Last July when Dennis came by, kissing Pensacola from the east, we scoffed at its gusts of 90 mph. In 2004 we'd been through Ivan, a certified killer, and folks around here are still in recovery from its gusts of 130 mph. Nobody can adequately explain the sound of a hurricane in its fury, but I'll try. Have you ever driven down the freeway with your windows open, enjoying the scents and breezes of a fine spring day when a loaded semi passes you at upwards of 90 mph and your ears pound and you feel the vibrations in your stomach, like at a rock concert? Yeah. That sound--for two whole seconds. Now, double the intensity of that sound and make it last for seven hours. You're in the groove, man.
We didn't evacuate for Ivan. That was not a wise decision. By the time Ivan had turned straight for us, it was too late to go to the special needs shelter because it was full. I'm pretty much bedbound, and living in a school gym and standing in line to use a toilet for days let alone weeks on end was out of the question. My powerchair was down for repairs. We had no place for our dogs and cats but the car if we went to a shelter. When last minute indications were that Ivan would make landfall in Mississippi, we gritted our teeth, hunkered down and waited for the worst to pass. I wish we hadn't.
The worst, it turns out hit land just down the road, near Perdido Key on Orange Beach, Alabama. Ivan had made a last-minute zag that put us square in its path.Our house is a quarter mile from upper Perdido Bay. The state line runs through it. On a good day, with prevailing tailwinds, you could spit and hit Alabama. In spite of being so close to water, it is an inland bay and our little development of forty homes is about eighteen inches above the flood plain, so we knew that while it might flood a little, we wouldn't be awash in tidal surge. But the winds. Oh, those winds.
Because we had boarded up the windows and the storm raged overnight, we couldn't see what happened, and frankly I'm just as glad we didn't. The sound of branches, fences, roofing and anything not tied down hitting our brick home started when the sustained winds hit about 85 mph. We listened to the battery-powered radio and they did an absolutely amazing job of informing us of current conditions and warning of tornados that had been spotted. When the sustained winds increased to 115 mph the roof joists began to creak--loudly. Chris and I lay fully dressed on the bed, in each others arms like a couple of startled monkeys at the zoo. And each of us was praying that if it happened, our son and spouse wouldn't suffer. It never happened.
Sometime during that night, our sixty foot pine tree and the live oak next to it both gave way and hit the back fence. We never heard the crash because of how loud the sustained winds roared. Somehow they held onto each other, like Chris and I did, until the eye had passed and the winds came at us from the opposite direction. If they had fallen before this change, they would have crushed us in the house. Later I would thank their ruined and splintered corpses for sparing us. Yes, I thanked trees. Earnestly.
The next morning Chris went out with the digital camera. Huge oak trees blocked the roads as far as he could see. It would be days before they were passable, even with hundreds of volunteers from all over the nation. Other neighbors hadn't been so lucky. Trees crushed roofs, windows had been blown out, and it was quiet, so very quiet. Not one bird nor bug made a sound. The heavens were clear, but it was not the same landscape we had seen the day before. Heavy woods behind our house had disappeared, replaced by fields of bare, splintered, leafless trunks. No leaves remained on bushes or trees. Even the pines had lost most of their needles. In a couple of weeks, these plants would begin to sprout their spring leaves--after that shortest of all winters one night in September--confused by nature's freakish whims.That night I had been a praying machine--we all had. It would be nice if we and our house survived the night I begged Heaven, but I also prayed for those the radio said were already missing or dead in tornados to the east, and for everyone in the path of the storm. And I prayed for the wild animals. For the five years we'd spent in the house a pair of cardinals had made our back yard their home and raised up annual families. Had they survived? And my squirrel friends, and the coyotes and foxes that lived in the woods. They'd lost their homes if not their lives.
That afternoon I was rewarded with glimpses of red, then of brown--the cardinal and his mate. Hunkered down in a little fluffy ball on what was left of the pine tree was our crooked tailed male squirrel, the bane of our dogs. He had a bloody raw spot on his side. I grieved for him, and wished we could trap him and minister to the wound, but a few days later he reappeared, scabbed over and chipper, ready to resume teasing the daylights out of the dogs by running around the top of the fence...what was left of the fence.
Rescue and help came by the one remaining road into the city. Interstate commerce had to take long and costly detours. Interstate 10 was down hard because the storm surge had pushed the roadways off the bridge and into Escambia Bay. All the bridges had taken major damage. The old bridge across Pensacola Bay, turned into a drive-on fishing bridge, was gone--only pilings remained in long stretches. Electric utility trucks and tree surgeons from as far away as Montreal had staged themselves to the north and began to assist locals in clearing roadways and setting up relief efforts. FEMA, the Red Cross and the National Guard arrived. After a week we had water. Three weeks later we had electricity. By mid-October we had cable and began to actually view the aftermath along the coast, where in some cases the damage was so extensive that maps would have to be redrawn. The Army Corps of Engineers put a blue tarp on our scarred and leaky roof. We decided that Meals, Ready to Eat--the notorious MREs--weren't that bad, especially the curried chicken. We thought the one inch tall bottles of Tabasco were awfully cute. We had learned to bend like the willow. And we were very lucky and very blessed.In Ivan's aftermath we did well because we had been prepared. We had an upright freezer full of gallon jugs of water. As each jug melted in our ice chests, we had drinking water. Water and ice lasted us almost a week. After that it was available through the relief stations around town. We had several ice chests, and had already used up most of the perishable food on hand, having a two week's supply of canned food, and a propane stove. The grill, charcoal, and lighter fluid had spent the night with our plants in the laundry room and was also available for cooking. During those first few days we got free perishables from grocery stores who gave meat, milk, baked goods and produce to anyone who wanted it. There were extra batteries for the radios, our cell phones, and extra gas for the cars, which had been topped off before Ivan. We had propane lanterns and old fashioned oil-fueled hurricane lamps. Our important papers and photos had been double-bagged in zippered plastic, along with treasures such as Erik's teddy bear. They are still packaged. I got tired of all the packing and unpacking.
So here we go again. The freezer is being gradually loaded with water jugs. We're buying extra batteries and keeping them fresh in the fridge, restocking the propane lanterns and stove. Over the summer I'll be getting an extra month's supply of all our medications, and restocking the first aid kit, including suturing materials. Emergency funds are once more accumulating in the credit union accounts in case we have to go on an "evacuation vacation." This spring Chris and Erik will do a roof inspection to make sure the repairs are in good shape...we have extra shingles. There are special clips which make plywood stay secure up to 180 mph in windows. We're investing in these and new plywood before the rush. Attempting to do any of this later, when a storm is just days away is a mission impossibile.
Did we learn our lesson with Ivan? You betcha! When Dennis loomed large and powerful, we loaded up both cars with our computers, televisions, photos and other irreplaceables, two dogs, two cats, and a seven inch koi in a five gallon bucket with a portable air pump, and lit out for glory. Seven hundred miles and ten hours later we arrived at my mother's condo in southwest Florida, which had already dodged the bullet. Riding that long with a small dog on my lap and a fish between my feet was a little cramped, but safe, even though people stared when we stopped for gas. We were proud hurricane refugees, not summertime nomads.
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Comments: 19
pray for us all. its supposed to be as bad or worse this year.
L.
Bay County, Florida.
Shouldn't there be a limit to how many times a house can be washed away, blown away or shaken down before we just say 'maybe we shouldn't rebuild there again?"
The cost to life and the cost to the Fed. and therefore all Americans to continually rebuild is just to high.
Maybe Mother Nature is just trying to tell you something.
[hoping Annina will agree]...
many if not most of the places lost in the last two years had withstood literally decades of storms with no major cost.
The storm cycle has changed.
The question really is why did all this NEW construction on what are basically sandbars go up? And shouldn't those responsible be held accountable?
L.
Bruce, there is no limit to human perseverence OR to human stupidity, and you are right--this goes for all shores.
Zenith & Aileen, I guess it's in the human spirit to cling to the land, even when the land isn't clinging to you! People wonder why we stay on the Gulf Coast, but then I wonder why others stay on earthquake faults. It's just that we don't want to give up or give in...nobody likes to move, and just about anywhere on the planet is vulnerable to one form or disaster or another!