Ride It Out

I realized I had something moments after reading the assignment for last month’s Marco Island Writers Guild meeting. “A challenge to our writing members: 500 words, more or less, on the subject of Hurricane Ian.” Getting a message across in a few words - that’s my game, so I’ve been told. As vague images of a story sneaked in and out of my mind, I scanned the email again to confirm I hadn’t read anything specific regarding nonfiction or fiction, as what was brewing was no doubt fantasy.

The concept was this; theoretically, the eye of Hurricane Ian could have just as easily come ashore here, on Marco, instead of Fort Myers Beach. In my case, 1,000 feet from the beach. To further theorize, the storm could have come ashore during a stronger tide and closer to the top of that tide. Throw in an X and Y factor, intensifying the strength, and my short piece is well beyond the realm of possibility.

Therefore, I wrote it but didn’t show up for the meeting. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I did something that many people suffering from bipolar disorder do and blew off an activity better left unblown. However, because my editors, Lynn and Kathy, are super cool, they published it here. Hopefully, my fellow Guild Members will catch the issue. 

Those 500 words are as follows.

From my second-story bedroom window, I watched tropical detritus, and building materials of all kinds fly by as if blown by a Husqvarna Blower the size of the SuperDome. I tapped on the newly installed storm windows and was glad that Greg, the best window guy on the Island, won the bid to install new windows in the Seabreeze Complex. Many a hurricane I’ve sat through, but never one that none lingered so long, smashing Marco Island for hours with vicious right hooks, pushing the Gulf of Mexico directly towards us.

When the storm finally passed, one foot of water stood in the parking lot. I went on to the balcony, where a series of ropes hung from the roof that I had secured. Stepping on the balcony rail, I pulled myself up and walked to the western edge for a better view. The water in the parking lot had grown several feet. I looked toward the beach, only 1,000-feet away but out of sight due to the mega condos that owned the airspace. You can imagine the anxiety when through a wide gap in the nearest two condos. I thought I saw the silvery tips of waves. “Impossible,” I thought, “that would be like Waimea Bay breaking on Tigertail Beach.” Yet the perpetually rising tide below slapped me with reality. 

I hustled back down, grabbed the two bags I’d placed inside the door, and hooked them up to my ropes. One bag was a floating waterproof backpack containing provisions for a couple of days, a first aid kit, insect repellent, and a q kit. The other was my USAF Pararescue (PJ’s) gear bag. I hadn’t prepared for a power outage, nor did I stock up on weeks’ worth of supplies. I never intended on sticking around long enough to need them. I prepared to attempt to survive a potentially catastrophic storm surge of biblical proportions. 

Wasting no time, I pulled on my wetsuit, booties, hood, gloves, and chest protector and strapped dive knives to both ankles. The water had risen to the point that I could see it coming in the distance. The first floor was inundated and rising. As I strapped on my helmet, I understood what it must have felt like standing on a rooftop in the Lower Ninth Ward when the Industrial Canal levee wall failed and let the Mississippi River pour in.

I watched other structures being pushed off their foundations as floating debris slammed into the building and violent vortexes swirled around the corners. As the surge reached roof level, I pulled on my backpack and ran to the eastern edge, where I sat in several inches of water and secured my SCUBA fins over my booties. The condo shifted beneath me, and I jumped, angling for the highest point on the island, Indian Hill, deep inside Caxambas Pass.

“Ride it Out” was longer just a cliché. It was my harsh realm.

That concludes my 500 words. Although, I had more in my head, such as riding a wayward crane boom like a giant surge dragon and grabbing hold of the roof parapet of the last house on the Island before being dragged deep into the 10,000 Islands. Fodder for a longer story, I suppose.