i should probably be a lot more afraid of these things than i am

April 5, 2012

there are these things called hurricanes. for those of you not living on a coast, you've only heard tell of these things on the news when they become category fives, say, or stall over houston (like alison did at the first of this century). but if you're in, oh, i don't know, arizona, you don't normally have to worry about a giant wall of water being hurled at your city. pair this with a bunch of baby tornadoes spawned by one giant cyclone ...

it's kinda pretty from that vantage, right? that's isabel, the costliest and deadliest hurricane of two thousand three. her storm surge (that wall i was talking about) washed out a portion of hatteras island on north carolina's coast. think nights in rodanthe.

damage totaled what would be an equivalent of more than four billion dollars today. sixteen deaths in seven states were directly related to the hurricane. and in six others and one canadian province, thirty-five deaths were indirectly attributed to it.

they make things like this happen.

photo courtesy of betsy glass

power is out for days. sometimes weeks.

when hurricane ike was bearing down on the coast of southeast texas ...

this, by the way, is what high island looked like after ike hit it. (that shiny stuff floating on the water? that's oil.)

and this is the island a year later. (these photos came from this place. they've got some other nifty ones, too.)

anyway. the day we were waiting for ike, i spent the majority of it upstairs in my father's office reading blog posts (specifically those of stephanie nielson, because i'd just learned that morning of her tragic predicament). and then at around seven or eight that night, a handful of hours before his arrival, i went walking around my neighborhood to enjoy that last bit of calmness.

i went to bed at ten or eleven. he woke me up at about two, i think. and i lay on the couch, listening as he bent the trees in my yard, praying he wouldn't break the pear tree my brothers planted or the magnolia my parents' best friends gave them after my older brother had passed, or that the miniature twisters the storm had spawned wouldn't tear my house to pieces. or anyone else's. i'd swear on both hands i'd heard at least a dozen of'm in the distance. they sounded like eighteen wheelers hauling ass on the interstate. i imagined them wreaking havoc. but i wasn't curled up on that couch. i just lied there. waiting for the damned thing to be over.

wondering how long our house would be powerless.

1 comment :

  1. glad you are ok. scary stuff.