Lance Neita | Hurricane blues – Sharing perspectives of a night of terror

SO MUCH already written on the hurricane and so much more to be written on this ineffaceable part of our history. I remember thinking as I watched the Twin Towers fall in 9/11, America will never be the same again. Melissa is a similar turning point from which we can refer to unflatteringly as a Before Melissa and After Melissa period. Much more will be written about this tragedy. I would like to put in my two cents worth as one of many who faced that night alone.

There were so many strange things about that storm as it crawled toward us. The unprecedented wind force, literally tons of rain following weeks of deluge, and that awesome sound as the wind came in waves and tormented our souls.

The absence of lightning and thunder. And that slow, inexorable, and excruciating turn following a dead stop, a pause to take aim, and then the merciless track northwards as it headed to Jamaica to keep a date with some hellish destiny and plans to destroy our island home.

LAST-MINUTE TURN

I shared with millions of Jamaicans here and overseas the prayers, the disbelief, the hope, and the anticipation of a last-minute turn again to the west, and went to sleep with a prayer and countless heartbeats of requests being made known unto God.

The following morning, D-Day, with confirmation by the meteorological experts of an expected 6 a.m. hit on the south coast, and its menacing trajectory towards the north with exit planned between my hometown Discovery Bay and Falmouth, I accepted the inevitable and bunkered down.

As it moved across Spur Tree Hill from St Elizabeth and extending into Manchester on her right with Trelawny and St Ann in her sights, I was intrigued by radio callers reporting of a fog, or a strange and eerie white mist that accompanied and enshrouded her like an escort over the mountains. That ghostly apparition accompanied it right across the island, as witnessed by persons along the north coast.

The wind and the rain and the sea began haunting us around 11 a.m. and yes, we knew it was really on. But the next few hours seemed milder and weaker than the year before when I was able to sit on my veranda and endure Beryl, even during the heights of the storm.

So mild indeed that around 2:30 p.m. I fell asleep on my couch, hoping that this was it and our share of the storm would be a livable experience.

THIS WAS NO BERYL

Not to be. At around 4 p.m. I was awakened by a roaring sound outside as the winds and rain came down beating remorselessly on doors, windows and walls. The skies had darkened and with it the immediate realisation that this was no Beryl, this is it, at least 185 mph, and a Category 5 or 6 level for the first time in a life that has been through major hurricanes including Charley 1951, 152 fatalities; Flora 1963, 11 killed; Gilbert 1988, 45 killed; Ivan 2004, 17 deaths; and Gustav, 2008, 15 killed.

The windows and doors shook, the howling was a savage roar, the wind crashed around the house, with the sounds of the falling trees camouflaged by the hurricaned in.

For the next four hours I ran from room to room seeking a secure space from the water flooding the floors, while I shuffled buckets and every conceivable pot and pan which I could find to try and catch the unstoppable downpour.

I reached for my Bible and with a flashlight read and reread Jesus’ words and testimonies wherever I could find them. Thank God it brought peace to my soul, the Peace Be Still on the Sea of Galilee, the prayers in Gethsemane, and the promises throughout the Old and the New Testaments of ‘never leave or forsake’. Lord I believe, help thou my unbelief, I prayed.

With the rain still falling past midnight, I sought refuge in an outside room, fumbling with keys in the dark but eventually gaining entry and some form of security where I camped out for the rest of the night while Melissa banged repeatedly on the door as if demanding entry.

The next day the news came dripping in of desperation, cries for help, the anguish and pain of the victims trapped in the west. No internet, but calls for help from persons from as far as Montego Bay tracking along the coast to find gas, tarpaulins, water, and whatever the supermarkets had to offer.

On Sunday morning at the single open gas station in my hometown, a man who described himself as a refugee said grimly that he was driving from Hanover, looking for food and water, and then his shocking traumatic revelation, ‘People down dey a drown’!

The deaths and the weeping and grief-stricken faces, plus the loss of homes, medicine, businesses, water, livelihood, and even hope, tugs at the heart as we remember the many roads travelled through the eyes of many a storm.

I close by reminding that Jamaicans have always demonstrated a striking resilience, fortitude and humour, even in the face of hurricanes and other disasters under the most intimidating circumstances.

My friend Owen Nation’s sense of humour, in spite of losing his roof from Hurricane Ivan in 2004, was an inspiration. “Lance”, he said with a chuckle, “if you saw a piece of zinc flying across your lawn during the hurricane last night it came from my house. And if you saw a man running behind it, that was me.”

Lance Neita is a public relations specialist, author and historian. Comments to the Gleaner or to lanceneita@hotmail.com and editorial@gleanerjm.com