Hurricane Harvey is on his way. Oh, he was supposed to be just a little tropical storm. A “rain event.” He dawdled a bit last night and this morning. Now he’s a full-on hurricane and he’ll be a bigger hurricane when he comes onto the Texas coast. The only questions are how big and where?
So, I’m in pain. In itself, no surprise. It goes with the territory. Anxiety. Shifting isobars. Tensing muscles. Will we get five inches of rain or forty? Will the dog go outside and do his business over the coming five days (predicted minimum time that Harvey will be disrupting life) or will I have an overgrown Chihuahua that requires some sort of makeshift “potty”? Will the power hold up in both houses? Does it matter? Should I be complaining when I am so privileged that I can use the phrase “both houses”? (Oh, I can answer that one: Hell, no.)
When Hurricane Ike barreled through in 2008, I wasn’t really frightened. It was unsettling to hear the house pop and bend and to hear the occasional branch or roof tile hit the metal covers on the windows, but it wasn’t frightening. However, when the storm cleared and the radio began giving us reports of what was left in Ike’s wake (we had no power so there was no television to look at), sadness hit. We were safe. My family and close friends were safe. The word of the destruction in Galveston, High Island, Crystal Beach, Surfside, and other nearby areas was agonizing. As painful as it was to hear, I could only I imagine how horrible it was to experience. I listened to the stories and thought, “God, those poor people.”
And then, eight years later, my husband and I bought a beach house.
Eh?
Are we insane?
Is memory that short?
We can see, every time we walk the beach at Surfside, the remnants of Ike: Two homes still in the water, half gone, pilings slowly being chewed away by the surf, gaping holes in the flooring overhead. You can see drapery still fluttering in the windows nine years later. Further down the beach, homes that were inland with private docks or dune crossovers are now on the beach. Yet, further still, the beach grew, sand deposited by the storm, turning first-row homes into third-row homes. That’s what Nature does. She takes here, gives there, and then, quite possibly switches it all back around again. On our many visits to this lovely little village over several years of vacations, we looked at these things and thought how hard it must be to live through such events. We asked ourselves if we could stand the trauma. We asked ourselves if we would rebuild if we were crazy enough to have a beach house. We told ourselves over and over that we would not own a beach house. One, it was not within our reach, and two, it was too much risk.
But the thing about places like this village. Places like lakes in the woods and towns on mountainsides. They hook you. They’re like drugs. You keep going back and back and they soak into your soul. Pretty soon you find yourself recalling the scent of the town when you are a hundred miles away. A seashell in a magazine advertisement takes you drifting back. A woman in the grocery store makes you think of the proprietress of the burger joint in the village. The voice of a gull on the wing, blown inland on a storm, puts an ache in your heart. You must have your beach fix, so you return.
You return until returning isn’t enough and all those concerns: Can we afford it? What about the drive? What about the upkeep? What about the septic system? You said you hate septic. What about this and that? What about—Hurricanes? All that just falls away and you succumb.
So, I’m sitting here, in pain, crying, not really ready for what Harvey might bring, but cautiously optimistic that he will not do too much damage since he won’t be a direct hit at hurricane strength (they say). I’m also realistic, he won’t be a non-event. He won’t be “nothing.” He may do more damage at my inland home than at the beach because he promises days of rain. He will likely do more damage down the coast and I am fearful for people in his path there.
But, after sixteen months of weekends and vacations with the waves playing their songs through our bedroom window, I know can’t escape—maybe not ever.
We shall see. Get back with me in about a week or so.
Last Updated on December 28, 2022 by Lee Ellis
