Wilma
I was asked a fair question by a Mars Hill neighbor.
“You got marbles for brains?”
I had to explain that it was better for me to drive to Fort Lauderdale the day before the approaching storm, ride out the dozen or so hours of the beast named Wilma—not to be confused with Fred Flintstone’s common sense wife—and then be positioned to assist the south Florida offices of my employer after the storm. After all, by the time it got to the east coast of Florida, it was predicted to be no more than an extremely weak hurricane or, more likely, a tropical storm.
The explanation was too long, with too much rational-defying detail. I saw the deer-in-the-headlights stare at my noggin and knew the man was still thinking of marbles.
So, at 3am on Sunday, October 24th, 2005, I packed the truck and headed out. The temperature was 36º and I was dressed appropriately in sweats. Thirteen hours later, I was conspicuous, to say the least, dressed as I was. In downtown Fort Lauderdale I stopped for a fill up and was the object of stares by a beach-bound couple in bathing suits. The temperature was 92º, a 56º temp-shock from Mars Hill. Fall in South Florida? That simply means not so much humidity and the occasional cold front that drops temperatures to the mid-50s. People bundle up comically.
My sister and brother-in-law, Ginny and Tom Miller, have a beautiful home on the New River in Fort Lauderdale, which shoots west off the Intracoastal Waterway and meanders inland. We watched the local news on the eve of the category 2 storm (“Possibly 3 when it makes landfall in the Naples/Ft. Myers area”) and, after hearing the same predictions over and over again, became restless. In unison, without any prior agreement to do so, we busied ourselves checking on this and that to make sure we were prepared for whatever came.
I found a plant in a tall terra-cotta pot that looked susceptible to being blown over and cracking open. I walked it to a corner of the house I felt would be a safe haven for the flowering plant and wheelbarrow shaped planter.
“I thought about that,” Tom said as he looked for something to be productive with, as if he were hunting for that last Easter egg.
We gathered again in the kitchen an hour or so later, for some reason still looking out windows for anything we might have missed that needed to be moved out of harm’s way.
Nothing. Now it was time to just sit around and wait it out.
My sister searched shelf after shelf in the pantry and the fridge determined now to find something that would easily spoil after the power failed, which we all knew was a sure bet. She found hamburger—something I was surprised she even had, knowing what a health conscious person she is.
She seemed ecstatic with her assembled finds. I knew it was just the tension before the storm. She opened cans of chili and shredded a left over half a head of iceberg lettuce. She had a plan, something to keep herself busy. She was on a mission from Wilma.
As the sun set early behind storm clouds approaching from the west, we dined on some of the best chili I’d ever tasted, topped with—yes, topped with—the shredded lettuce that had been tossed with Italian dressing and a sprinkling of cheese. It was a combo that at first I was hesitant to dig into. I next considered it something I had to share with my wife, Jacqueline, when I returned home to Mars Hill.
Later, we forced ourselves to bed. Waiting for the storm is not that enjoyable. Forget what you hear, like wild and fun hurricane parties. They aren’t the norm and only get the attention of news people when someone invariably gets smashed and then smashed again by a falling tree.
Trying to sleep as Wilma approached the West Coast of Florida seemed futile and I sensed the same feeling from my sister and brother-in-law down the hall. However, I knew there was nothing else to be done, our bellies were full, and the power was still on. We could stare at the TVs in our rooms or read ourselves, hopefully, to sleep.
For me, at least, after 13 hours on the road, I finally slept like a baby. That is, until 3 am, exactly 24 hours since I began my journey south.
I awoke with a start but it wasn’t from Santa coming down the chimney—as if anyone down here has a chimney except for show. My guess: sustained winds of about 40 miles an hour. Somehow I go back to sleep.
Up again at 6:33. This time I’m up for good. We all are. The sound of the wind is now similar to living along a freeway and hearing the swoosh of constant high-speed traffic. Luckily, the power is still on. I start to brew a pot of coffee. Too late: lights out.
It wasn’t until about quarter of eight that I check my watch again. I want to document exactly when it was that the comparative din of traffic turned into something like standing under a jet as it passes just overhead.
I shake my watch, wondering if it had stopped when the power went off. Then I shake off the stupids. Of course it works… It’s a darn wristwatch. Seriously. I did that.
Winds are now full hurricane force, steady at over 75, gusting even higher. Like the freight train you hear about when a tornado is approaching, I look around trying to find from what direction the sound is coming. I finally realize it’s futile. It’s coming from everywhere, it’s just “here.”
Minutes later we find out why the power failed when it did. Looking out a front window, we see a power pole—one of the newer aluminum kind—has bent near its base. The pole, the lines, and the streetlight at the peak, are all dangling across the narrow neighborhood road. Why it hadn’t fallen entirely was somewhat of a mystery until we saw a sister pole down the street leaning against a parked boat on a trailer.
The strong winds continue to howl, blowing from east to west. I watch as Wilma picks up water from the river and curls it into croissant-shaped, foam-topped waves. The wind immediately scoops up the exposed foam caps of water—reminding me of wind driven snow—and blends it into 90 mph froth. We can no longer see across the river.
It’s 8:38. The portable radio tells us that the winds are gusting to 120 mph. We also hear that the eye of the storm, Mother Nature’s pause before the final pummeling from the backside, may miss us as Wilma begins tracking more northeast, towards West Palm Beach. We’ll miss the windless intermission and blue skies, meaning it will just be more of the same as the strongest winds around the eye stay on us. The newscaster, similar to those infomercials you see on TV warned, “But wait! There’s more!” His frantic directive to those north of us is to stay inside during the eye of the storm and not venture out to inspect damage. “There’s more to come!” he implores. Ya think?
As the storm’s eye moves away from us, the wind shifts direction. It allows me to cautiously step out onto a small covered porch adjacent to my bedroom. I look up at a fertile palm tree staunchly fighting the assaulting wind, bending precariously toward the river with each gust; a tug-of-war between roots gripping soil and limestone rock, and wind wrapping itself around trunk and fronds. One second the wind has the advantage, the next the finger-like roots dig deep and fight back.
I notice small pods of coconut wannabe’s holding firmly onto stalks near the tops of palm trees. There are clusters of about 30, each about the size of golf balls. I knew they were hard as a rock. When and if they fly the damage could be severe, like a fastball served up at a batter’s head. I watched one, then another, dislodge and fly away faster than my eyes could follow. I saw others bounce on the flagstone patio before descending into the water only to skip across the top like a flat-sided rock. I think of my neighbor in Mars Hill. I think of marbles.
For brief periods, I can see across the river. Someone made the decision to leave up a canvas awning. It was a mistake. It flapped in the wind, tearing more with each wave of wind that accosted it. Like a battle-worn flag, it shredded along each seam, grommets popped, plastic ties failed, and seconds later much of it was airborne.
I think it can’t get any worse for the home. But Wilma’s wind is not done. The remaining tattered canvas is now slapping against the roof of the home. With each gust, some pieces larger than a shower curtain, some like sheets on a clothesline, lick the tiles as though flames from a fire, punishing the white concrete squares. Reminiscent of being slapped with a wet towel, I could hear each snap, but this was not playful, this was damage in the making.
The canvas continues its beating, reminding me of my days racing sailboats. When we’d come about through a hard tack, the sails would snap as wind assaulted their backsides. Here and now, the tiles gave, one by one. They begin flying to and then past the peak of the roof. Beyond that I can’t see them, only guess where they might land. Now, asphalt tarpaper is exposed, contrasting in checkerboard fashion against the remaining white tiles. I see a face in window: Is he thinking about doing something? I hope not. Someone who walked outside at the wrong time has already died, crushed by a fallen tree, the battery-powered radio told us. There’s no way to stop the canvas’s lethal lashing. It’s much too dangerous to right a ladder and begin stabbing a knife at the remaining cloth. I think of the movie Psycho: Perkins with the knife, the shower curtain streaked with blood.
In the end, this will surely be one of those Kodak moments some media photographer will document anyway, one that a wire service will pick up for the world to see. Or will they? Everyone must be on hurricane-overload, I reason, tired of the pictures of destruction and stories of despair. Enough is enough.
Next we hear that A1A, the oceanfront drive, is not drivable because of debris, of course, but also fallen trees, dislodged lodging signs, and once-beach sand that is now beach sand road, sans the yellow line down the middle. A report comes in that the Bahia Mar Resort’s windows have blown in. Then an excited reporter, braving the storm for extra bucks from a blow, tells of cars flipped on top of one another in a parking lot. More rain-pelted lens footage; more Wilma-moments.
The time? I had forgotten to look at my watch. When I do, I am surprised to see that it’s nearing 11:00 am. I put the watch down, no longer caring. Moments later I hear a loud crack. I walk through the darkened house and see my brother-in-law walking toward the front of the house. We both stand at one side of the foyer looking through a narrow window. Then we walk to the dining room. A roof tile slammed into a window and shattered it. Luckily it’s safety glass, like in car’s windshield. The glass has shattered into BB size pieces but still clings to the clear film, holding it, remarkably, intact.
Another crack, then a thud that shakes the house. We rush to a bedroom that’s used as an office. Through a window, we see a tall palm—not a coconut palm but one of the many other varieties that grow fast and tall. Now we know what caused the sound we heard. It had broken in two, yet the fibrous innards of the tree held the two pieces together. The top portion now leaned against the roof of the house. Rhythmically, the leaning tower of palm rocked above us, as if it were a saw searching for its mark before making a cut. There was nothing to do but pray that it didn’t work its way deeper through remaining layers of tile, protective sheeting, and plywood, creating a pathway for rain to pelt through. With shrugs, we walk away, anxious, of course, but tired of listening to it sway or, just tired of it all.
I return to my bedroom and the covered patio. The wind has shifted a bit more but I crave fresh air and still believe it safe to stand just outside the door. Some debris flies my way but not much. If the wind shifts even more, I know I will loose my Wild World of Wilma vantage point. I dial my wife on my cell phone. Will it work? It does. I lie: I tell her all’s well. It’s almost over (that, I think is true). Then the wind shifts radically and I turn away from the attack. Dumb, but not stupid. She hears it, she senses where I’m standing and what is happening, she lays into me. For once, I listen. I get inside after struggling to get the door open. I absentmindedly begin picking plastered leaves off my shirt as I finish up with her. I look in a mirror: I look like I’ve been paint-balled.
What more can happen? It has to be about over. But, of course, one more thing has to happen. A tree falls on my truck. Then roof tiles nail it. I don’t know the latter until I walk out to check out the damage an hour later.
An hour later. That’s all it took. It was over. Or, it now all just begins.
Tuesday, October 26th. I’ve duct-tapped a headlight back onto my truck so I can at least drive it. I’m supposed to be down here working. I get antsy to do just that. I negotiate my way around fallen telephone poles and dead wires (there’s no power anywhere) and drive to my employer’s Fort Lauderdale branch office. The roof is gone. I call the branch manager. His house is trashed. He’ll try to get to the office the next day. I return to the house-of-Wilma and help with clean up. An hour later the stack of debris we dragged to the side of the road is over our heads and 30 feet long. Enough. Thankfully, my brother-in-law has a generator. We crank it up and turn on a TV. At what we see we can only shake our heads. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was no tropical storm. It was no minimal hurricane. A woman explained to the on-air reporter, “God decided to give us a whippin.” Then she smiles because the air is suddenly cool, thanks to the cold front that hurried Wilma across the state. “But then,” she added, “He served us up ice cream.”
“You got marbles for brains?”
I had to explain that it was better for me to drive to Fort Lauderdale the day before the approaching storm, ride out the dozen or so hours of the beast named Wilma—not to be confused with Fred Flintstone’s common sense wife—and then be positioned to assist the south Florida offices of my employer after the storm. After all, by the time it got to the east coast of Florida, it was predicted to be no more than an extremely weak hurricane or, more likely, a tropical storm.
The explanation was too long, with too much rational-defying detail. I saw the deer-in-the-headlights stare at my noggin and knew the man was still thinking of marbles.
So, at 3am on Sunday, October 24th, 2005, I packed the truck and headed out. The temperature was 36º and I was dressed appropriately in sweats. Thirteen hours later, I was conspicuous, to say the least, dressed as I was. In downtown Fort Lauderdale I stopped for a fill up and was the object of stares by a beach-bound couple in bathing suits. The temperature was 92º, a 56º temp-shock from Mars Hill. Fall in South Florida? That simply means not so much humidity and the occasional cold front that drops temperatures to the mid-50s. People bundle up comically.
My sister and brother-in-law, Ginny and Tom Miller, have a beautiful home on the New River in Fort Lauderdale, which shoots west off the Intracoastal Waterway and meanders inland. We watched the local news on the eve of the category 2 storm (“Possibly 3 when it makes landfall in the Naples/Ft. Myers area”) and, after hearing the same predictions over and over again, became restless. In unison, without any prior agreement to do so, we busied ourselves checking on this and that to make sure we were prepared for whatever came.
I found a plant in a tall terra-cotta pot that looked susceptible to being blown over and cracking open. I walked it to a corner of the house I felt would be a safe haven for the flowering plant and wheelbarrow shaped planter.
“I thought about that,” Tom said as he looked for something to be productive with, as if he were hunting for that last Easter egg.
We gathered again in the kitchen an hour or so later, for some reason still looking out windows for anything we might have missed that needed to be moved out of harm’s way.
Nothing. Now it was time to just sit around and wait it out.
My sister searched shelf after shelf in the pantry and the fridge determined now to find something that would easily spoil after the power failed, which we all knew was a sure bet. She found hamburger—something I was surprised she even had, knowing what a health conscious person she is.
She seemed ecstatic with her assembled finds. I knew it was just the tension before the storm. She opened cans of chili and shredded a left over half a head of iceberg lettuce. She had a plan, something to keep herself busy. She was on a mission from Wilma.
As the sun set early behind storm clouds approaching from the west, we dined on some of the best chili I’d ever tasted, topped with—yes, topped with—the shredded lettuce that had been tossed with Italian dressing and a sprinkling of cheese. It was a combo that at first I was hesitant to dig into. I next considered it something I had to share with my wife, Jacqueline, when I returned home to Mars Hill.
Later, we forced ourselves to bed. Waiting for the storm is not that enjoyable. Forget what you hear, like wild and fun hurricane parties. They aren’t the norm and only get the attention of news people when someone invariably gets smashed and then smashed again by a falling tree.
Trying to sleep as Wilma approached the West Coast of Florida seemed futile and I sensed the same feeling from my sister and brother-in-law down the hall. However, I knew there was nothing else to be done, our bellies were full, and the power was still on. We could stare at the TVs in our rooms or read ourselves, hopefully, to sleep.
For me, at least, after 13 hours on the road, I finally slept like a baby. That is, until 3 am, exactly 24 hours since I began my journey south.
I awoke with a start but it wasn’t from Santa coming down the chimney—as if anyone down here has a chimney except for show. My guess: sustained winds of about 40 miles an hour. Somehow I go back to sleep.
Up again at 6:33. This time I’m up for good. We all are. The sound of the wind is now similar to living along a freeway and hearing the swoosh of constant high-speed traffic. Luckily, the power is still on. I start to brew a pot of coffee. Too late: lights out.
It wasn’t until about quarter of eight that I check my watch again. I want to document exactly when it was that the comparative din of traffic turned into something like standing under a jet as it passes just overhead.
I shake my watch, wondering if it had stopped when the power went off. Then I shake off the stupids. Of course it works… It’s a darn wristwatch. Seriously. I did that.
Winds are now full hurricane force, steady at over 75, gusting even higher. Like the freight train you hear about when a tornado is approaching, I look around trying to find from what direction the sound is coming. I finally realize it’s futile. It’s coming from everywhere, it’s just “here.”
Minutes later we find out why the power failed when it did. Looking out a front window, we see a power pole—one of the newer aluminum kind—has bent near its base. The pole, the lines, and the streetlight at the peak, are all dangling across the narrow neighborhood road. Why it hadn’t fallen entirely was somewhat of a mystery until we saw a sister pole down the street leaning against a parked boat on a trailer.
The strong winds continue to howl, blowing from east to west. I watch as Wilma picks up water from the river and curls it into croissant-shaped, foam-topped waves. The wind immediately scoops up the exposed foam caps of water—reminding me of wind driven snow—and blends it into 90 mph froth. We can no longer see across the river.
It’s 8:38. The portable radio tells us that the winds are gusting to 120 mph. We also hear that the eye of the storm, Mother Nature’s pause before the final pummeling from the backside, may miss us as Wilma begins tracking more northeast, towards West Palm Beach. We’ll miss the windless intermission and blue skies, meaning it will just be more of the same as the strongest winds around the eye stay on us. The newscaster, similar to those infomercials you see on TV warned, “But wait! There’s more!” His frantic directive to those north of us is to stay inside during the eye of the storm and not venture out to inspect damage. “There’s more to come!” he implores. Ya think?
As the storm’s eye moves away from us, the wind shifts direction. It allows me to cautiously step out onto a small covered porch adjacent to my bedroom. I look up at a fertile palm tree staunchly fighting the assaulting wind, bending precariously toward the river with each gust; a tug-of-war between roots gripping soil and limestone rock, and wind wrapping itself around trunk and fronds. One second the wind has the advantage, the next the finger-like roots dig deep and fight back.
I notice small pods of coconut wannabe’s holding firmly onto stalks near the tops of palm trees. There are clusters of about 30, each about the size of golf balls. I knew they were hard as a rock. When and if they fly the damage could be severe, like a fastball served up at a batter’s head. I watched one, then another, dislodge and fly away faster than my eyes could follow. I saw others bounce on the flagstone patio before descending into the water only to skip across the top like a flat-sided rock. I think of my neighbor in Mars Hill. I think of marbles.
For brief periods, I can see across the river. Someone made the decision to leave up a canvas awning. It was a mistake. It flapped in the wind, tearing more with each wave of wind that accosted it. Like a battle-worn flag, it shredded along each seam, grommets popped, plastic ties failed, and seconds later much of it was airborne.
I think it can’t get any worse for the home. But Wilma’s wind is not done. The remaining tattered canvas is now slapping against the roof of the home. With each gust, some pieces larger than a shower curtain, some like sheets on a clothesline, lick the tiles as though flames from a fire, punishing the white concrete squares. Reminiscent of being slapped with a wet towel, I could hear each snap, but this was not playful, this was damage in the making.
The canvas continues its beating, reminding me of my days racing sailboats. When we’d come about through a hard tack, the sails would snap as wind assaulted their backsides. Here and now, the tiles gave, one by one. They begin flying to and then past the peak of the roof. Beyond that I can’t see them, only guess where they might land. Now, asphalt tarpaper is exposed, contrasting in checkerboard fashion against the remaining white tiles. I see a face in window: Is he thinking about doing something? I hope not. Someone who walked outside at the wrong time has already died, crushed by a fallen tree, the battery-powered radio told us. There’s no way to stop the canvas’s lethal lashing. It’s much too dangerous to right a ladder and begin stabbing a knife at the remaining cloth. I think of the movie Psycho: Perkins with the knife, the shower curtain streaked with blood.
In the end, this will surely be one of those Kodak moments some media photographer will document anyway, one that a wire service will pick up for the world to see. Or will they? Everyone must be on hurricane-overload, I reason, tired of the pictures of destruction and stories of despair. Enough is enough.
Next we hear that A1A, the oceanfront drive, is not drivable because of debris, of course, but also fallen trees, dislodged lodging signs, and once-beach sand that is now beach sand road, sans the yellow line down the middle. A report comes in that the Bahia Mar Resort’s windows have blown in. Then an excited reporter, braving the storm for extra bucks from a blow, tells of cars flipped on top of one another in a parking lot. More rain-pelted lens footage; more Wilma-moments.
The time? I had forgotten to look at my watch. When I do, I am surprised to see that it’s nearing 11:00 am. I put the watch down, no longer caring. Moments later I hear a loud crack. I walk through the darkened house and see my brother-in-law walking toward the front of the house. We both stand at one side of the foyer looking through a narrow window. Then we walk to the dining room. A roof tile slammed into a window and shattered it. Luckily it’s safety glass, like in car’s windshield. The glass has shattered into BB size pieces but still clings to the clear film, holding it, remarkably, intact.
Another crack, then a thud that shakes the house. We rush to a bedroom that’s used as an office. Through a window, we see a tall palm—not a coconut palm but one of the many other varieties that grow fast and tall. Now we know what caused the sound we heard. It had broken in two, yet the fibrous innards of the tree held the two pieces together. The top portion now leaned against the roof of the house. Rhythmically, the leaning tower of palm rocked above us, as if it were a saw searching for its mark before making a cut. There was nothing to do but pray that it didn’t work its way deeper through remaining layers of tile, protective sheeting, and plywood, creating a pathway for rain to pelt through. With shrugs, we walk away, anxious, of course, but tired of listening to it sway or, just tired of it all.
I return to my bedroom and the covered patio. The wind has shifted a bit more but I crave fresh air and still believe it safe to stand just outside the door. Some debris flies my way but not much. If the wind shifts even more, I know I will loose my Wild World of Wilma vantage point. I dial my wife on my cell phone. Will it work? It does. I lie: I tell her all’s well. It’s almost over (that, I think is true). Then the wind shifts radically and I turn away from the attack. Dumb, but not stupid. She hears it, she senses where I’m standing and what is happening, she lays into me. For once, I listen. I get inside after struggling to get the door open. I absentmindedly begin picking plastered leaves off my shirt as I finish up with her. I look in a mirror: I look like I’ve been paint-balled.
What more can happen? It has to be about over. But, of course, one more thing has to happen. A tree falls on my truck. Then roof tiles nail it. I don’t know the latter until I walk out to check out the damage an hour later.
An hour later. That’s all it took. It was over. Or, it now all just begins.
Tuesday, October 26th. I’ve duct-tapped a headlight back onto my truck so I can at least drive it. I’m supposed to be down here working. I get antsy to do just that. I negotiate my way around fallen telephone poles and dead wires (there’s no power anywhere) and drive to my employer’s Fort Lauderdale branch office. The roof is gone. I call the branch manager. His house is trashed. He’ll try to get to the office the next day. I return to the house-of-Wilma and help with clean up. An hour later the stack of debris we dragged to the side of the road is over our heads and 30 feet long. Enough. Thankfully, my brother-in-law has a generator. We crank it up and turn on a TV. At what we see we can only shake our heads. It wasn’t supposed to be. It was no tropical storm. It was no minimal hurricane. A woman explained to the on-air reporter, “God decided to give us a whippin.” Then she smiles because the air is suddenly cool, thanks to the cold front that hurried Wilma across the state. “But then,” she added, “He served us up ice cream.”
