Senor Luis (you remember reading about him) wasn't even a dress rehearsal for the surprise performance Marilyn had in store for St. Thomas. And surprise it was. No long period of anticipation or preparation this time. One day a tolerable tropical storm, the next a full blown hurricane, the day after that St. Thomas: Ground Zero. Oh boy.
But, no big thing. Only a small Category 2 hurricane. A couple of hours of harassment. We Hugo survivors (a cocky, confident bunch that feel capable of conquering anything thrown at us) could laugh in the face of such puny muscle flexing. Remember the old margarine ad that said "it's not nice to laugh at Mother Nature" and then had a lightning bolt shoot out of the sky? Well, Mother Nature definitely took umbrage at not being accorded the respect she thought she deserved and threw a bit more than a lightning bolt at us. The expected quick little blow (we expected 105 mph winds) turned into everyone's worst nightmare come true.
11 PM. Miracle of miracles the husband's awake. Cigarette break. As he vacates the bedroom (my righteous non-smoker edict of no smoking in the bedroom is observed even during hurricanes), I quickly follow in his wake dragging pillow, blanket and snatching up the cushion from the porch's chaise lounge on my way into the kitchen. My narrow galley kitchen was the preferred spot during Hugo's height and since Marilyn was hitting from the same direction it seemed a logical choice again. The dogs certainly seemed to prefer it over the clamour of the bedroom. At this point it sounded as if all hell was breaking loose with things crashing onto the roof and various other non-identifiable noises racketing away.
11.30 PM. A loud, unfortunately identifiable noise - the sound of shattering glass. The big sliding glass windows in our recently vacated bedroom - the ones that normally make it so light and airy - are being blown in, making it airier than ever. Shards, chunks and sword-like pieces are being propelled through the air. The 3/4" thick plywood has been ripped off one of the windows and the maelstrom has moved inside. Being a fairly prudent person, though, a quick decision was made to not attempt to do anything other than close the door and hope for the best. Since the kitchen is only a few steps away from the bedroom (actually the case with every room in my tiny house) we figured perhaps a safer spot should be found. Bathrooms are usually recommended since they're small and pretty well fortified. OK. I'll go with that. To the bathroom only to find that the plywood has been torn off that window as well. No flying glass here but not exactly womblike either.
Not a lot of choices left. Only one, in fact. The closet in the back bedroom. A closet that is (as all spare closets are) the receptacle for every extra bit of detritus floating around the average household (if you'll remember, Suzy Homemaker I'm not).
Start flinging. In the dark. Within seconds the 4 ft space became refuge to two far from petite adults and three large dogs (one of whom - Gina, Miss Dramatics personified - decided under my knees was safer yet). Put that thankfully grabbed lounge chair cushion in front of all of us and time to settle in (not quite as easy as it sounds with hearts pumping and ears popping - that low barometric pressure meteorologists talk about is more than just a meaningless number, believe me). The next three hours are spent huddled thusly, listening to those supposedly 105 mph winds, wishing the radio stations were still broadcasting so we might know what was happening, hoping that the roof would hold (but thinking that might be a bit optimistic) and saying a prayer or two. There are no atheists in foxholes or horrendous hurricanes.
2.30 AM. Is it my imagination or does there seem to be some abatement of the furies surrounding us? Mr. Bravery (foolhardy?), my husband Francis, decides to venture out (actually he's desperate for a cigarette). I, of course, figure that this is the eye and the lull will be short so I refuse to budge from the cocoon I've made in the closet. Luckily he prevailed (that closet was more than a trifle warm, after all) and we repaired to the relative comfort of the living room (just how comfortable can a Pier 1 Store be though?). Still with my faithful blanket and pillow, I spend the hours until daybreak (why is daybreak such a magic time? Why are the terrors - whatever terrors - so much harder to deal with in darkness?) shuddering with each heavy gust . Francis, made of much sterner stuff, has again nodded off.
5.45 AM. Daylight. Hallelujah. Now I can deal with just about anything. Winds are still howling (but only at Tropical Storm force now) but who cares. Time to go out and survey our immediate world (and besides, the dogs are tired of crossing their legs). The light is thin and grey but it doesn't hide the expected other planet landscape or the totally unexpected destruction all around us. One neighbour's house is simply gone, most others are missing roofs. Only ours and one other in the immediate vicinity are relatively unscathed (what's a trashed bedroom compared to no house? An interesting fact about that trashed bedroom - full of debris and leaves, daggers of glass impaled in the wall over the bed and all over the bed, everything soaked with salt water - but the clothes hanging in the closet, door blown open, were perfectly dry and ready to wear). Even the dogs can't quite believe their eyes (they spent the rest of the day jumping on things to look out the windows at their unrecognisable territory).
The terror of Marilyn's St. Thomas gig is behind us but the reality of her aftermath will be with us for some time. No terror but some withdrawal pains over our temporary loss of accepted/expected 20th century amenities. No power means no dishwasher, no microwave, no most things that make life easier. No phone at home means lots of extra trips to find one that works and a big curtailment of long distance chatting (a real penance for us non letter writers). No Cable means no QVC (not a happy situation for us shopaholics. Hooray for stateside siblings and VCRs). All of these things will be back eventually (just how eventually depends on where you live - my eventually means 1996), until then we learn new skills and probably develop better relationships (my husband, for one, is quite happy that QVC is off the air). We've decided to "camp out" on our porch for a while. After our mattress dried out we just left it where it was and now have the luxury of cool (2 blankets worth), breezy (no mosquitoes) nights. And, of course, there is the added benefit of reduced housekeeping chores - something I'm always in favour of.
Things in general are looking up. No longer are there 3 hour gas lines (since we didn't have much warning about Marilyn not many people had a chance to fill up before she came) and ice is readily available. There has been a tremendous amount of help from the federal government distributing much needed supplies (blue tarps are springing up all over the island making it resemble Smurf nirvana). By December (and this we know from experience) the island will be as green and lush as it can possibly be. That jungle syndrome that can be such a pain in landscape maintenance is a real boon when it comes to healing hurricane scars (hopefully, though, the debris will be removed before it's covered)!
So, soon we'll be back. There have been hurricanes before Marilyn and there will be ones after (but I think she'll be the titleholder for quite some time. Those winds? Try recorded gusts up to 227 mph) but this has always been and will always be "America's Paradise."
Vivian