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Sept. 26, 2003
Learning not to look hurricanes in the eyeAs I looked at the idiots standing out in the blowing wind and rain with cameras and microphones, I remembered when I did the same thing. Residents on South Padre Island, Texas, always considered a hurricane a faint possibility. But while old timers frequently mentioned storms they lived through, it never quite dawned on newcomers like me that it could happen to us. Weather forecasters in September 1988 made it sound like Gilbert would wipe coastal Texas off the map. It whipped through Jamaica with winds clocked at an incredible 175 mph. The mayor and city manager of South Padre Island called a press conference to announce the evacuation order. It was more of an evacuation request, actually; they couldn't forcibly evict anyone from the island, I was told. I was living in a wooden duplex on stilts that swayed even on normal, windy days. My neighbors spent two days packing to move out; being a bachelor it only took me a half a day to pack up my things. It was a somber feeling, watching my neighbor photograph her apartment just before driving off for the last time. A good Samaritan who lived down the street showed me where there was some extra plywood in a garage. I tacked it over my windows. My folksy managing editor from East Texas invited me to stay at his house 40 miles inland in Harlingen, where my newspaper was based. His wife had evacuated farther inland to a gym being used as a fallout shelter. My boss and I drank cans of cheap beer and watched that giant swirl of clouds gobble up the weather map on TV. His overweight Chihuahua couldn't make it up to the couch without a helping hand. That night, a big group of us went out drinking at a bar in Harlingen. There was incredible energy in the place, everyone partying hearty like the end of the world was coming. The storm was supposed to make landfall the next day. In the afternoon I drove out towards the Gulf Coast with a friend of mine at the newspaper who brought his camera. When we arrived along the Laguna Madre, we showed our press passes to a Texas Department of Public Safety trooper. Along the bay, the winds had practically doubled in strength. My friend remarked how much gas he used battling the headwinds to get there. It was an eerie feeling in Port Isabel, Texas, situated on the bay. We drove through red lights with no one else foolish enough to be there, not even the cops. The only other people we saw were a couple television crews from Houston and San Antonio. The winds were too strong on the Queen Isabella Causeway to risk driving over to South Padre, a thin barrier island only three blocks wide. We drove over to the boat channel instead. Along the way, I saw the power poles swaying in the wind and heard that sound people describe when there's a tornado, that sound of a freight train. That's when I suggested we drive back to Harlingen. Back at the office, we found out that the storm had made landfall to the south in Mexico, right where it was originally heading. Forecasters thought it would turn to the north at the last minute. All the out-of-town reporters who frequented our newspaper that week were left holding the bag, since there would be nothing much to report on locally. My boss and I laughed as television reports kept showing footage of someone walking down the street with his pants flapping in the breeze or a box blowing along the ground. Some employees chose to sleep at the newspaper office in Harlingen, a solid, brick building. There were cold cuts and cheese on the counter to make sandwiches, since all the supermarkets were closed. Eventually, the usual office rules were waived and we had a party. Some people brought beer; others passed a bottle of Jack Daniels. Sports writers watched porno videos on a small TV in their section of the newsroom. My managing editor, loaded up on whiskey, made a pass at a young woman reporter. South Padre Island was spared the full wrath of the storm. Monterrey, Mexico, was hit by 20 inches of rain, which washed away squatters along the Guadalupe River. The irony of it was that some people from the Gulf Coast evacuated to the San Antonio area, which was hit by tornadoes spun off from the storm. My managing editor's wife flipped out when she returned home the next day to see the messy house. She said she spent much of her evacuation time standing outside smoking cigarettes, which were banned inside the gym. My managing editor joked that he was thankful the storm passed quickly and he didn't have to get drunk three nights in a row. The day after Gilbert hit land, local police checked our IDs and we were let back out onto South Padre Island. The roads were covered with sand. Some billboards and aluminum awnings were blown over. Luckily, the only damage to my apartment was a screen door that came off its hinges. I heard reports about someone who rode the storm out on South Padre Island. Then there was a news article about some shrimpers who were blown onto the beach across the Rio Grande in Mexico and lit their boat on fire to try to signal rescuers. Once Gilbert was gone, it was back to the peaceful serenity of life on the beach. We dodged the bullet, and afterwards I felt I could sympathize with those old timers. Now I'm practically one of them, reminiscing about the big storm I lived through and waiting for the next one that might come calling someday. Write to Mark Waite at mwaite@pvtimes.com. |
