HURRICANE MARIA September 18, 2017

HURRICANE MARIA September 18, 2017

I can barely remember it. The photos don't even evoke an emotion.  I can tell the story though and relate the events as they happened.

So, the day of September 18, 2017 was quite normal. People were talking about the approaching hurricane, but we were expecting a category 2...heavy rain, high wind.  Some preparations were being made: the fishermen were bringing their boats way up, vulnerable windows were being boarded up. We were filling buckets and containers with water and getting our candles and torches ready...and feeling snug and smug.  McDowell and I thought we were in a hurricane proof house.

The wind started to rise at dusk, 5PM. McDowell called me and asked if he should come home now, or stay until the usual 9PM.  His friend, Charles, told him to close and go immediately, and it is a good thing he took his friend's advice.  By the time he got home, an hour later, the wind had become mean and the rain fierce.  He was worried; I was nonchalant because I didn't know any better.

We lost power, almost right away.  The noise was amazing. The windows and door began to gush water, not leak - gush.  We could hear people calling and crying out. There was a strange smell to the air.  My ears were popping  from the pressure.  Then the window in the apartment next door broke and the wind threw all the furniture in there against the adjoining wall.  Everything: TV, kitchen table, chairs, over turned the 'fridge, broke the bed.  Meanwhile the water was rising in our flat and we were scurrying around trying to hide things from the water, rescue our documents, and cover books, save our digital equipment.  By 10PM it was clear that we were not going to rescue anything, and better think about ourselves. We looked up and there was a gaping hole in the bathroom. The galvanized roof had gone elsewhere and the rain was pouring in. So we sat in our sodden chairs, in wringing wet clothes and opened out our umbrellas and laughed. I don't know when the big tree at our gate came down, but I expect it was early on. Even if we wanted to get out we could not have.

The force of a hurricane is unimaginable. The wind makes the sound of a band of howling banshees.  The wind is without mercy and will find every little hole.  It sucks out windows, overturns huge cargo containers, tosses cars around like nerf balls.  The wind strips bare every stately mango, tears bananas from the ground, snaps  tops off of tall coconut trees, flattens the citrus and avocado changing the landscape from lush green to that only seen in movies about the apocalypse. People are utterly helpless in the onslaught.  Their homes come crashing down around them as they try to find shelter from the rising water and the raging wind. They huddle in terror for hours under beds, and in closets.  Children are swept away by the violent river waters.  Lives are lost.

The morning after was still, eerie really.  No birds chirping, no lizards singing, no roosters crowning, no dogs barking, no goats bleating, no people talking.

McDowell slashed our way down what was left of the stairs with my little cutlass and we started our walk into Portsmouth not knowing what we would find climbing over broken posts, wire everywhere, twisted and torn galvanized roves. Half way there a friend of McDowell's called out to him and told him his Bar was standing and had most of its roof.  He didn't mention the old house.  Somewhat relieved, we slogged on.  The Indian River complex was a mess, Jo-Jo's was flat, Simple's house had vanished, Malvin's house as bare, Maford's house only had 4 walls, sort of.  The Pik-Nik was up, but roofless, Miss Olive was standing and the Douglas building was in ruins.  We could see that the back of the Peter house was gone, but the old thing still stood.  McDowell checked his Bar and only a little flooding and wind damage was evident. But it was the back, the Patio that was shocking.  What was our pride and enjoy had been swept bare and detritus, debris, broken pipes, horrible smelly things heaved up by the sea, pieces of galvanized sheeting, rocks, wood, and who knows what else deposited in its place and hip deep. 

Then we looked in the house.  Our pretty art gallery and gift shop and its precious contents were lying sopping on the floor.  The wind had striped the paint off the wall.  But the building itself, over 100 years old stood, shaky and crooked to be sure, but together. Since we now had no place to stay, we moved in there and camped among the cockroaches and the mold for a week. 

Because McDowell had a stock of beer, rum, cigarettes he was one of the first people to open up in Portsmouth.  We cleaned up inside as best we could and opened the Bar. Business was brisk.

I found a small furnished apartment just steps away from the Bar. Clean and dry.  We moved in and that is where we are now.