Day One....

Day One. 

Today we listened.  

Conversations about the future of the island economy were expressed by strangers on our flight.  We heard FEMA representatives and fellow homeowners describing their challenges.  We listened to islander stories of what the storm felt like that day two months ago.  Water shooting in through barricaded windows like a fire hose trying to put out a flame.  Ears popping as the sounds of a freight train engulfed their homes with tornadic winds clocked at 287 miles per hour.  Sustained winds over 187 mph for five hours. Tears welling up as each told a story of what their paradise looked like as they crept out from their hiding places.  Homes destroyed.  Jobs lost.  Stories of neighbor helping neighbor long before the National Guard and Red Cross arrived with much needed rations of Vienna sausages, MREs, Pringles and Skittles.  It has been two months. Things are much better we are told.  The island will recover.  

Arriving just before sunset we witness the devastation. Too many boats to count rendered helpless by the storm now rest on waterfronts where some of our favorite restaurants that three months ago welcomed us with food and fellowship are now barricaded shut.  They will open again soon but the quiet among fellow passengers trying to take it all in was deafening.  Pictures do not capture it.  So we listen. 

The ride to our home showcases the damage.  Blue FEMA tarps secure exposed rooftops and dot the landscape where thick tropical trees once hid the hillside homes.  National Guard troops in full gear head to the ferry to catch the last one back to camp as the sun disappears.  Despite the lack of electricity there are no stars tonight.  Our neighborhood does not look familiar and our property is a mess.  Debris still fights the tortured greenery trying to make a comeback.  The hole in our roof is covered now thanks to the heroic efforts of generous friends who despite losing their homes in the storm found their way to our home and secured it.  Too sick to our stomachs to eat, we unpack our survival gear and down some concentrated nutrition.  No running water.  No power.  Our dark bedroom welcomes our new flashlights.  We unpack a mosquito net and figure out how to secure it around our bed then open the windows to lessen the heat and humidity.  We cry.  When a scorpion tries to share the toilet with me,  I kill him with my dive knife.  A startled gecko nervously escapes into one of our suitcases.  We cry some more.  

We climb into bed and embrace the warm breezes that stir our covers but the unfriendly whine of generators compete with the soothing sounds of the surf and keep us tossing and turning all night.  A single gunshot echoes from down the hill.  A thunderstorm breaks the heat.  Dogs bark.  What will the light of day torment us with tomorrow?  We say our prayers, grateful for the safety of our island friends and that our home weathered the storms, and finally fall asleep.  

We love this place.  The sun will rise again soon and we will hear it when it does.  






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