In the Aftermath of Hurricane Maria
Today is the 5-year anniversary of Hurricane Maria’s assault on our then-home island of St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Maria was a Category 5 storm, and she hit hard - exactly 2 weeks after Irma, another Cat 5, had side-swiped the island. Irma had made a direct hit on the islands north and east of St. Croix, wreaking massive destruction. The residents of St. Croix had come together in generous service to our sister islands - clearing out closets, drawers and store shelves to send over what was needed - tarps, lanterns, generators, tools, bottled water, food, clothes, and more - and ferried the goods across the water via flotillas of privately owned vessels. Then along came Maria, and we on St. Croix emerged from our shelters to realize we had all given away much of what was needed for our own recovery.
Three weeks into our recovery process, this is what I wrote to my Facebook friends:
The Category 5 hurricane swept through on the night of September 19, just hours before ravaging Puerto Rico. She wreaked havoc all over our island, quite devastating the West End, graciously less so on the east end where we live. Nonetheless, power poles are down all over the island, huge trees are uprooted and blocking roads, some parts of the island are still flooded, many people are without food, shelter, water; and many small businesses & farmers are SOL. We are only gradually getting back a little bit of cell service, a tiny bit of Wi-Fi, and hardly anyone has power. The sound and smell of generators permeates the otherwise clear air here, but those nasty old machines are a godsend for those who have them. Most people do not. Relief supplies have been slow to come in, but now that the ports and airport are reopening, that seems to be improving. The media has pretty much ignored the Virgin Islands, as Puerto Rico is much bigger with a more dramatic story. Thank God for the caring and efforts of our homeboy Tim Duncan who has moved heaven and earth to bring in supplies.
Our own lives – Peter and I and our standard poodle Calypso – are a work in progress.
s/v Lightheart, snug in her protective web of lines
The night before the storm, after the last lines were tied on our boat Lightheart, and the last shutter closed on our house, we kissed the both the boat and the house goodbye and thanked them for taking such good care of us. We expected to lose everything.
We loaded up a cooler and some valuables and walked across the road to our friend's bunker-like apartment where five of us (and two dogs) spent a long, noisy, scary and mostly sleepless night.
At one point, when the wind shifted around to the south and was at its most ferocious, we were able to step out on the north-facing porch to see, hear and feel what was going on. I watched trees being uprooted and blowing by. I could only take nano-second peaks across the road at our house to see if it was still there, because the wind blew me off my feet when I tried to step out enough to see. It sounded like a fleet of huge jet engines were shrieking just above us. The very low barometric pressure hurt our ears. The dogs were terrified. For the people, a couple of glasses of wine helped a bit. There was no way to comfort the dogs.
By daybreak we were finally able to step out and see that our house was miraculously intact. Some rain water had blown in under the shutters and doors, but that was not hard to clean up. The landscaping is another story, including losing big hunks of our gorgeous giant mahogany trees. We’ll figure out how to deal with that later.
Our two huge mahoganies, already damaged by Hurricane Irma, now missing more limbs and fully stripped of leaves
We fired up the generator and made breakfast and strong coffee for our bunkermates. Later we all made our way through the downed power poles and lines and uprooted trees to the marina where we found our boats also in good condition. Other boats were not, and some were completely lost. We later learned of a couple of sailors from the marina who tried unsuccessfully to outrun the storm. The boat was found, but not the people.
Sailors helping sailors
The boat next to ours at the marina lost its mast, which fell on our boat. That could have been a disaster, but thankfully (miraculously) it got tangled in our jib halyard which kept it from hitting the deck. We had good help. Other boats needed to be repositioned and retied, and we did that. Sailors helping sailors is a way of life.
I think most of us were in shock for the first few days. And then the reality started to sink in: it's going to be a long, hard road to recovery. We have found it is very important to spend time with friends and neighbors, to share feelings, ask questions, share information & resources (including wonderful potluck dinners amassed from everyone's melting freezers), and tell diversionary stories. We have learned that all of us are somewhat shellshocked. No one is thinking clearly, no one has a good memory, no one can plan much into the future. That may sound like the bad news, and in some ways it is; but it's also good news for those of us who aspire to staying in the moment, to being fully present. Because in the early days of post-hurricane life, there is nothing but now. Resist that, and you are in full-blown misery.
Neighbors chainsawed the fallen power pole to clear an exit from our neighborhood.
For the first two weeks, we had virtually no news from the outside world, and really none of anything outside our immediate area on the island. Roads were impassable to a large extent, and rumors spread like wild fire. The territorial governor takes to the radio waves every evening to give us an update on what's happened and what's going on. We gather around the radio like scenes from those movies set in World War II.
Now we are gradually getting slightly improved cell signals, and even a few Wi-Fi hotspots are popping up, so there's a bit more news. The main roads are mostly passable, although driving across downed power lines and swerving around downed trees is the norm.
Whatever it takes…
Waiting for official assistance seems to be an endless nightmare, and at least in the areas I mostly travel, it appears that industrious residents have taken it upon themselves to clear roads and do other things to minimize being victimized by circumstances. We would still have no way out of our neighborhood without such folks about.
More supplies are gradually coming in, and people are struggling to return to normal. Our curfew, which was originally 24 hours a day, has gradually eased and is now suspended between 10am & 7pm - so normal is much more approachable now...at least for those of us whose homes are relatively intact.
For others, it is anything but that. We hear mixed stories about whether they are getting the support they need to be able to fully recover. Nothing happens quickly, nothing happens easily. For every step one takes to solve a problem, there are multiple obstacles that show up along the way, making everything harder than it has to be, at least so it seems.
We are one of the lucky households with a big 12K generator that can power just about everything. Or rather, we WERE. On day 3, the engine quit. With the help of a gracious neighbor, Peter got it going again. A few days later the engine was still running fine, but it quit generating electricity. Finding someone to fix it is beyond challenging. Another gracious neighbor has lent us a small portable generator which we can run a few hours at a time. It's enough to keep the fridge & freezer almost ok, to pump water from the cistern (that’s our entire water source), and to charge our phones. But that's it. It can’t power the pool pump, so the pool is beginning to turn a little green. We are hoping for a fix from a guy coming over tomorrow, but it's a cranky old machine, and it appears that the part that failed is no longer on the market.
“Hurricane Pasta” by solar and candlelight
With that background, you can imagine that our days are structured by the curfew and the time needed to tend the baby generator. As I write, it's late afternoon, and soon we'll take the dogs (Calypso and our visiting dog Zephyr) on an evening romp. For dinner we’ll grab something from the fridge that's not yet gone bad and throw together a meal, for ourselves or to join a potluck with friends. We’ll turn off the noisy generator to eat in peace. It’s dark early, so we’ll dine with a combination of solar lights and candles, which does add a certain ambience.
Al fresco bath supplies
Afterwards, we might have a swim (though the water won't be swimmable much longer if we can't start running the pool pump), and a luxurious outdoor “shower” from a bucket that sat warming in the sun all day. The whole island is in darkness, so the sky is as black as I’ve ever seen, and the stars are on stunning display. We could turn on the generator for a cold shower indoors, but silence and starlight at the end of the day are far more appealing in our current Camp St Croix mode. And the water's warm!
We brush our teeth with water from a jug, and we don't flush until we really have to. However, sometimes we have a fitful night's sleep, partly because it's so hot with no breeze and no fan, and partly because the stress of all we're dealing with bubbles to the surface and begs to take center stage in our minds.
We wake early, slather ourselves with insect repellent, and move the solar lights and cell chargers back outside to recharge in the sun. Then we hit the hills or the beach to let the dogs romp. Not wanting the generator sound and smell too early, I boil water on the gas stovetop to make drip coffee (missing my decaf cappuccino routine mightily!), have breakfast, then turn on the generator for its first 3-4 hour run. There is always a huge amount of housecleaning to do because the insect population has decided inside is preferable to outside; and the two dogs bring in the rest of the great outdoors. Then there are repairs, looking for parts, trying to find services, clearing debris, pruning dead wood, replanting my wrecked herb garden, and a daily trip to the gas station to refill the jerry can that fills the generator (cash only these days). There’s also the treks to the top of the hill where the neighborhood gathers because there's a bit more of a cell signal there. Some mornings I've gone to a curfew-breaking meeting led by the folks who are heading up the unofficial grassroots recovery process. They seem to have more real information than anyone else.
Finally got a cell signal
Whenever we are both out of the house, the generator has to be turned off, cooled, then hidden. It's an increasingly elaborate and time-consuming process due to the island-wide generator looting that has occurred. I have to deliberately move into an attitude of cooperation to avoid feeling resentful. Peter usually has stuff to do at the marina, or tracking down possible generator solutions, so he's usually out the door early. I stick around doing house & yard stuff to let the generator run its full cycle. There's no shortage of things that need doing. But I need to get out and away every day too.
As of a few days ago, our marina has some amount of Wi-Fi, so I go there to connect and check in with the rest of the world. We had stocked up well on food and many other supplies, so I have not had to stand in long lines to get groceries. Those lines are abating now, except for the line of people buying ice. Although shelves are still somewhat bare, they are moving toward normal now that ships can enter the port. Because our generator-driven refrigeration is inadequate, I am no longer using much fresh food unless I buy it that day, so there's usually a daily trip to the market. And "fresh" is a bit of a euphemism, because produce that comes here on a ship is anything but fresh in the best of times. That's the normal state of affairs here, except we usually have local farmers from whom I can get wonderful produce. That’s not the case now - their fields were destroyed. And by the way, most businesses are still cash-only because of the lack of adequate phone or wifi connections. For those who didn't prepare in advance, getting cash means standing in a long line at the bank, because ATMs are only now becoming operational.
Despite the shortages, inconveniences, and uncertainties that abound, we spend a lot of time in awe of how thoroughly & miraculously we were spared. We talk about our awareness of how our "stuff" had come to own us, and how we want to simplify our lives in whatever the next chapter is. We comment that we can't even begin to plan that next chapter or even recognize what it might be. We both want a little R&R time off-island, but recognize our possessions are too vulnerable to leave just now. We realize our tourist-based businesses (sailing charters and vacation rentals) are likely to take a huge hit in the short run, but we both feel completely unable to consider how to respond to that at this time.
In the absence of twigs, leaves now force their way out through hard wood.
In the midst of that, we marvel at the tenacity of life, how birds are rebounding, how trees are forcing new growth right out of the hard wood, the soft wood having been blown away. We laugh at ourselves being excited when we once again hear commercial airplanes overhead instead of military helicopters (though we are VERY grateful for both!). We are very grateful for the absence of television so that we are not inundated by the insane news stories that occasionally leak into our news feeds. We complain, however, that the media seems largely to ignore the plight of the Virgin Islands, and therefore the push for support is less than we'd like it to be. We alternate between fury and laughter at the appalling show put on by the Trump administration while in Puerto Rico. Their lack of true compassion and empathy encourages us to do our best to keep our feelings and expressions real and congruent, and to help each other balance the trauma with the knowledge that everything - EVERY THING - is something that we can use to learn, to grow, to become more aligned with the divinity within us. We comfort, cuddle and encourage each other, and some mornings we once again wake up laughing. We comment over and over how amazing and beautiful it is to have such a wide and loving network of friends like you. And we know we are blessed beyond measure.
Here are links to some photo slideshows you might find interesting:
Downtown Christiansted, St. Croix After Hurricane Maria
St Croix’s West End 2 weeks after Hurricane Maria
I’d love to hear what kind of journey this story has taken you on, what kind of insights you may have had. Please let me know in the comments below.