Attitude AndrewChrono of invasion, seige, and wake of Hurricane Andrew, from one who "evacuated" South (Miami) Beach for Homestead ... Theory: Flee from raft to inland shelter. Reality: Dive from ship into maw of shark.
Purported Hurricane Expert (H. E., who wrote book about violent weather) heeds knowledge and "escapes" to eye of storm. Childhood fantasy: Ride out maxi-hurricane at ground zero. Adulthood reality: Ditto.
Andrew Lesson 1. Be careful what you wish for when you're a kid.
Late October 1991
Blessing of writing life is freedom to be footloose. Books are selling OK, so have money for now. Life is short. South Beach is getting a reputation for cool. Spent most of the 80s in Miami ... a turbulent love-hate thing ... haven't had enough. Get one-way to Miami from St. Paul: Ciao! Rent place on the green and endless sea. Swim in it daily: two kilometers. Send postcards. Twin Cities have blizzard as cards arrive. Eat envy, eskimos. Hurricanes are factor in subtropical beach living. Lay defense plan, expecting never to use it.
Mid-August 1992
The season's first tropical storm dawdles in the Atlantic. Recurves north. Appears no threat to land. It's supposed to be a less-than-active year for hurricanes. But it only takes one ... Yeah, yeah ... Yawn.
Saturday 8.22.92, 6:00 p.m.
Evening swim in ocean at Fontainebleau Spa. World is greened through lime-colored goggles. Jet skis are out ... watch for them! Machine is faster and harder than human. Cruise ship glides on horizon. One more day in paradise. Body toning exercises follow swim. Radio plays pop music. News: We have a hurricane. It's got winds of 100 miles an hour. It's 600 miles east of Miami, moving ... west.
Andrew Lesson 2. Hurricane paths are hard to predict.
8.22.92, 9:00 p.m.
Daily diet soda at Passport Cafe. Television features Andrew. Satellite view. Classic cloud spiral, a galaxy of wind and water. Up to 110 mph now, 550 miles east of Miami, moving west.
Andrew Lesson 3. Storms can intensify quickly.
Night 8.22.92/8.23.92
Morbid fascination displaces sleep. Radio: Andrew at 120 mph, still moving west, no course change expected. Listen to music. Try to relax. Miami needs 24-hour, seven-day-a-week, high-power progressive rock station. Andrew must veer north. Hurricanes always do.
Andrew Lesson 4. Nature is boss. Don't give her orders.
Get short sleep. Dream: Hurricane. Get breezeway knick-knacks indoors before wind kicks up ... wait ... can't get back inside ... wind blowing body away from door. Preview to ...
Andrew Lesson 5. Life is more important than material objects. (This will be reiterated.)
Sunday 8.23.92, 8:00 a.m.
Call motels and hotels. All full. Don't even try to book flight out of town. Choices: 1--Stay in oceanfront apartment. 2--Go to public shelter. 3--Call friends in Homestead and see if they'll provide refuge. Option 1 is death wish. Option 2 is selfish if reasonable alternatives exist. Choose Option 3. It's inland, probably out of eyewall path on storm's left (weak) side. The owners are old friends. It has homey comforts. Offer help to them. Phone call yields "Welcome." Drag futon into kitchen. Dismantle computer and place in interior closet. Close windows, but no tape. If they go, bedroom gets wet, but not kitchen and interior closet ... assuming wind doesn't gut building and storm surge doesn't collapse it. Take manuscript copy and backup disks and canned salmon and clothes on body.
8.23.92, 10:00 a.m.
Arrive in Homestead. Ellie not home. Door locked. Go round back. Bob puttering in yard. "Bob!" He turns. Enter house. A real home! Curse of writing life is compulsion to be footloose. Shun roots, reject responsibility, ergo have no worry, no ball/chain ...
Andrew could take writer's futon and computer. No big deal. Storm could trash family's home. Very big deal! Is possession a cruel illusion? Can any person claim true dominion over any parcel of the world?
Andrew Lesson 6. Nature, not Homo Sapiens, owns Earth.
8.23.92, early p.m.
Board over the window in front of Ellie's computer room. Bob is the most patient and deliberate man in the Solar System. Nails not good enough ... use screws. Screws won't go in ... lubricate with beeswax. "Sure is nice to have good tools," Bob says.
Andrew Lesson 7. Sure is nice to have good tools.
Mike comes over. Structural engineer. He and Bob board up two more windows. Steel awnings cover all the others, with two westward exceptions and one eastward exception. Track storm. Eye wobbles. Double eyewall structure. Andrew the ... What's a cool, unique adjective that begins with "A"? H. E.: "Ellie, got a thesaurus?" Ellie: "What?" Winds increase to 150 mph.
8.23.92, late p.m.
No sleep this night. Andrew maintains course along latitude 25.6, 25.5, 25.4, 25.4, 25.4 ... wish they'd cut it down to the minute of arc. Ellie has a book with latitudes and longitudes of many cities. (But no thesaurus! Sheesh!) Miami: 25 degrees 42 minutes. Homestead: 25 degrees 28 minutes. Or something. Dade will take the hit. South Dade. Homestead. Us.
Night 8.23.92/8.24.92
Southern edge of core passes Nassau. Newscast: Fools are on streets, sitting on cars, drinking beer in killer winds. Report is courtesy of correspondent with Islands accent who watches from safe place. Forward speed 18 mph. Core comes into radar range ... ring of orange echoes. Electricity goes off and on, off and on. Pines sigh: "Ready?" "Ready as we can be." Ellie is worried about outside cats: Red Cat ... Black Cat ... White Cat ...
Andrew's core is between Nassau and Miami. Home-brew forecast: Direct hit on Homestead. First blow from north, about 5:00 a.m. Second blow from south, about 6:30 a.m. First blow will be harder. Each will last 45 minutes. Hear no rain. Don't dare open door to look outside. Electricity goes off and stays off. Switch to battery-powered TV.
Monday 8.24.92, 4:30 a.m.
First blow starts from north. Turn off TV. Head to master bedroom at south side of house. Close and lock door. Bolt will save us. House might vanish but lock will keep door intact. Sounds like freight train. Like being on the train. Like being inside runaway boxcar careening down mountain. Mike and H. E. sit on floor. Ellie sits on bed. Bob lies on mattress with hearing aid off, probably sleeping. Why not? Nothing you can do about this. House shudders, groans. Projectiles bang on roof and walls. No banshee wail ... news people warned us of impending demon screams but Andrew only says "Huff, puff, and I'll blo-o-ow the house down" ... not!
8.24.92, 5:15 a.m.
Lull arrives. Slither into den. Screen porch gone. Sliding glass door blown in, glass not broken. Tape gone from glass ... Ellie worried about how they'd get the tape off. Andrew did it for them. Hosed down the den too. "Water on wood, mm-mm, no good." Foliage fragments on floor and walls and ceiling. Dark outside. See tree down. H. E.: "We got 30 to 45 minutes. Next blow will be from the south." Ellie: "Where should we go?" Mike: "We'll take the kitchen. Get the mattresses." Bob: "Sure is nice to have good mattresses."
Andrew Lesson 8. Sure is nice to ... yeah, yeah.
Ellie, Mike and Bob build padded cell in kitchen and hole up there. "I'll take the bathroom," says H. E. It's in center of house. Sit with back to door. One outer and one inner wall to block flying shingles, tools, cars, locomotives, etc.
8.24.92, 5:55 a.m.
Second blow begins. Seems less violent than the first. Start to fall asleep. Exhaustion ... resignation. Same noises, but with less house shaking. A walkaway boxcar. Door opens. Mike: "You can come out now." H. E. "I fell asleep."
8.24.92, 6:30 a.m.
First hint of daylight. Wind still blowing, but only about 80 mph. Seems like nothing. Look out gap in den wall where sliding door was. Has there been a forest fire? A few bare trees still stand, bending northward. Bare pine trees. Like a meteorite impact, or a nuclear blast. Sky lightens. Stand awestruck. Wind abates. Image comes: Lost forest in the Yukon, freak fire and shower in summer ... Sky gray and lifeless ... Have you ever smelled the Yukon sky after a forest fire?
8.24.92., mid a.m.
Wreckage speaks not of a small, intense hurricane, but of a large, psychotic tornado. Andrew read the wrong chapter from H. E.'s book. Neighbors visit following passage of three afterthought squall bands. "There was a fridge and there was a broom. The wind took the fridge and left the broom." Is this a fable?
Neighbors once standoffish share stories, grief, awe. Says one, "I'm in a daze, man. This is the worst thing I've ever seen in my life." Climb to the roof. Largely intact. Ellie and Bob are lucky. From this vantage, wreckage is beyond words, past photos.
8.24.92, rest of day
Ellie: "Black Cat and White Cat are back!" They are uninjured. They want attention, to be held, cuddled ... their whole attitude has changed. But food ... no. Not for cats; not for Ellie. Ellie plays with cats for hours. "Red Cat is back!" Even cats know where it's safe. Instinct saved human lives, for while property damage is beyond reckoning, few people died.
Andrew Lesson 9. Life endures when all else passes away.
Thursday 8.27.92., 5:00 p.m.
Arrive back in South Beach safely. Apartment is intact. Go down to the sea, green and endless, for a coming-to-terms. Mother of Andrew awaits embrace. See deeper now into the soul of the sea. The message is intense, not crystallized ... yet ... but time is infinite. Salty breeze says "Hello." Gray sun, blue showers ... Miami patent skyscape. Seaweed marks storm surge line. Human trash is absent.
Water looks like lime soda, tastes like lobster ... Swim from 24th down past 21st, where lifeguard holds vigil, then back to 24th. For a short while, metamorphose: son of the sea, brother of Andrew! No jet skis. Human is slower and softer than machine ... and human returns first.
Friday 8.28.92 until forever
Hurricane Andrew was a child of the sea. So am I. So are you. Some people say they'll look back at this one day and laugh. Dry wit came from the mouths of victims, even as tragedy chiseled into their minds. Dark humor defies the devil. Andrew is no cause for merriment to those who lost their worldly things. Yet even today, every survivor can smile, because ...
Andrew Lesson 10. Andrew is gone and we are still here.
Copyright 1998, 1999 by Francisco Carrera.
