How To Read a Room (That Has Been Demolished By a Hurricane)

 



Why is it that every time a tragedy strikes, we feel compelled to just… say shit? Like, something comes over us, and we all collectively start running our mouths, blurting out the first thing that comes to our minds with wild abandon. 


Though I understand the reactionary urge to verbalize our emotions in attempt to process the events (and I totally respect a healthy coping mechanism), this ain’t group therapy, okay? It’s the aftermath of a category 4 hurricane. So riddle me this: upon watching footage of a house being washed away by surging waters, do we really think, Oh, I know what the owner of that house needs right now. My unsolicited opinion! 


Yeah, no. Freedom of speech aside, the right to having an opinion doesn’t automatically make it valid—or relevant. Alas, common sense has never stopped anyone from showcasing their ignorance to the world. Here’s an example: 


tHêy WEreN’t pRePäreD


Wow. That’s profound—ly unhelpful. Let’s unpack it anyway. How does one prepare for 140 mph winds and biblical rainfall, exactly? Please, go ahead. Enlighten me. Seeing as I haven’t experienced a crisis of such magnitude, I’d really like to know.


Granted, the past couple of winters were fairly rough in California. After the prolonged drought there were king tides and atmospheric rivers, resulting in landslides along recent burn lines and heavy flooding in the town of Pajaro. Out here in the valley we had power outages, downed trees, blocked roads, and school closures yet nothing to compare to the damage over in the Southeast. The closest I, personally, ever came to facing something similar was in 2020, when we got surrounded by wildfires on three sides. Mind you, we’d cleared the recommended 100 feet of vegetation. The pantry was full of drinking water and canned goods. We had batteries and flashlights and air purifiers. Do you know what we did when the Carmel fire reached a mile out from the village? We packed up the kids, the cats, and a few bags of clothes, documents and medications, and scrammed. 


We managed to waited it out, and returned to find our home intact. The relief was immense, and so was the lesson learned. We were not even remotely ready. In the countryside this means you gotta be self-sufficient in case you become cut off, right? So we took down a bunch more trees, put up a new roof and solar, and this year we’re getting a powerwall and satellite internet installed. To be well equipped for emergency is a time consuming and costly project. But if or when the flaming front rolls down the hill again, none of it would keep our possessions, memories, and sense of security from being reduced to ashes.


Now, a tropical cyclone is another animal altogether. Should you assume (and quite wrongly so) that the majority of the population could somehow afford to buy generators, stockpile gasoline and essential supplies, modify their homes into impenetrable bunkers, or drop everything and relocate in due time, do you truly believe it would suffice? Helene was land-altering. Its force was so violent it traveled on an 800 mile-long path, leveling down industrial-grade structures. Whole towns (including ones at a high altitude) and entire communities—gone. Hundreds of casualties and injuries, thousands displaced or stranded, millions left in the dark. 


I don’t think y’all comprehend the totality of the loss here, or appreciate the shock and grief it’s caused. To blame the survivors for their “failure” to protect themselves is not just unkind. It’s pointless. Preventing destruction on this scale is an insurmountable job for an individual. That is precisely why public safety is a prerogative of the state and federal government. If there is indeed a fault to be found, I suggest we look for it on a systemic level. 


And spare me the political semantics. Sure, the impacted regions are predominantly red, and tend to vote against their own interests. This is called democracy, and in no universe it implies that they “deserve what they got”. Guess what! Plenty of blue states are being hit equally hard. Hurricanes may be an “act of god”, but we mustn’t forget to take into account the aggravating factor of climate change. The observable and measurable rise in global temperatures directly increases the severity and frequency of all natural disasters, everywhere. We’re talking about a record number or tornadoes in NY state this year, and 100 consecutive days of over 100 degrees in Phoenix, AZ kind of severe. 


Predictably (and regardless of their ideological views), it is regular folks who bear the brunt because a) few families have the budget/savings to take precautions against extreme weather b) fully insured or not, they stand no chance against a catastrophic infrastructural collapse, and c) there are little to no available social programs and resources to enable them to get back on their feet. I’m speculating here, but maybe what those people didn’t do, or what they could’ve done differently is besides the point. After the fact, the question is what WE are doing to support them. 


Passively observing the rescue and recovery effort makes me feel awfully useless. A part of me wants to pick up an fly out to Asheville, or anyplace really in need of hands-on help. I suspect, however, that my motivation is more self-serving than noble. Acting on impulse to appease my own conscience won’t lessen the suffering of others. Moreover, abandoning my children during a heatwave in the height of wildfire season is hardly a responsible course of action… 


Of course, there are other ways to contribute from a distance. I am able to donate financial aid, and offer encouraging words of “coming together in spirit”. I could certainly say that, albeit more complicated, mitigating the risks of climate change, too, is a group project. I could call for legislation that safeguards the nation’s livelihood, and talk about prioritizing sustainable practices all day long knowing damn well that, for many, neither the immediate nor long-term measures would take effect soon enough.


While utility companies work to restore services over in the Carolinas, and FEMA, active military personnel, civilian volunteers and non-profit organizations scramble to clean up nearly 30 feet high layers of mud and debris (employing pack mules to pass handwritten notes and gain access to impassable areas), yet another major cyclone brews in the Gulf of Mexico.


Hurricane Milton was just upgraded to a category 5 hurricane, prompting mass evacuations along the Florida coast. Even before the storm has made landfall, the projections are so dire it’s causing seasoned weather experts to break down on air. John Morales, an Emmy-winning meteorologists, chocked back tears this morning as he reported that Milton had dropped 50 millibars in mere ten hours. “The seas are incredibly hot. A record hot,” he said, and Tampa mayor Jane Castor seemed to echo Morales’ distress in a press conference: “If you want to take on Mother Nature, she wins 100% of the time.”


There’s no bracing for this, no wise suggestions for how to survive it. And so, I’m going to stay put right where I am, terrified—and silent. 



***


I finished this piece early Tuesday afternoon. Around 3:30 PM some brush ignited near Martin Road in Jamesburg, about 14 miles from the village. CalFire named it the Piney Fire, and they threw everything at it mere minutes after it broke out. I spent the rest of the day with my eyes fixed to the southeast, waiting to see the familiar plume rise from behind the mountains. It didn’t, so I listened to the sirens and watched the helicopters crisscross the horizon. It wasn’t long before the tanker planes moved in, followed by an evacuation order for residents within the active perimeter.


This time around it was burning farther from my house, but my family wasn’t home. John and the boys had gone to visit the grandparents the day prior at Tassajara, which happens to be a couple of miles across the hill from Martin Road as the crow flies. 


When I called to talk to John, he sounded strangely calm. The videos and pictures he’d sent made me panic. I kept asking if the kids are alright, and he kept assuring me they were just fine. I suppose that, to a ten and twelve year old, having front row seats for a retardant drop seems exciting. I also know that the excitement will wear out. Later, they will realize how close the fire was, and I’ll soothe them as they get hit by a flashback, and hold them tight as they wake up crying from a bad dream. 


The weather turned overnight, and stayed cool and windless throughout the next morning. Despite growing to 220 acres, the fire hasn’t jumped Carmel Valley Road and, according to the Watch Duty app, forward progress has stopped. Crews are now able to attack directly, and contamination is at 15% via Incident Command. I can hear the chainsaws working as they cut through the vegetation all the way here in the village.The air is hazy, and smell of smoke is faint yet palpable.


John says the sky is clear up at Tassajara, and that everyone is still very much safe. I believe him. Should the fire overruns the break lines, John will grab the boys, his parents, and the dogs and they’ll go into grandpa’s hideout. After the 2020 fire season, John Sr. brought in bulldozers, dug up the ground, and built a concrete shelter that can easily fit a dozen people, plus supplies. Not that they would have to stay there so long they’d need to crack a can of beans open, anyway.


Wildfires, even the worst ones, move incredibly fast. 





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