking to absorb what was happening in front of us.
Who is the pilot, who are the passengers, are they all alive? So, many questions and not wanting to ask those questions, all you could do was pray.
Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us,
and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
People who we knew were no longer going to take part in our lives. We learned that day many people came together to try to save lives, young high school students jumping in to help, no judgment from all who helped. It was a day filled with emotions of loss, tears been wiped, hugging one another, hugging strangers, saying I love you to many people.
Many of us unloaded with one another what we felt by sharing with the pilots who came to meet with the community. So, many stories, “Daniel, use to wave to the kids with the slightest tilt of the wings of the plane, as he flew away as the kids waved at him.”
The pilots have been in our lives ever since they have flown in our villages. Sometimes, they would take you for a little flight around the village. There was candy to be bought or shared.
As I tried to fall asleep from that tragic day, my mind did not want to shut down. As I was unwinding, I ran my fingers through my hair and found sand from the helicopters landing and taking off. The sand reminded me to say your name Daniel Bunker and Jenny Irene Miller as I prayed again for you and your families.
As we share our stories of the beach filled with culture, language, and stories of our Ancestors. There will be another story to add of two beautiful souls who touched our lives, on that tragic day.
Nancy Yeaton is a Nanwalek resident and a member of the Chugach Regional Writers, a small group of amateur writers who gather weekly to write what is on their minds and share their thoughts. “Sand” was previously published in the Summer 2025 edition of the Chugachmiut Nupuat Newsletter, a publication by the nonprofit group, Chugachmiut. Yeaton’s other work has also previously been published by Alaska Women Speak.
