Hurricanes Back in My Day
It's official. I'm old. Not only am I old, but I'm one of
those old folks who compares life today to the good old days and isn't afraid
to tell you about how much better it was back
in my day. Before reading further, I just want to check: You did notice my tag-line, didn't you: author, marine scientist, curmudgeon? It's not meant to be cute. It's true. Keep that in mind while reading on. So, let's take a walk down memory late to back in my day. Back when hings were actually different and--for some things--better.
Maybe not better in the sense of being good, but better in
the sense of, well, not as bad.
What's brought on this crabby nostalgia for hurricane seasons past? I can tell you,
it's not hurricanes themselves, or Hurricane Irma or Maria in particular. They suck--all of them. But they aren't nearly as bad as the
aftermath. And from what I see and hear all over the internet, even all that suckiness was
better, back in my day.
When exactly was
my day? Way back when, in the time before the current age of constant electronic--rather
than human--contact, when people had to deal with reality, rather than the
virtual idea of it.
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| Subbase and Barnacle Bills after Hurricane Klaus, 1984 |
I'm not knocking technology. What a blessing it is to have the
technology that lets us travel far and wide and still feel close to our loved
ones. It has given wings to a whole generation of young travelers,
self-professed adventurers. It's also given peace of mind to parents because
their adult child is available 24-7, under constant surveillance, or--as it
says on the inflatable rafts in my pool--"under competent adult
supervision." As
THIS phone company's commercial touts, you can go off
and have great adventures in foreign lands today, thanks to that constant
connection with the internet. You can hop on a plane without knowing a damn
thing about the geography, culture, or language of your destination. Who needs
to look at a world map to see where you'll be in relation to where you are? Why
would it matter that it's a little speck of an island separated from the
mainland by a whole lot of water? Who needs to know how to read a local street
map when you have GPS on your phone? Who has to be bothered to learn local
customs, etiquette, or a few words of greeting when your phone can translate? Why
bother to show any consideration for the people you're about to ascend on since
they only matter long enough to get that picture posted on social media? And of
course that's all that matters because, as we all know, if it isn't on
Facebook, Instagram, or Snapchat, it didn't happen.
Ouch.
As I said...this isn't a Pollyanna,
isn't-she-a-little-ray-of-sunshine, feel good post, but an old curmudgeon's
grumble about the good old days of natural disasters. So let's begin where all old
curmudgeon's stories do...
Back in my day...
That would be hurricanes of the 80s and 90s. Before everyone
had a cell phone with unlimited talk, text, and data. Before a whole generation of "travelers" thought that
"unlimited" meant uninterrupted, ever, by anything, including natural
disasters. Back in my day, people
would schedule long distance calls around the rates: calls after 8 p.m. and on
Sundays were cheaper. Parents packed their kids off to college and then spoke
with them once a week on Sundays. Back in
my day, parents could do this because they'd actually parented. They were
confident they'd done their job so that their adult children would survive away
from them without needing to check in or be checked on multiple times per day.
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| Shoreline Marine in Subbase after Hurricane Klaus, 1984 |
Back in my day, people
understood that, when a storm hit (and they will if you live on a Caribbean island) and power lines and phone lines went down, you
and your neighbors would have to be self-sufficient for a bit--and by a bit, I mean many days, even weeks or months. Especially if you lived on an island. Even if you could contact them, your parents and
friends afar couldn't do the work of post-storm recovery and survival for you,
only you and your neighbors could do that. Back
in my day, community came together--friends, neighbors, and strangers in
that place at that time--and did what needed doing: secure whatever belongings
remained, secure shelter, and start clearing debris so you could, eventually,
make it out of the driveway or neighborhood. It's nice to see that, for many people--those who truly are part of the community--that hasn't changed.
Just like today, back
in my day, we all had loved ones we needed to get word out to that we were
safe. When one person got a message out, it included sharing a list of
people to call--the families and friends of friends--passing on second and
third hand messages that their loved ones were safe and would be in touch
sometime in the weeks ahead, when they were able. Sometimes it was days or even
weeks before we could talk with anyone in the states. All we had was each
other. And somehow, we all survived. I've seen a lot of that, too. Anyone with access to a satellite phone or who (miraculously) still has phone service, is sharing info with family and friends.
Back in my day,
after a hurricane struck, there were no strangers on the island. We'd all just shared
a common, horrific experience. We all had a new calendar to our lives. Forever
more, all things would be divided into Before-Marilyn, During-Marilyn, or
After-Marilyn" (or Klaus, Hugo, Georges, or whatever the storm had been.)
We all had tales to tell of horror, of valor, of miracles. Everyone listened no
matter how many times they'd heard it, because we all understood. We could tell
our tales to those who hadn't been there, and they'd listen--once or twice
before losing interest. But they'd never really know. It isn't like sharing
with someone who knows.
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| St. Thomas waterfront after Hurricane Marilyn, 1995 |
I won't say hurricane recovery on an island was fun back in my day. It was not. It's still
not. Even less so when you're hit with the strongest hurricane in recorded history. Followed by another. It's exhausting and emotional and surreal. The new chronology of before and after the storm isn't some random breakdown of time, but
distinct, solid bulwarks dividing forever changed lives. The physical world has changed, too. Familiar
landmarks, routines, places, events, and even people will never be there, not
ever again.
No, that is not fun. But in that common circumstance, the
community came together, back in my day.
Many of the posts I see on Facebook and Twitter from my friends on my beloved
islands--still the home where my heart resides--remind me of back in my day in a terrible-wonderful
way. I know their exhaustion. I know their anxiety. I know the exhilarating,
sheer joy of seeing even the smallest bit of familiarity. Back in my day, it was "Hurray! Percy's Bus Stop made
it!" "Look, Cafe Normandy opened!" Anything to give us a
touchstone that let us know things existed in the time before-the-storm,
because that all seems so alien afterwards.
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| Frenchtown, in front of Cafe Normandy after Hurricane Marilyn, 1995. |
Alas, the grumpy old curmudgeon in me also sees a new side
to the storm, something that wasn't there back
in my day. That's the distance and alienation---the separateness from that
shared trauma--that some people are expressing. I blame it on social media that
has allowed people to live 1500 miles away from "home" but never
become part of their new community. Why talk with the person next to you when
you can chat with virtual friends on social media? Why talk with one person
when you can "connect" to hundreds with a single tap? The "So-Me"
(SOcial MEdia) phenomenon--always being in touch, always having instant
gratification, and always needing to have one's existence verified and validated
by "likes" and followers without ever having to make a single human
connection, has created a huge gap in some people's ability to function in a situation
where the only important contacts are human-to-human, and where the internet
isn't, but actual people are. Like on an island after a hurricane.
Many studies tell of increasing alienation, loneliness, and
depression in 20- and 30-somethings, especially among those who live their
lives on social media (Davey, 2016; Hobson, 2017; Molloy, 2017) I see that
alienation, and the fear that brings, in some of the social media posts I've
seen from the Virgin Islands in the days since Irma struck.
This article talks about some of those rumors compared to what's actually happening on the ground.
The even more telling posts come from people who were there back in my day. It's a similar message,
over and over: "This post-hurricane island isn't like after Marilyn or Hugo--there are a lot of rude people out there." From the reports, it's clear many of the people making things
more difficult and more frightening than they have to be--for themselves and everyone--are those who
weren't prepared for the
reality of living on a small rock in the middle of a big sea, who remained connected to their stateside life and disconnected from the reality of living on an island.
I guess this isn't a surprise. Back in the early 00s, when
cell phone ownership and coverage expanded in a huge way, stories started coming out from mountain rescue squads about how many people, ill-prepared for the
realities and hardships of a mountain trek, would decide to climb not just a
hill, but a serious mountain like Denali. As soon as the going got rough and
they were in over their head, these "adventurers" would just make a
call on their cell phone asking to be rescued, completely oblivious or uncaring
to the fact they were putting other people's lives in jeopardy due to their own
ignorance and hubris. "I have a cell phone, therefore I am
invincible." Calling someone else for help relieves them of all
self-responsibility and puts the onus for their safety on someone else's shoulders.
Just as the idea of
a mountain climb differed drastically from the reality, the reality of island
living is much different from most people's idea. Island living isn't all
frozen drinks at the beach every day. First and foremost, it's life:
work, bills, grocery shopping, and hoping the cistern has water. The reality is:
Everything has to be shipped in so it's more expensive, so you have to
budget. Potable water is scarce, so you have to conserve. Electricity is
expensive and often sporadic, so you have to be able to function both with it,
and without. Life moves slower, so you learn to let things happen when they
happen. And, after a storm, communication off island, and even on island, is
difficult at best or nonexistent at worst (like it was for many for a brief time during and after Irma). So, you learn to interact with the humans next to you instead of the
device in your hand. After a storm, help will
arrive--that's a HUGE bonus of these islands being the United States Virgin Islands, but it's coming from a distance, and
often, the storm that just struck is in between the island and the source of
that help. You can survive the days after a storm, especially with the help of your
friends. So you'd better hope they don't only exist on your So-Me feeds.
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| In line at Gourmet Gallery in Crown Bay Marina after Hurricane Marilyn, 1995. |
Back in my day, post-hurricane
recovery on an island sucked. In that regard, it's exactly like today. There are
no two-ways about it. If you want to see or talk to someone, you have to get
out of the house and go to them. Going to them will be an adventure--and not in
a fun way. Some streets will be impassable, others will be gone. Lights will be
out, signs will be down. You won't get where you're going fast. When you get
there, you'll wait in line. You'll wait for fresh water, for food, for ice, for
the bank, for a phone line, a phone, a computer and internet access. Some who lost everything will
wait in line for clothing, toiletries, and a bed. (If you aren't in that line, quit whining about having lost "everything.") You'll wait--sometimes
months--for the utility workers to restore services to your house. You'll wait
for limited supplies to arrive on island. You'll wait for the insurance
adjuster, the FEMA people, and the contractor. Then you'll wait longer because
every single person on the island needs all those things, and most of them are
probably in line ahead of you. You'll wake at sunup and work and wait in lines
until sundown, then you'll fall into bed exhausted. Wake. Repeat. Every day.
For months. It will suck, no two ways about it.
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| Cleaning up after Hurricane Georges in Puerto Rico, 1998. |
In all the many lines you'll wait in, and through all the anxiety, fears,
and exhaustion, what remains and what makes hurricane recovery tolerable--survivable--is the
actual, living human being next to you, who has shared your experience. The community,
the camaraderie, and the support get everyone through the weeks, months, and
years ahead. When your So-Me friends have moved on to the next trending
hashtag, you'll still be in line and still be recovering. What will remain, are
the connections, person-to-person, made during the time After-Irma. Those connections
will validate and verify your existence and experience far more than a hundred
"likes" from virtual friends.
I know that back in my day and today aren't all that dissimilar for the vast majority of those who live in--and whose lives are in--the Virgin Islands. We were terrified, in shock, and felt alone. We really, really wanted to close our eyes to the disaster and keep them closed until everything was back to normal. But we couldn't, just like you can't now. What's really different today from back in my day, is then we expressed all of our many emotions of the storm and what came after to the people next to us in line. They understood. We cried on each other's shoulders when we needed to, because we couldn't shout into the void of cyberspace. We couldn't broadcast our fears and difficulties out to the world through social media. Having that outlet makes it easier to react in a loud, far-reaching way, expressing the fear and grief that everyone will feel at many points during recovery. But that echo chamber also magnifies all the fears, the hardship, the trauma, and reflects that distorted version of our fears back to us, giving the impression that they're greater than they are; that they're insurmountable. They aren't.
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| FEMA Tarps across Tutu, St. Thomas, 1995. |
For my dear friends and family on all the islands affected--and that's all of you who are there, who have gone through this traumatic disaster because there are no strangers on an island after a hurricane--for all of you who are now rolling up your sleeves (once again), and getting on with the work of recovering (once again): my heart is with you. Those who have been through past disasters know that this is not an easy time, but what we know is that the Virgin Islands has gone through this before and will go through it again, and because of the bonds forged as you overcome this, the community will once again come through stronger and more united than before.
For those who've never gone through something like this
before and will remain to rebuild, it may be hard to believe now, but in the weeks and months ahead, you
will survive together, as a part of the Virgin Islands' community. Choose to be
part of that community, to connect with your neighbors standing in line with
you. Just like in my day, the only way to get to the other side of today's turmoil and hell is to go through it. I guarantee, despite the challenges, despite the pain and fear, despite
the exhaustion, you will survive and thrive-- together. Disaster recovery sucks.
But now, in your day, it can also be an amazing, powerful, and, as hard as it is to believe right now, an ultimately positive
experience, just like it was back in my
day.
The author has been through Hurricanes Klaus, Cesar, Luis, Irene, Marilyn, Bertha, Hortense, Georges, Floyd, Matthew, and Irma. It doesn't make her an expert on hurricanes, but it does make her an old hand at surviving all the suckiness of their aftermath. She also knows that there are many people who have very valid and urgent reasons to get help or to get off the island during recovery---to take care of illness or injury, either their own or of a loved one, elderly parents needing care, and others. She knows some people just can't deal with the trauma and should leave to take care of their own mental health first. She also knows many lovely people have moved to an island on a flight of fancy, not knowing the realities of island life--herself included--but have learned to live in that reality and gone on to become active, contributing, and valuable members of the community. Nothing here is meant to deride any of these people, but to encourage them, in her curmudgeonly way, to stay #VIStrong.
