As a Yankee I didn’t think Hurricane Andrew was much to worry about. I mean it was just a lot of rain and some wind. Well that thinking had me endure Andrew in my one room studio apartment alone, only a little duct tape on my window, no flashlight, no radio, no aid kit, no way to communicate with anybody else, no power, and only a little water I had placed into pots and pans. The experience is very similar to what DarkSyde outlines here.
What is it like inside a home near the coast under assault from 100 mph hurricane winds in the wee hours? You don’t usually run your generator right away while the storm’s still blowing hard, assuming you even have one. So it’s pitch dark, the power is out, windows are boarded. You have no internet, no cell phone, no refrigerator or AC, the landline is deader than a doornail. A battery powered radio or TV is your only point of contact with the outside world, and since it’s wall to wall hurricane coverage on the one or two shitty channels you can barely see on the tiny black and white screen through the snowy static, it’s not a hell of a lot of comfort. You conserve your batteries, sit mostly in the dank dark, and listen: It’s loud. Wind screams in pulses to a chorus of driving rain rising and falling from whisper to piercing hiss, there’s a constant hailstone pitter-patter of debris, punctuated by frequent ringing bangs when larger chunks smack into the sides and roof. If there are stands of trees nearby, you can hear them thrashing violently. Every now and then a sharp crack will signal a snapping trunk or large branch.
In the dim beam of a flashlight or flickering light of a candle, you can see the walls and ceiling flexing with each mighty gust, at times it’s almost as if the interior of the house breathes, rafters and beams groan and complain under the shifting strain. Pets cower and leap into your lap. You worry that the roof has been holed somewhere. You worry that even a small breach will open wider and allow the wind purchase against the underside. You worry the roof will peel off your house like a freaking can of sardines. It goes on for hours and hours, it goes on regardless if you are mentally and physically worn out, it goes on as you doze off for jagged, stormy catnaps.
I imagine hundreds of thousands of people are experiencing something like that right now. In a Cat 1 or 2 windfield, at a safe elevation, barring a tornado or large crashing tree, even an older wood frame home is likely to hold together well enough to provide critical shelter from the elements. But among those riding out Ike are reportedly thousands who chose to remain behind in the most vulnerable, low laying regions.
There are reports of widespread flooding and fierce but isolated fires on Galveston. There is a disturbing lack of news coming from the east and west ends of the island, and extending through Gilchrest, High Island, and up to Sabine Pass. But I know of no reports of serious injury or fatality at this time (I’m sad to report that there uncomfirmed, tentative reports of fatalities – DS 7:45AM). Since reporters on Galveston Island, as well as some near Beaumont and Port Arthur, are still able to broadcast their segments, we have good reason to hope that each and every one of the folks hunkering down in the hardest hit areas are OK. It is our deepest wish that the only epic stories that will emerge over the days ahead are the kind involving property damage, passed down to grandkids for decades to come, by those who successfully rode out Hurricane Ike through a dark, howling Texas night.
The experience I had with Andrew was not pleasant. And I am not a wimp. I’ve done my fair share of pretty extreme hiking and camping. Weather, or Mother Natural in general usually doesn’t concern me a whole lot. But a hurricane is different. Far different. I sure hope as the media reports start to come out of Texas and Louisiana later this morning and into the afternoon people that stayed behind just had a shitty experience and didn’t lose their lives.