Hurricanes Back in My Day

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

Davey, Graham C.L. (2016). Social Media, Loneliness, and Anxiety in Young People. Psychology Today. Available at https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/why-we-worry/201612/social-media-loneliness-and-anxiety-in-young-people

Hobson, Katherine (2017). Feeling Lonely? Too much time on social media may be why. National Public Radio, South Carolina. Available at http://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2017/03/06/518362255/feeling-lonely-too-much-time-on-social-media-may-be-why

Molloy, Mark (2017). Too much social media 'increases loneliness and envy' - study. The Telegraph. Available at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/2017/03/06/much-social-media-increases-loneliness-envy-study/

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.

Hurray! My First 1-Star Review on Amazon

Today I'm celebrating! Marina Melee received its first 1-star review on Amazon. You may ask, "Why would anyone celebrate a bad review?" It's a good question and one I've given a lot of thought. A one-star review means there's someone out there who read my book and felt strongly enough to take time out of their life to tell the world what they thought about it. Pretty heady stuff!

 

Click HERE to go to Marina Melee on Amazon

Similar to "there's no such thing as bad publicity," I can't imagine what's bad about someone reading my book and being compelled to further consider it long enough to write something about it--aside from the ego-pounding, soul-crushing part, of course.

 

For most writers, our first readers are people we know: family, friends, critique group members (who become acquaintances, if not friends), and people who know the author personally. When they read our stories, they aren't reading "a story," they're reading "Lynne's story." That has to color their perceptions (hopefully in a good way) to some degree. Those first readers tell their family and friends about our book and word spreads. We get readers who only know us indirectly. Still, there's a connection. It isn't until you get to total strangers that you run the risk of receiving a really bad review.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not looking for bad reviews. I don't want Marina Melee to get panned. I put years of my life, and a lot of my heart into writing my story--George's story--because it's important to me. There's deeper meaning than what's at the surface of the fictional tale and the fictional island. There is a São Jorge and George Marshall, a Kenny, LaQuisha, Jim Tudor, Albie, and all the rest exist, some of them in real life and some in my imagination, a compilation of many people I've met along the way. I want the reader to be transported to my island and get to know my friends, to share in and enjoy their madcap misadventures! I don't just want family and friends to read, either.

Once we're published and we put our work out there for the whole world to read, we're taking the risk that some won't like it. That means you've reached beyond the borders of those you know. As I've told other writers who've shared their angst over bad reviews, "Congratulations! You've moved out of the circle of family and friends."

 

The other part of that is to not respond to bad reviews. Don't defend or explain your work. Either the readers "get it" or they don't. Not every story is everyone's cup of tea. For now, I'll say "Hurray!" again. This critiquer got it! He fully understood what my novel is about! Clearly, I achieved what I intended. Is Marina Melee similar to Herman Wouk's Don't Stop the Carnival? You bet! I started with the working title, "Carnival Ain't Stop Yet," fully intending my novel to be an homage to Wouk's wonderful story. I set out to write the updated version of a man in mid-life crisis looking for answers in a bottle of rum on a tropical island. George's journey parallels Norman's in many ways, but with some distinct differences...particularly the ending (you'll have to read them both to find out how they end!) Whether it's Amerigo, São Jorge, St. Thomas, or any other Caribbean island, the message, the story, is the same: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

 

Post Card of Charlotte Amalie Harbor, probably from around
the time Herman Wouk wrote Don't Stop the Carnival.
(postcard courtesy of Ronnie Lockhart)

Don't Stop the Carnival was written "decades ago": 1965 to be exact. Almost a half century ago. As George hears over and over again throughout Marina Melee, "it [Don't Stop the Carnival] is the Bible for expats in the Caribbean." That novel can tell you all you need to know about island life, then and now. Technology has improved. Cell phones, The Weather Channel, and mega-cruise ships have changed the landscape some, but the charm, the insanity, and the warmth of the people remains the same.

 

Charlotte Amalie today. (Photo courtesy of M. Drobnik)

Is my story really an homage, or just a cheap rip-off? I'll let the readers decide. If a one-star review gets people to read Carnival and Marina Melee to compare and see for themselves, that's fine by me. The stories are similar, but that's because the experience of anyone running away to the islands to escape their life today is similar to what Norman Paperman faced 50-years ago. If I'd wanted to avoid comparisons, I certainly wouldn't have mentioned Norman Paperman and Carnival as often as I did. I hope those references lead to a new generation of Wouk-readers! And I couldn't leave out my favorite characters from Carnival, the Sea Witches. They represent an entire group of young islanders with a zest for life that remains unchanged through the decades, from Wouk's time in St. Thomas, to my own at that age in the 80s, to my generation's kids today. A group similar to the Witches lived there when Wouk was in St. Thomas (his Amerigo) and they're there today, enjoying their own crazy adventures. On São Jorge, I morphed them into the Sand Witches because I like the pun. I didn't try to pull a fast one. The trio acknowledges that their moniker, the Sand Witches, comes from Wouk's Sea Witches. Again, it's paying respect to the timelessness of Wouk's Amerigo and its inhabitants.

 

Click HERE to go to Don't Stop the Carnival on Amazon.

Yes, Marina Melee is similar to Don't Stop the Carnival. As I was writing it, I hoped readers would see the similarities, would see the underlying message, the more things change the more they stay the same, and would recognize this as my tip-of-hat to Wouk for his masterpiece that is still considered "the bible for expats in the Caribbean."

Given my reviewer's comments, I think succeeded.

 

 

FLASHBACK: Homecoming in the VI

CARNIVAL SPECIAL!!

 

In honor of St. Thomas Carnival 2013, I'll be giving away a copy  Marina Melee to a random commentor to this site (leave a comment below to enter to win!) AND electronic versions of Marina Melee are FREE to download from April 20-27, 2013!!

Leave a comment below to enter for a chance to win a copy of Marina Melee

or
Go to www.swashwords.com to download your free electronic copy!
Offer valid April 20-27, 2013

Drawing for the winner of the print version of Marina Melee will be on Sunday 4/28/13

April 2013

I've disappeared for a few weeks--sorry about that! Things here are hectic, what with the semester winding down, book signings at the boat show (which I'll blog about in Waterblogged later this week), agility, and my own studies as I complete an online TESOL certification class (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages).

This week in the TESOL class, one of my assignments is to write an essay about an experience (something pleasurable, having difficulty liking someone, or a sad event) using a variety of words to describe the emotions involved, and being careful to select words with the most accurate nuances to reflect how I felt.

After much thought--really, nothing really inspiring in the assignment--I decided on the first option, something pleasurable. The word pleasurable, to me, reflects a calm, soothing, enjoyable experience. Something pleasing. Nothing pleases me more than going home to St. Thomas. I always feel better when that plane lands and I see Brewers Bay, UVI, and step out of the plane into that lovely blast of hot tropical air. (I'm deliberately omiting the smell of the ever-malfunctioning airport wastewater treatment plant...I'll just pretent the wind is blowing offshore when I arrive.)

To help me recall the emotions of my homecomings, I reread my blog post from our last visit in June 2011 (has it been that long? Yikes! Time for another visit!) The words and memories brought on a wave of nostalgia and I decided that was worthy of a repost. So, here it is...a walk down memory lane to St. Thomas and homecoming.

My "Alma Mater by the Sea," the University of the Virgin Islands

June 2011

Matt and I are having a great time catching up with old friends and meeting new ones as we get ready for Monday's book signing. Whenever I've been away from my adopted home for too long, I worry that people will have forgotten me, I'll have forgetten people, and it will all be different - I'll be a tourist.

Within minutes of arriving, I knew I'd worried needlessly. Something happens to my heart and mind when I see the western tip of St. Thomas from the plane, my soul breathes a sigh of contentment. (Yes, that sounds corny, but it's true. I can feel a sense of peace wash over me.) By the time the wheels touch down on the end of the runway, and I'm looking at the familiar and comfortable sights of the Willie Mac, the UVI dock, and then the MacLean Marine Science Center, I know I'm home.

The first thing I do when I arrive home, is say hello to my "adopted" father, Patrick - the father of Donna, my "twin" - as our professors called us during our college days. No matter how long I'm away or how many times I change hair length or color, Patrick recognizes me immediately and greets me with a hug. Welcome home.

Catching up with the Sabinos and Roy on our first night in, I felt like I'd been away on vacation for five years, and was now back where I've always been meant to be. Chatting with Sean and Carol at the "new" Pirate's Chest was like continuing an ongoing conversation without skipping a beat in the intervening years, and entering the Radio One studios for the VI Charter Yacht League's radion show, "On the Water" with Erik Ackerson had me flashing back to the old Radio One over the Marianne store, hosting EAST's "Naturally Speaking" show with Julie on Tuesday mornings while Tex, Nicky, and Leo watching from the booth, and sitting in with Fatty's "Marine Scene" show early on Saturday mornings, shivering in the tundra-like new studio in Frenchtown.

Later, we "crashed" a beach wedding to spend time with Geoffrey--just another day in St. Thomas. Driving down to the Marine Science building and visiting with Steve was like returning to my "real" life, the time since I left just a tangent I ran off onto. I'll get back on my true path soon.

I can't express what a relief it is to me to know that, no matter how much things change in my home, the fact that it is still home doesn't change. The book signings are an exciting event that I'm looking forward to, and I'm thrilled with the interest and support of friends old and new. Nicole kicked into her ever-efficient PR mode and hooked me up with the right people to get some short-notice publicity, thus the radio show with Erik, event notices in the Island Trader, and the fabulous article that appeared in this morning's St. Croix Source (thanks, Lynda!).

http://stcroixsource.com/content/arts-entertainment/showcase/2011/06/26/st-thomian-returns-first-novel

With a welcoming embrace like that, how could anyone NOT think that the Virgin Isands are the most warm, friendly, and accepting place in the world? As George learns upon his arrival in Sao Jorge, saying "good morning" goes a long way toward becoming part of the fabric of island life. Once you're woven into it, you may not be from here, but you're here now. Stay a while and you're one of us, forever more.

Welcome home.