In the tropical islands of the Caribbean, one who lives in New England, Minnesota or Alaska, might think there are no seasons. Things never change much. There are no leaves turning crimson and rust; no blizzards... Just the tropical trade winds and sunshine, with billowy-soft cumulus clouds on the horizon.
Day after day the sun rises in the east, from whence the wind blows, and every day is like the one before. But in the islands we do have seasons. We live from hurricane season to hurricane season.The reality of hurricanes is inseparably woven through the tapestry of our lives. Starting in June we hear rumors and rumblings. And they continue through late fall when we celebrate "Hurricane Thanksgiving" to show our gratitude for another year of protection.
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It happened the season after my mother died.
It was late in the year for a hurricane, but nevertheless, a renegade storm threatened, indifferent to the fact that we had already celebrated our Hurricane Thanksgiving for the year, confident in our ability to proclaim ourselves safe for yet another season.
Looking out into the bay from our balcony that morning, I noticed that all of the boats that usually faced due east as they rode at anchor had swung 180 degrees and were ominously pointing westward instead. A heaviness filled the air. A chill ran down my spine. This was not a good omen. It was the first sign of a nearing hurricane; a sight to make even the skin of a ten-year-old crawl. I knew what it meant.
But before too long, the boats began to swing slowly around to point to the north, and eventually back to the east again, as though draw by their own compass. The good news came across the airwaves: the hurricane once again had spared us, slipping by to the north. We rejoiced in the news. That meant there would be no blackout tonight, and we would be able to watch Bewitched after all!
Clad in light cotton pajamas that night, we kids sprawled on the blue, oval-shaped rug of the living room hypnotized by our black and white TV to see what sort of dilemma Sa
mantha would get herself into tonight. Daddy had retired to his room at the far end of the courtyard. At the end of a long day he needed some alone time to deal with the day's problems. Since my mother‘s death, he seemed to spend most evenings there, alone.
mantha would get herself into tonight. Daddy had retired to his room at the far end of the courtyard. At the end of a long day he needed some alone time to deal with the day's problems. Since my mother‘s death, he seemed to spend most evenings there, alone.Childishly mesmerized by Darren's predictable antics, I was suddenly paralyzed with fear as a deafening roar filled the room, and the whole house was pitched into darkness. For a split second my heart stopped, and I froze on the spot. In the next instant, fright turned to flight at the sound of splintering wood.
In one wrenching movement, some unseen force peeled back the plywood that had earlier been secured over the floor-t
o-ceiling windows that ran the entire length of the beachfront house. A huge, growling monster tried to rip his way into the room to devour us. The sturdy boards suddenly snapped like dry kindling.
o-ceiling windows that ran the entire length of the beachfront house. A huge, growling monster tried to rip his way into the room to devour us. The sturdy boards suddenly snapped like dry kindling.Screaming and grabbing up my pillow tightly, I found myself pushing and shoving as my brothers and sisters and I all instinctively ran for the only safe haven left in our lives now that Mommy had died: Daddy's room.
Now, I hate to admit it, but at ten, I still had a terrible fear of the dark. I usually dreaded the short, ten-yard trek out into the courtyard and down the sidewalk to my bedroom a
t night. And the trip to my father's room was even farther into the darkness. But in that instant, fear forgotten in the terror of fleeing whatever was behind us, I ran. The beating of my heart roared in my ears above the thunderous rumbling around us.
t night. And the trip to my father's room was even farther into the darkness. But in that instant, fear forgotten in the terror of fleeing whatever was behind us, I ran. The beating of my heart roared in my ears above the thunderous rumbling around us.The next thing I remember, my father had herded most of us into the square bathtub in the bathroom adjoining his bedroom, shouting directions. An icy blast of air suddenly filled the room as the windows were wrenched open. In spite of a shouted order to duck our heads and hold on, I craned my neck just in time to see the shadow that was my father lunging to grab the opening window and pull it shut against the horror outside. The terrifying thought ran through my mind that he would be sucked out into the night and be lost to the demon out there in the darkness. I screamed, and grabbed my brothers, crying hystericallyAfter what seemed like an eternity of horrendous confusion of sound and terror, a deafening silence settled over the room.
Shaken, I crawled from the bathtub and saw the only thing that mattered: Daddy had survived. Somehow he had battled the invisible monster and won.
In the stillness around us, I looked to my left, and saw that every one of the louvered doors forming the courtyard-side "wall" of the room had been flung wide, and moonlight poured in.In the eerie moonlight that shone on the courtyard, I saw that the mango tree had been completely stripped of all its leaves, and a huge limb dangled as though a puppet on a string.
Furniture and clothing and books were flung haphazardly across the yard and the fish pond stood empty. But at first, all of that was lost to my dazed mind as I noticed luminous, golf-ball-sized hailstones strewn about. Their mystical, magical, opaline glow in the reflected moonlight mesmerized me. I stood motionless, staring in awe.
In a world where the temperature never dropped below seventy degrees, ice from the sky was unheard of. After a moment, the spell was broken and we kids scrambled about, eagerly snatching up the hailstones and arguing about who had found the biggest one.
In a world where the temperature never dropped below seventy degrees, ice from the sky was unheard of. After a moment, the spell was broken and we kids scrambled about, eagerly snatching up the hailstones and arguing about who had found the biggest one.
As I swung around to show my dad the one I'd found, I pulled up short at the sight of his face. He stood gray and lifeless in the moonlight, staring, unseeing, at the wreckage around us. I stopped mid-sentence and let the hailstone slip from my hand as I watched him bend slowly, mechanically, to pick up a book that was lying opened, face down in a puddle. Gently, he picked up another and another, holding them tenderly against his chest, seemingly oblivio
us to those around him. This was not the strong hero of a man who had moved in the circles of political power during World War 2, and been the decisive executive officer of naval bases. I looked into the face of a stranger.
us to those around him. This was not the strong hero of a man who had moved in the circles of political power during World War 2, and been the decisive executive officer of naval bases. I looked into the face of a stranger.The sunrise brought us all up short with the full picture of reality. The eastern wall of our living room, which was made entirely of glass, had been sucked outward and smashed over the balcony railing, leaving a gaping mouth in its place; the roof peeled back as though by some giant can opener.
The television had been swept off its perch on the shelf, its cord ripped from the plug. It lay face down on the red tile floor, amazingly unbroken, in a puddle of water. But we found a living room chair on a house a quarter of a mile away, and a lawn chair half submerged in the water trap of the golf course to the west of us. Clothes, books and school bags lay in pu
ddles, or clung to thorny acacia bushes on the hillside behind our house. My mother’s beautiful china lay shattered on the rocks. I never did find my left school shoe.
ddles, or clung to thorny acacia bushes on the hillside behind our house. My mother’s beautiful china lay shattered on the rocks. I never did find my left school shoe.The demon in the night had randomly ravaged the boats that had ridden so oddly at anchor just the day before -- and yet a lifetime ago -- belching up a blue one on the beach at the foot of our hill, baring its barnacled bottom for all to see.
A red one had broken loose and washed up on the rocks, it’s fiberglass under-belly savagely torn and gaping. Another had sunk, leaving just the sun-bleached roof to peek above the surprisingly tranquil waters, guarded over by a lone pelican. And yet two-thirds of the boats now rocked gently at anchor just as though it was another normal day in paradise.We spent the day gathering here and there what was salvageable, like hungry gleaners desperately following the reaper. A pillow lying in the muddy driveway, its pillow slip missing... A navy blue, pleated, uniform skirt pinned to a cactus... A spelling book thrown in the corner of the courtyard garden, its water-warped pages now flippi
ng idly in the balmy trade winds...
ng idly in the balmy trade winds...The next day, with shaken psyches, we reluctantly obeyed, climbing aboard the school bus. But not without an uncertain, backward glance at the muddy driveway that wound up around the hill to what remained of our home.
The final insult came at school, when I arrived without a note to explain my mismatched shoes and my absence the day before. Stunned, I just stared at the teacher in disbelief. I finally sputtered, "But the storm... Our house...." But what words could possibly begin to explain what we had lived through? And to think that the whole world didn't know, and want to come to our rescue and hold us while we trembled with the loss of what little we had left was mind-boggling.
Instead, the unbending nun dared to shake her mahogany stick at me and say I had better not come to school tomorrow without a note from my parent, or I would suffer the consequences. Incredibly, they had not heard.I wanted to say, "But we don't have any paper,...and the pens and pencils all blew away when the desk flew through the wall!!!But I had been taught never to talk back, so I quietly bit my lip, and obediently went back to my desk where a tear silently rolled down my cheek and splattered on the desktop.
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For years afterwards we found bits and pieces of my mother’s silverware out in the ocean when we'd swim off the beach in front of the house. The first one, a sterling silver butter knife, brought the thrill of discovery. The second and third brought guarded laughter. But years later, whenever a piece would surface from time to time, tarnished with age, it would bring the inevitable, but subdued "hey...remember this?"
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Years have passed, and we never did talk much about the storm (which I realized in adulthood must've been a tornado.) When we did mention it, we referred to it simply as "The Hail Storm." But all these years later, the fear and the loss are still there deeply buried in a protected grotto of childhood memories.
And every time a hurricane threatens in the Atlantic, it all rises up close to the surface of my memory and leaves a bruise. And I wring my hands as I think of all the other ten-year-olds in the hurricane's path. But you know, the memory also reminds me how resilient I am, and how many bumps in the road of life you can take if you are fitted early on with a good set of shock absorbers by parents who love you.
Liz Carson Rosas
1 May 2009
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