As I'd mentioned in an earlier article, at this time of year islanders religiously tune in to television weather reports, especially the Tropical Update (even though that coverage is decidedly slanted to stateside viewers. We islanders were getting just a dash annoyed last week when Iris was bopping along her track to the Caribbean and the hot topic was Jerry's water delivery to the southeastern states. With Luis rumba-ing along the forecast was for a nice Labor Day holiday! Not quite, guys). We have our hurricane tracking maps handy, ready to play the annual game of connect the dots if anything seems to be heading in our direction. Every three hours a new set of coordinates brings a new dot onto our maps and a jump closer to our island (often these maps are used from year to year so we're able to compare tracks from previous years and thereby make our own amateur predictions of strike probability - an engrossing pastime). By Friday it was beginning to look like we were sitting at ground zero and preparations better get started.
Labor Day weekend in St Thomas wasn't spent picnicking or partying or beaching by most residents. We were all off on a quest for lamp oil, batteries, canned food, bottled water, plywood and various other supplies that we would need to ride out one of those heavy duty hurricanes (this was no wimpy little Category 1 storm - this was a big boy 4 - just like Hugo) and the probable aftermath (we were beginning to remember only too well the months following Hugo). By Sunday afternoon, the island's stock of plywood had been cleaned out and "D" batteries (radios and flashlights don't often run on AA - there were plenty of those to be had) had become as rare as hen's teeth. Grocery store shelves were rapidly being emptied (not the refrigerator/freezer sections though - great selections remained there. Another lesson we learned well 6 years ago) and lines were interminable, snaking in all directions. A forty-five minute wait wasn't unusual but the time passed fairly quickly since impending storms are always ice breakers and provide much conversational fodder among strangers. After stocking up, off to the gas station and another line. A full gas tank is a must during hurricanes.
By Monday morning most people had their storm supplies in hand (there are always a few dawdlers though, me included, and the island's stores were doing a brisk business instead of being closed for the holiday) and preparations moved to the next step. All that plywood that had so recently been stacked in the island's lumberyards was rapidly becoming window adornment on houses throughout the island. The sounds of concrete nails being hammered home competed with radios and televisions broadcasting the latest on Luis. Boarding wouldn't be completed right away though, there was still another night to get through before Luis' ETA and being able to breathe and not sweat to death for one more night would be nice.
Monday was also the time to attack all the extraneous junk that one seems to accumulate around the exterior of one's house. Plant pots, trash bins, gardening tools, barbecuing equipment, even clothes pins have to be gathered up and brought indoors since all can become like little cannonballs when the winds really get going. Porch furniture also has to be brought in and in this land of outdoor living there tends to be quite a bit of it. All of this stuff somehow has to find a temporary home inside the house with all the rest of your belongings. Your living room soon begins to resemble a Pier 1 store.
And don't think that storm preparation is confined to outdoors. A flurry of activity is going on inside as well. Hurricanes sometimes have a nasty predilection for ripping off roofs and hurling them away, exposing all your belongings, treasured and otherwise, to shredding wind and torrential rains. In other words, complete ruin. So, in anticipation of this possibility, there are many frantic hours spent encasing anything of value in plastic garbage bags and stowing breakables in, hopefully, safe places. At the same time a good cleaning is the order of the day since that's a task much more easily accomplished when power and water are available (and after the hurricane those particular amenities that we all take for granted aren't exactly a given). Kitchens and bathrooms are thoroughly scrubbed, tubs and pots are filled with water for use when electric pumps are non-functional, dishes are washed and safely stowed away. Activity and nerve levels are pumping. You would think this frenzied day would ensure a good night's sleep. Uh uh. The strain of not knowing exactly what you're in for takes a toll.
Tuesday. D day. Forget the coffee for now. The first thing to do after you get up is turn on the television and find out what Luis is up to. A tiny glimmer of hope. A northwest jog is going to take the eye of the storm north of the island - not by a lot but enough to spare us the worst (FYI: the preferred track would take a storm to the north of you since the winds in the southern half are not nearly as ferocious as those in the northern sectors - the northeast quadrant is the meanest.) Time for final boarding up (and deciding which windows, protected ones, will be left unboarded so they can be opened during the hurricane to equalise pressure. If you hermetically seal your house, cocoon-like and safe as it may seem, you just might find your roof popping off all by itself because of the pressure imbalance! Didn't know it was so complicated, did you?).
Good thing we all get up so early - 7 am and Cable TV is gone and with it those avidly watched updates. Oh well. There are still odds and ends to be done but the last board, the one over the glass door leading to the porch, can wait till later since the winds aren't supposed to come until around 5 pm. Surprise. At noon a big squall of rain and 70 mph gusts of wind knock out the power and immediate action is called for. Up goes the last board (very carefully so as not to emulate Icarus), down come the cistern inlets (this particular rain you don't want in your cistern - it's full of salt water), all the hatches are battened. Now it's sit and wait.
That preliminary burst was it for a while. Winds were a bit higher than normal but mostly steady. At least the phone still worked and there was even light to read by near the unboarded windows, which at this point could even stay open so a nice breeze kept the house cool. Not too bad. Walks around outside to watch the Atlantic pounding, the waves getting higher and higher.
Six PM. Although there's a 6 PM to 6 AM curfew because of the hurricane, a trip to Hull Bay for one last check of the boats seems prudent. Good decision. The waves are coming higher than ever and some last minute preventative measures are urgently needed. A group of fishermen (curfew breakers all), corrals a trailer and hauls half a dozen boats out of danger. No boats means no work. They take chances when it comes to protecting their livelihood. Safely back home it's time to collapse after all the exertion (and the beer that helped fuel the exertion) of the last few days.
For the next 12 hours until daylight it's the wives on patrol duty. Prowling around all night long, flashlights in hand, checking windows, doors and roof, making sure that everything is secure. Winds are howling (though nothing like Hugo - these gusts only reached 110 mph) and the rains are lashing - a fun time is to be had by all.
Once daylight comes the whole situation becomes much better. Even though the storm is at its height it is much more tolerable without the cloak of darkness. Being able to see what's going on takes much of the fear-inducing properties away. It's even kind of thrilling to peek between tiny gaps in the plywood and see what's going on all around. The trees bending over from the pressure of the wind, billows of rain blowing horizontally, huge waves crashing over the point, roaring wind that makes normal conversational levels inaudible. Exciting sights and sounds as long as you're safe and snug.
And we all were. St Thomas was extremely lucky in the treatment Sr Luis doled out to us. Much more so than our neighbouring islands. While Anguilla, Antigua, St Martin and St Barts took it on the chin, we just had a glancing blow (even though that blow lasted more than 24 hours; Luis was a big storm - some 700 miles across - and it took him a long time to dance past us). Instead of the defoliated moonscape littered with galvanised roofing and debris from destroyed houses that we had been envisioning, the island is still green and relatively unscathed. Power has been restored to 85% of the island in under 48 hours of Luis' departure and full restoration is less than a week away - a far cry from what we had anticipated. Phone and Cable TV are similarly on track. An amazing feat that is worthy of our admiration and thanks.
So, it's over for now. We wish we could say that's it for this year but the season isn't over yet. But, as we've seen, miracles can happen. Maybe there's room for one more.