The Day the Hurricane Hit
by Wendee Mason

September 13, 1992: It's been two days since Hurricane Iniki hit the Hawaiian Islands. The kids are screaming next door, people are swimming on the beach, and there is not a breath of wind in the air. Everything seems to be back to normal, but we know it's really not. The huge, beautiful shade tree that covered a third of our yard is reduced to three branches extending from a tilted trunk, the roots torn out of the ground. Our neighbor's lush yard, once filled with plumeria, mango, lemon, and dozens of banana trees, is windblown and decapitated, like a destroyed tropical rain forest. We were one of the lucky ones. Nothing destroyed, no one injured, but just the same, I was in shock for a day afterwards, not being able to do anything but watch the news on T.V. and thank God it wasn't worse. Friday, September 11, 1992: The sirens blast at 5:30 AM. I think it is part of my dream, someone breaking into a house, or car, but long after my dream switches, the sirens are still there. I look at the clock and think about reporting the siren to the police so they can find the source and shut it off so the rest of the neighborhood can go back to sleep. 

Joe is getting dressed for work. He is listening to the weather station he uses for the surf and wind report. He walks back into the bedroom and calmly tells me that the siren is a hurricane warning and I should listen to the radio all day for details. He tells me to take our outdoor patio furniture in the house. He kisses me goodbye and says he will be home as early as he can. A Hurricane! I've never been through a hurricane before, but I remember the vivid destruction pictures of Hurricane Andrew from Florida just a few weeks prior and remember that nothing was left of most of the houses. Suddenly I jump out of bed, not the least bit tired after half my normal sleep. I turn on the T.V. and listen to the local broadcast. They say the grocery stores are running out of food, batteries, ice, and bottled water. The gas stations are busy with patrons lining up around the block. The hurricane is due to hit about noon and we should do what we can to prepare immediately. 

I call my mother. I tell her I am going to experience my first hurricane. She gives me some motherly hurricane advice and tells me she loves me. I jump into my clothes (glasses still on, hair uncombed, and barefoot) and drive into town. Roads are blocked with cars waiting in line for gas. I look at my gas tank, half full. That will get me around the island twice, where else can I go? I pull into the dry cleaners to deliver some clothes to be cleaned. They are closed. Why? I knew they open at 7:00 AM. Was this a Hawaiian holiday, King Komoni'mbitchin's birthday or something? Oh well, I'll go to Safeway for ice and bottled water and essentials.

 The Safeway parking lot, the lots across the street and the entire street is full. People are blocking the roads trying to find a spot. I luck out and pull into an empty space just as someone is leaving. It's drizzling outside, people are running into the store as if someone is chasing them. I walk faster. The automatic doors open and there is panic in the air. People are waiting at the exit of the check out counters for baskets and carts that are being emptied. Some are carrying bags and boxes of groceries by hand, unable to locate a cart. I start asking people if I can have their cart. "No, that cart is mine. I've been waiting five minutes!" "Well, excuussee me!" I finally find one. Going straight to the ice department, I look into an empty eight by eight foot freezer. All gone. I walk briskly to the bottled water department. Just six rows of empty shelves, not one bottle left. I jog over to the powdered milk department. I recall hearing it's important to have powdered milk during disasters, even though I'd have to be desperate to drink it. Not one box to be seen. Only empty shelves from top to bottom. I jump to take a peek at the top shelf. Wait! There's a box sticking up between the two aisle shelves. I put my empty basket down on the ground and start to climb the shelves, hoping they don't tip over. I reach toward the top shelf of the other aisle and grab a baby blue box of powdered milk! My first acquisition! Well, I better take this milk and save a place in line to get out of here. I go to the front of the store, and it looks like a freeway jam up where the California interstate 5 and 805 merge. 

No one is moving. I can't seem to find the end of the line. They are lined up between the aisles, so I follow suit and head toward the end. I walk all the way down the aisle and it wraps into the next aisle half way back. The line is longer than the width of the store! There is a shorter line forming in the bakery department now extending to the meat department. I put my basket down at the end of the line and walk toward the front counting the number of baskets along the way...thirty two baskets, at five minutes each. I'll be in line one and a half hours. 

Instead of thinking rationally and logically and leaving, like I have been known to do when lines are too long (about one tenth these lines), I become an irrational, scatter-brained, fear-ridden maniac, and decide that if I'm going to stand in line for this long I'm going to make it worth my while. I go back to my basket, and a pregnant woman standing in front of me says, "Where did you get that powdered milk? I'm pregnant and I'm nursing a baby and I have to have that milk! She looks as if she is going to kill me. I tell her it was the last one, but I'd be willing to sell her half of the box when we got out of here. She agrees. I frantically think about what else I can buy. I just went to Costco, but most of that was frozen food. It will be destroyed within a couple of days if we lose the electricity. I begin looking in other people's baskets. Franks and baked beans. I haven't eaten franks and beans as long as I've had powdered milk, but hey, why not? I leave my basket and go to the baked bean department. Only four cans are left. I take two, and give two to a woman screaming frantically. I casually announced, "What's the deal with the baked beans?" and someone answered, "Low fat and high protein!" I go to the hot dog department. Slim pickings. Apparently franks and beans are the food of choice during hurricanes. I quickly grab a package of chicken dogs. Someone else snatches the turkey dogs. I look at my chicken dogs and throw them back for some turkey dogs since I'm not a wiener connoisseur. 

What else can I get? Vegetables! I go to the vegetable area. The place was abandoned. No one eats vegetables in a regional disaster? I causally picked a head of Romaine lettuce, two green papayas, three "model home" tomatoes (those are tomatoes that look good, but taste like plastic tomatoes displayed in model homes). I might as well get three pound of plums, six russet potatoes and Joe's favorite refrigerated blue cheese salad dressing (just in case we don't loose the electricity). Heading back to my basket with my arms full, I happen to glance down at a deserted basket. I can hardly believe my eyes. It contains a box of powdered milk, and four bottles of carbonated water. High priority items! Quickly I look around and see if anyone is standing nearby, basket-less, grab it and run to my dedicated spot in line. I hand the powdered milk to the pregnant woman telling her I found this for her. She is so grateful, I think she is going to cry. My pile is getting bigger. 

A man in line has a styrofoam ice chest. I only have a wimpy ice chest at home good for a twelve pack of sodas. I locate the ice chests, grab a couple resting seven feet above and run back to my space on line. Some ice would really make my day. The pregnant lady's friend is holding two baguettes of french bread. That sounds good. I sprint to the bread department. I can't believe the entire bakery department is filled with empty wire racks. The only thing left are croutons, dried turkey stuffing, and a dozen hot blue berry bagels. Even though I have a dozen raisen cinnamon bagels at home, some force inside me says this is the last chance I'll ever have to taste blueberry bagels, so I bought four at fifty cents a piece. On my way back to line I pass by the battery area. Not one battery left of any size. The candle department is naked as well, with the exception of the birthday candles that are shaped like numbers that go on top of a cake. People are discussing which number would burn the slowest. The sevens are going fast! 

Ok, I've got enough groceries to make it worth waiting in line, but the line isn't moving fast enough. I have been darting in and out for almost an hour and now there are eighteen baskets in front of me. In a small town like Kailua, everyone knows everyone, and I notice people finding their friends and letting them cut in line. Huge Costco like carts of food are entering the line in front of me. I'm discouraged. Even though the people around me have really juicy stories about Hurricane Iwa I go to the deli department to a shorter line there. 

Twenty minutes pass and I exchange business cards with my neighbors, Bud and Sandy. Then they announce they aren't ringing up produce at this line. They have no scale. Goodie, now I get to experience a new line with other exciting people to meet. Any smart, college graduate at this point would desert their basket and leave the store. We have only three hours until the hurricane is suppose to kill us all. Determined, I go to the next line, letting Bud and Sandy go in front of me to show them I still can have the aloha spirit during a disaster. After some more chitchat, they announce that all produce purchasers have to know the price of each item if they want them rung up. People sprint out of line, run to the produce department to memorize each price and repeating prices to themselves while waiting in line.

Finally, it's my turn. I felt like I waited two hours for a ride at Disneyland and the ride lasted only one minute. What a letdown. I pay my fifty five dollars for my well chosen few items and step outside where the sprinkle has turned into a rainfall. It's after nine-thirty. The parking lot is empty, there are actually carts strewn about and I notice that the gas stations are empty. Kailua is looking like a ghost town. I turn on the radio and they tell me the eye of the storm is going to hit closer to Oahu then previously anticipated. Just hours before, I was simply irrational. Now I'm panicking. 

I return home. My answer machine is blinking. It's Joe. He tells me don't go to the grocery store, it's a zoo. Thanks Joe. Why didn't you call three hours earlier to tell me that? He says to stay home. He might not be able to get back home. The hospital where he works is hopping and the roads are dangerous. He loves me. I bring the groceries and ice chest in the house. Opening up the freezer, I assess the ice situation. We have four ice cube trays. I pull them out. Correction, we have three ice cube trays and one empty one. I hate when that happens! I put the ice in a baggie and refill the trays. I heard Sandy say she freezes milk containers full of water and puts them in the back of the freezer. Shucks, I just threw out my milk container and the trash man picked it up this morning. 

I search for some Tupperware-like containers to fill with water. Next I take a shower. It would be awful to have a disaster with my arm pits stinking and my hair dirty. Then I clean the tub and fill it with water. I run to the washing machine and fill it with water hoping there is no soap residue left from the last load. The sirens are blazing again. The neighbors have been told by the police that we have to evacuate by 4:00 PM. Roy, our neighbor, asks us how we're doing and offers us the home of a friend of theirs up the mountain if we all have to leave. He helps move our patio furniture inside. This is no small task. Within fifteen minutes Rosemary, our roommate, Roy, and I move a rattan sofa bed, four patio chairs, three garbage pails, a ficus tree, a banana tree, a garden hose and carrier, a dolly, a case of oil and an oil pan changer, a BBQ grill, eight canisters of butane, three cocktail tables, a folding table, two directors chairs, six recycling bins, a croquet set, twenty five pictures hanging on the patio wall, a large box containing two hundred crickets, five cockroaches and 1985 income tax files, a six foot oval carpet, three hanging straw mats, a boogie board, an air mattress, a gas can, six blocks of wood and one dried out coconut. 

Another call from Joe. Don't forget to bring in his sports equipment locked up on the side of the house. Roy returns home, and Dana, Joe's wind surfing buddy and neighbor, helps Rosemary and I to carry three sixteen foot masts, two sail boards, three surf boards, three booms, a trash can full of accessories such as booties, gloves, harnesses, rope, battens, and other stuff of major importance. The kitchen, living room, dining room, and hallway is filled with outdoor items. I learned the hard way that the foot long fins sticking out of the boards make nice deep slashes against unsuspecting shins. The flies suck on my wound all day. I bend and tear off two fingernails below the skin, and smash my index finger between the sofa bed and the ground and crush my pinky toe on my right foot. 

Everything is inside. I close our thirty louvered windows and start to bring out the duct tape to tape the sliding door windows in a big X for when the wind crashes through and breaks it into a thousand pieces. For some reason I think I have to tape the windows on the outside. Having never done this before, I go outside, where the rain has stopped but the wind is going about 50 mile per hour. The tape won't stick to the windows, but it sticks to itself nicely. I give up. I go back inside and tape the X's from the inside. It's after eleven. I'm feeling weak. I haven't had breakfast yet. My glasses are giving me a headache, not only because I grabbed the wrong prescription but they are pinching behind my ears. I make a note that if I live through this, I'm going down to Lens Crafters to get some comfortable fit, feather weight glasses. I can't remember a headache this bad in a long time. I run to the bathroom, start to put in my contacts, and drop one in the sink. 

It's been years since I lost my contacts, and I haven't ordered a replacement yet. This can't be happening to me. I say a few words of prayer, put my glasses back on and see the cellophane like circle near the drain. Quickly I slap it in my eye and I'm off to the kitchen. What should I eat? I should have something hot and substantial since I know there won't be electricity for a week. I throw a russet potato in the microwave. Ten minutes later I hear the microwave signal twice. It's suppose to signal three times. The electricity just went out. But I've got a nice hot potato! But the butter and sour cream is in the refrigerator and I'm not suppose to open the refrigerator once the electricity quits. But I want butter and sour cream! What's the use of having a baked potato if you can't enjoy it? I open the refrigerator, grab the sour cream and can't find the butter. Hot air is filling the fridge. Forget the butter, I'll use Molly McButter, a poor substitute. No place to sit in the living room. I sit on the floor and devour my potato, getting ready for the next step. 

Joe calls again. Guess what? I'm in the Tsunami zone and I should lift everything of value off the floor in case water rushes into the house. The recycling bins would be great to use but thousands of ants are using them as their home. Screaming I throw them back outside, and roll them over to the hose area. The hose is in the house, neatly wrapped up in the corner. I'd have to climb over the sofa bed resting on its side to get to it. Forget it, I'll use the outdoor shower. In the process of cleaning the recycle bins, I get my second shower that hour. Drenched from head to toe, I dry off the bins and ask Rosemary to help me slip them under my white sofas. We lift the two big ones off the ground, and place the two small light sofas on the dining room table along with the six white upholstered dining room chairs and one hassock and fifteen pillows. I pray the table won't collapse. I take all the pictures off the walls, and placed all the lamps on the floor in case a gust of wind blows everything down. Of course, the flood will get these pictures wet, but I don't think about that. 

I look around. What's irreplaceable? My fifty photo albums! Rosemary and I take them off the bottom shelves and place them on the top shelves. It occurs to me that if the roof peels off, the water will come from up above and the photo albums will be the first to go. I sprint to the laundry area to get the plastic garbage bags and grab the box. I put four to five albums in a bag, tie them tightly and replace them on the top shelf. 

The police are in our driveway. They tell us that our street has to evacuate soon and go to the nearest shelter. I'm not prepared to leave the house! I pull out a sheet Mom sent me for earthquake preparedness and read what they tell me to put in a clean trash can. I get our "sports" trash can and spill everything out of it on to the kitchen floor. Roller skates, dozens of golf balls, paddle ball rackets, fins, snorkel, masks, tennis balls, wrist sweat bands, a small air mattress that has a slow leak in it, and a hair dryer to blow up the mattress. I fill the clean trash can with a double air mattress, a cotton blanket, two pillows, eight cans of butane, three match books, three flashlights, all the batteries in the house, sheets, a towel and washcloth, and the portable BBQ. Now for food. You'd think that after my three hour shopping expedition, I would put all the things I just purchased in the trash can, but dried milk and turkey franks just don't appeal to me. 

I go to the liquor cabinet, pull out the tequila, margarita mix, triple sec and a quart size container and mixed myself a grand margarita; finishing off all the bottles! That is the first to go in the first aid kit. Then I throw in a bag of chips, a double box of wheat thins, a double box of raisin bran, four gallons of bottled water, three individual packages of dried milk, three cans of tuna fish, two loaves of whole wheat bread, a box of food bars, a jar of peanut butter, all the fruit in the kitchen (plums, grapefruit, bananas, lemons, one of the two green papayas), two cans of baked beans, a can of corn, and a can of peaches. Then I add a plastic plate, three tupperware bowls with lids, two sets of utensils, my super duper knife that will cut through a tin can, a can opener, a roll of aluminum foil, paper plates and dixie cups. I can barely put the lid on the trash can. I try to move it and it doesn't budge. 

How am I going to transport all of this equipment to my car, through a parking lot and across to the shelter? Just at that time Rosemary comes into the kitchen and asks what I am doing. I need help. I'm not thinking straight. She mentions I've got enough food, water and supplies to feed Ethiopia for a week, and I'm only packing for myself! She opens the lids, we look inside and I start laughing at the things I have packed. We take out the BBQ grill and six cans of butane. "Who are you cooking for anyway?" she says, "You're not going to BBQ in the shelter with thousands of people looking at you, are you? Not to mention sucking up what little oxygen is in the place. Why don't you bring some peanut butter and a few crackers and a soda?" Why didn't I think of that? 

We emptied the trash can and started again. I didn't use the two ice chests I just bought; no ice! Back into my bedroom, I slam open the closet door. All sorts of questions run through my mind, such as: what does one wear in a hurricane? Do I bring more than one change of clothes? Do I bring my most expensive items in case the hurricane ravages the house and I have only what I've brought with me? Do I bring my good jewelry or do I leave it for the looters to get during the storm? Do I bring my gun in case I have to protect my battery supply? Should I pack my video camera even if the batteries are dead and there is no electricity? 

I am tempted to wear jeans because it seems to be appropriate hurricane attire, but it's over 90 degrees outside, and a bathing suit seems to be too informal to wear right now. I look outside at all the neighbors gathered about and they are wearing bathing suits. Did I even pack one? No. I am not thinking rationally. I throw in two T-shirts, two shorts, no shoes, and three pairs of underwear. In the bathroom, I pack my toothbrush, toothpaste, and contact solution. I forget my brush and comb, but I remember my infamous sewing kit (with extra buttons and safety pins.) All these items go into a huge duffle bag along with my "Itty bitty book light," which is battery operated for reading in the dark, my book A Return to Love, my tape recorder with six mini cassettes to record the events blow by blow, candle stick holders, Christmas candles, cigarette lighter, socks, (remember, no shoes) and another pillow. I zip the duffle bag and drag it to the front door. 

I call my Mom again. I tell her the house is prepared and we are all packed up to evacuate. I tell her if the phones are working I'll call tomorrow to tell her I'm alright. She gives me additional hurricane advice which I don't remember and we say goodbye. The problem with this disaster is they are giving me too much time to prepare, yet I can not think clearly. Rosemary is packed in the first ten minutes and is now calmly sleeping. The time is close to two thirty and the wind is howling. The palm trees are bent over, with the fronds gone on one side. I notice the tree in the middle of our yard. It is bent at a forty five degree angle. The ground is raised by the heavy branches catching the wind. I run to our landlord's house next door, and Phil comes over with a buzz saw and ladder. Within minutes our tree is partially decapitated. I want to cry. They prop it up and what is left survives the storm. While watching the tree reshaping I discover that none of our neighbors are going to evacuate. They are all determined to weather the storm at home. They say we have the best house on the block since the entire house is made out of cement blocks with a flat roof. They don't think we need to leave. But what about flooding? We want a new carpet anyway, don't we? They are calm, laughing, drinking beers and wine, sitting on the porch stairs with their neighbors, the kids, and a dog, having one heck of a fine time. 

I'm bleeding, hungry, have a headache, a backache, and look like the dog chewed me up and spit me out. They calm me down. I begin to relax. It's three o'clock. The battery-operated radio says that the eye of the storm is not coming to Oahu as previously anticipated and we have just experienced the worst of it. This is the worst? I look around at the house. It looks like a hurricane hit the interior and missed everything else. The neighbor, Georgia, jokingly says it looks like the day we moved in. I ask everyone else if they took their furniture off the ground? No. No one tore their house apart or went grocery shopping for things they didn't need or want. 

It's three-thirty, the neighbor kids come over and want to play checkers. They take one look around and ask if we're moving? No, we're just reorganizing a bit. We play checkers for a while. Suddenly, Joe walks through the front door and yells "Holy Toledo! What happened here?" At once I am relieved. I can't believe he's home. I expected not to see him for another day. Instantly, my senses come back to me. I feel human again. Now he can worry for me. I can objectively look at the disaster I've created and wonder what happened! We take one of the sofas off the recycle bins and replace the cushions. Then we sit and I realize how sick I am feeling. I've been stressed to the max for almost twelve hours and nothing disastrous happened! 

I call my mom and tell her we didn't evacuate, and the storm is passing and we aren't going to get hit. She is relieved too. She had been calling the channel 10 weatherman in San Diego for hourly updates. She says they're good friends now. (I wonder where I got my tendency to overreact?) Finally, at six o'clock we get our first rain since this morning. Joe and Rosemary have a drink on the patio and watch the elements for two hours, yucking it up. I'm in bed, emotionally and physically exhausted and every bone in my body aches. The next day.. I can barely move. I can barely walk, the bottom of my feet hurt so much. Joe says the surf is up and he wants to go out today. It takes twelve hours for both of us to put everything back together and clean up that which took six hours for me to tear apart. When I'm not cleaning, reorganizing or sweating, I sit on the sofa and stare at the news on the T.V. Kauai has been devastated. Nothing is left. All the roofs were blown off. Waves crashed through buildings. Wind blew away cars, buildings, power lines, telephone poles. They have no food, shelter, clothing or water. I'm in shock looking at the pictures on T.V. 

We're packing up all those canned goods and dried milk and turkey franks and giving them to the Salvation Army to take over to Kauai. We're giving them clothing, butane, batteries and all the supplies we thought we were going to need. Nothing seems so important as family and friends now. The thought of losing material things seems insignificant compared to the loss of human lives. I appreciate my support system and realize the value of being loved more than what money can buy. 

Next time things will be different. I'm preparing now for the next natural disaster. I'm getting a portable trash can on wheels and am carefully planning what goes in it NOW, including my clothes and food, fuel, candles, everything. I'm not going to tear my house apart again, unless I want to do some spring cleaning, and I'm keeping the sofas on the ground so I have a place to sit. I'm going to have my margarita first, then I'm going to have a chat with the neighbors and see what they're going to do, and I'm going to do whatever they do, not the opposite. I'm going to put on my bathing suit and bake some brownies, like Georgia did. Then I'm going to invite the kids over and play checkers until it all blows over. And I won't go to the grocery store no matter what I need! And I'm going to always have lots of ice on hand, to remind me to keep cool.