Hurricane Ike

Annie Neichoy and her family had to make a decision. Authorities were recommending, no they were mandating, residents of Houston and Galveston counties evacuate. Hurricane Ike was looming in the Gulf of Mexico and the outlook declared the storm to be full of destruction. The strength of the storm paralleled the swell of fear that was growing among the residents of High Island, TX.

The most eastern part of the Bolivar Peninsula, High Island is one of the forgotten towns of rural southeast Texas. With only five hundred inhabitants, High Island struggles to maintain a township, but the strength and steadiness of a town that has fought and survived numerous hurricanes shines through with resilience. This is a sleepy town whose only companion and adversary seems to be the roar and unpredictability of the ocean. The town rests on top of a salt dome. With an elevation of thirty-eight feet above sea level, it is deemed the highest piece of land from Mobile, AL to the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. As grand as this account of the small town seems, the residents are all but neglected by the county they are a part of.

As Annie watched TV on Friday night, the evening’s news forecasted a gloomy day to come for Galveston County. The National Hurricane Center reported the tidal surge of the hurricane to be the worst in one hundred years. Warnings were put out that much would be lost. Annie was forced to turn off the television. She had heard enough, and the time to escape had already passed her by. All day long, Annie had been witness to the torture of trees, with the wind gusting and whipping limbs from side to side until defeat seemed inevitable. The wind was making way for the storm. Annie was making her way into the kitchen.

On the refrigerator hung pictures of laughing children, evidence of pride (her son was the first to graduate from college and then went on to medical school), and a fragmented conglomeration of alphabet magnets. Annie laughed at the thought of her doctor son warning her against Coke before bed, but as routine, she filled her NASCAR cup to the brim with syrupy concoction. As she walked down the hallway, Annie was suddenly struck by the loneliness of her situation. Her nightly ritual of kissing her two grandkids, Laynee and Drake, goodnight had been interrupted by a stranger named Ike; anger and resentment surged. As she passed their room, Annie could only think of the fate of their little town, her little town. She and her husband Benny had made the tough decision to ride out the storm. Benny’s son Justin evacuated the day before, taking his two kids and a couple gallons of gas in case there were shortages along the trip. She finally reached her bedroom, and as she crawled into bed, Annie could sense Benny’s apprehension. Her husband had always retired for the night hours before she did, however, the usual hum of Benny’s restful breathing had been replaced by silence. Even though thoughts were racing through her head, there was no need for words. They laid by each others side, not knowing what tomorrow was to bring, only that they would face it together.

Around five thirty Saturday morning, the couple woke up to a crash. As they rushed into their living room, they were met by rain drops invading their house. The electricity had been off for several hours, but Benny had prepared and grasped a flashlight in hand. As they cautiously turned the corner, the culprit was revealed. A patio door had been shattered and now glass shards were scattered across the floor. Grabbing some of the plywood left over from tacking up
windows, the couple forced the door shut and held it up until light peeked through at seven thirty.

It was time to survey the damage. As Annie and Benny stepped out of their shelter, they found their next door neighbor’s house had succumbed to the winds and split in half. This scene was the opening act for the destruction that was to follow. Walking down the street, they slowly realized their little town would never be the same. Houses were swept away, and what remained of some was only worth tearing down. Annie checked on her ex-husband’s newly remodeled house, “that barn that he is trying to turn into a mansion”, and as fate would have it, the water had only made it to the back steps and stopped. The fruit stand across the street that had been a land mark for so many years had been replaced by a fallen oil pumping unit that had travelled at least a mile, and it was lying like a fish that had gone belly up. Benny’s breakfast crony, Skip Hamilton, had moved his cows to the east pasture, which had historically received the least damage. Hurricane Ike was not like other storms, and the farmer’s bloated cattle
floated into the streets.

Of the five hundred residents of High Island, eight fighters stood side by side with the land that had enriched their lives and fought the storm. As the eight were finishing up their survey, Annie asked them in, as any southern woman would do in time of crisis, for a pot of fresh coffee. A grateful Mr. Bennett offered her five dollars for the cup of hot, black brew. Annie wouldn’t hear of it; they were in this together. Silence started the conversation, and then it slowly evolved into the changes that would come and the steps that should be taken to start the rebuilding process.

High Island is more than just a community. It is a gathering of people whose way of life matches that of the tide, softly being taken in and out, predicted only by events out of their control. “They will forget about us” Annie said, holding a glass of copper colored tea. “They said they might be comin’ down here to give us those typhoid shots. Is that what ya call ‘em, typhoid?” Her voice trailed off. You could hear the hurt and uncertainty in her words. “We actually have it pretty good. We have survivors, and we have each other. The rumor is the preacher from Gilcrist is dead on the beach, along with seven others. The officials won’t let us out, because they don’t want us to see the bodies.”