Hurricane Virginity, Lost

My first hurricane was truly a splendid affair. Although it probably ruined me for all future hurricanes in that I’m now conditioned to eagerly await their arrival, which could easily result in the complete negligence on my behalf to safeguard all bodily possessions… my body included. Also, all subsequent hurricanes, regardless of severity, will no doubt be dreadfully humdrum in comparison.

Now, I wasn’t really scared of Earl in the first place. Just as I’ve, perhaps naively, never feared tornados or blizzards. No, any apprehension on my part stemmed from the threat of living without electricity for longer than 24 hours. Specifically, I was (and am) concerned with fans and running water. No lights? No problem. Simply rise and retire with the sun. But proper air flow and hygiene are another matter entirely during late summer in St. Thomas.

I’m not asking for AC, which I haven’t had since moving here, anyway. But I’m telling you, the three fans in my room are most essential to comfort. Without them, the only way to prevent sweat from dripping off you like a rapidly melting ice sculpture in Death Valley is to lie motionless and naked on the bed, in which case you will still leave a damp spot on the sheets in the vague shape of your person. And when this amount of organic fluid is involved, it’s important to have a daily shower, at the very least. Unfortunately, this is a difficult, if not impossible, endeavor without electricity to power the water pump. I’m not being paranoid here either; many people lived sans power for months after Hurricane Marilyn. I can only imagine this as comparable to residing in one of the first few circles of hell.

So, I was definitely more worried about the discomforts associated with the aftermath of a hurricane than the hurricane itself. I didn’t fear being sucked into the ether after the roof blew off or anything like that. Although, this scenario wasn’t entirely unlikely either, since...

Upon moving into my palace, I asked Slumlord Dave about hurricane shutters.

“Uh, well, I usda hav’em up but they got all rusted out. And they were heavy and a lot of work to drag out and put up. Lots of times ya pull’em all out and put’em all up and then nothin even happens. Course, the time you don’t do it, that’s when you get hit,” he chuckled in his good ‘ole cracker manner.

“Okay…well, do you board up the windows then?” I was almost scared to ask.

“Um, yeah…we do throw some boards up but they really don’t do no good anyways. I wouldn’t recommend you stay there in the event of a hurricane, girl. I can’t be responsible for any personal injury, ya know…If worse comes to worse you could go in the bathtub…or you being you, I’ll tell ya that the mechanical room in the hall is safe, but I’d really feel better if you found someplace else to go. The house has been through Hugo and Marilyn—my 80-year-old grandmother survived both a them, ha ha, but we lost the roof twice. The roof is built much better now though. We didn’t mess around this time. I really don't think she's goin anywhere, but I'd rather you be safe than sorry, girl.”

As hurricane season came swirling towards us…or us towards hurricane season, it occurred to me that formulating even a loose emergency plan would be to my advantage, so as to not get completely fucked like a damn fool in the event that a strong storm does hit the island.

I had a few offers of places to stay during the storm, but much to my delight, the current object of my desire/flirtation flew back to St. Thomas to be here during Earl in a “supervisory capacity” for the local company in which he is sort of a bigwig. He offered his place as a hurricane shelter for Hershey and I, which I agreed to (internally, at least) immediately. Okay, so there was no promise of a generator, but he still rents a beautiful house kept fully-stocked with alcohol, and I knew we would easily fill the time with entertaining conversation. If a lovelier way to spend a hurricane exists than hunkering down with a crush who amuses you to no end, I simply can’t imagine what it would be.

So, The Meerkat (his sexy alias of choice), having prepared for dozens of hurricanes, advised me via text on safeguarding my belongings. Unsurprisingly, I was most concerned for my CD collection, followed by my journals (needed to write my memoirs, you know), and then my books. And that was basically it. Screw all other possessions. They’re far more easy to replace. I completed the hurricane prep work in true half-ass fashion, which consisted of placing the aforementioned items in a container, wrapping them in garbage bags, and stashing them off the floor in the spider-and-termite-infested cavern that functions as my closet. I stored some food in the two kitchen cupboards, enclosed some items in the interior bathroom, and shut the windows. Not having much really cuts down on the annoying adult responsibilities it requires to take care of material possessions. If you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing to lose, right?

Around nine in the morning on the day of the hurricane, The Meerkat carried me and Hershey to his house—visible from mine—on the other side of Magen’s Bay. Only slightly less exposed, it at least didn’t come with a warning from the landlord, and it is superlatively more luxurious. Already the wind was blowing far stronger than usual for storm weather. My umbrella reversed itself twice while waiting outside for my ride, making me feel like the non-cheery reject nannies in Mary Poppins. 

Time passed quickly, as it usually does when hanging out with a new crush. Beers were cracked at 9:30. Candles lit around 10. Champagne corked by 11. We ate Fig Newtons and Pepperidge Farm chocolate chip cookies.We drank and smoked and conversed and generally had a debaucherous doozie of a time while the sky darkened, the rain pounded and the wind howled around us. When we walked Hershey outside between rain showers, the air felt sauna thick on my skin and in my lungs. It was like being smothered within the sweaty arms of a fat teenage girl. I would have jumped in the pool had the wind not already filled it with debris. Returning inside, the contrast in climate was jarring, akin to being thrown from the bosom of a freshly-exercised Precious into the bony tight arms of a typical Hollywood cold-as-death anorexic.

Early in the afternoon, we decided to eat something arguably substantial while we still had power. I chose some whole-wheat Velveeta macaroni and cheese, since a hurricane is the only time I could justify eating this particular convenience food. We laughed at the Velveeta folks’ sad attempt to create a healthier image. Pour our sodium-and-calorie-laden fake cheese sauce over these partially whole-grained noodles, and assuage some guilt while still making no measurable reduction to your waistline. But of course, by the time we finally got around to boiling water, the electricity went out and with it, our only chance for hot, real food.

The only excitement (fit for this here blog, anyway) during the actual hurricane was when the downstairs window broke, leading me to a most wondrous and silly fit of giggles. Yes, this could have been partially induced by intoxicants because, really, the window breaking in itself was not funny.

The Meerkat had been absent for longer than what for him usually constitutes a “fidget break.” Upon searching, I found him in the downstairs office trying to hold the wooden window frame in place and not proving very successful at the task, what with the 70+ mph winds outside. My assistance was refused because of the broken glass on the floor. I located my flip flops and returned to help. Soon, I came up with the brilliant idea of putting a garbage bag over the open window to keep excess water out of this very nice home. So, the Meerkat produced a garbage bag and cut it open to more easily fit in the frame.

But as soon as he lifted the plastic to the opening, the negative pressure in the house caused the garbage bag to fly through the window, flapping—violent and useless—in the gale force winds. He tried again with the same futile result, thus inciting a belly laugh I haven’t enjoyed since the night I moved to the island a year ago.

I could just be easily amused.

Sleeping was a bit difficult with absolutely no airflow. AC and fans were out of the question with no power, and since it was still raining and blowing outside, we couldn’t open the windows. I think we both managed to doze a bit. Hershey, on the other hand, slept curled up on the rug through the entire storm.

All was calm in the morning with leaves scattered everywhere, even somehow, in the house. A lot of fallen tree branches littered the sides of the roads, similar to the post-tornado scenes of my youth.

My apartment remained completely unsullied, however with no current (local nomenclature for electricity) until late Wednesday night. The Meerkat’s current didn’t return until early Sunday morning. He stayed in a hotel in the meantime, which also worked to my great advantage. Many people on the island didn’t have power until the weekend, some even didn’t have it when I saw them in the coffee shop Monday morning- a full week later. But two days after the storm, the island was pretty much back to business. Those without current had found a way to work around it or gave in and bought a generator.

So, my first hurricane was nauseatingly pleasant. For sure, the next hurricane won’t be nearly as heady an experience. Granted, Hurricane Earl went relatively easy on St. Thomas. We all lucked out this time. I still can't imagine how much of a trooper I'd be in the event of a stronger, more damaging hurricane. Of course, I am a lazy, spoiled American who has never seriously wanted for anything.  My only comfort in the not-so-unlikely event that I'm not as fortunate next time, is the certainty that the experience will at least build character.