Hurricane Luis

"Many people find it easy to subscribe to the Biblical notion that they are the masters, or, at least, the custodians of the globe they inhabit. Hurricanes laugh at such a presumption. It is a laughter bordering on hysteria, and will quickly humble and terrify anyone unlucky enough to hear it at close range."

  During the final days of August 1995, tropical storm Luis, crawling across the Atlantic on what now seems a predestined path, developed into a hurricane of awesome dimensions: two hundred and fifty miles across, a sustained wind approaching 150 mph, conveying wave after wave of torrential horizontal rain. A meteorologist on the American Weather Channel, relayed to anxious local viewers by Tele-St. Barth, described Luis succinctly, "This is a large, powerful, and dangerous storm."

  On Monday night, the 4th of September, the beehive of protective effort was brought to a halt by the arrival of the first waves of wind and rain, and, unsure that they had done enough, islanders withdrew into the most rugged part of the sturdiest buildings that they could find.

  Many abandoned vulnerable homes to join more secure relatives or friends, a frightened few sought shelter with the fire brigade on alert at the fire station. Oil lamps and candles were lit, simple meals were prepared, and makeshift beds were arranged. All through the night, radio broadcasts from Guadeloupe and St. Thomas appraised the interned of the path of the storm. Few slept well. By Tuesday morning, the 5th of September, no one needed positions of latitude and longitude to know where the storm was.

  Throughout Tuesday, the heart of the tempest pounded and pounded and pounded St. Barths, the eye, by mid-afternoon, passing less than twenty miles to the northeast.

  For an unlucky few, defenses failed: roofs disappeared into the howling swirling blast, door and window covers were ripped away admitting wind, water, and shredded vegetation, sucking precious possessions into oblivion. For most, encapsulated in small, dark, damp cubicles, without electricity or running water, stepping over children, pets, and improvised bedding, glancing periodically at the connections between the roof rafters and the walls, silenced by the buffeting roar just outside a thin skin of protection, powerless to do anything but take what was given, it was a long, fretful, and indelibly memorable day.

  By evening, it was apparent that the worst was over, and though it would be many hours before a still dangerous wind would entirely subside, many slept soundly, secure in the knowledge that they had survived.

  Wednesday morning, the 6th, thirty six hours after they had been sealed, barricaded doors were opened, and a chastened population looked out upon a painfully unfamiliar landscape, stripped to its bones by Luis le Grand Nettoyeur, Luis the Great Cleanser. Whatever had been green and alive was gone. Fallen and broken trees, leafless, were twisted together into a psychotic parody of winter.

  At first, many were stunned and saddened by this ample evidence of Nature's power, but the mood passed quickly, and, as a contagious wave of civic pride swept across the island, men and women, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, native and newcomer took a deep breath, rolled up their sleeves, and went to work.

  Within hours, roads were opened, and local resources, mobilized under the effective leadership of Mayor Bruno Magras, launched the process of assessing damage, establishing priorities, and restoring essential services. By Thursday, several well stocked grocery stores were open, dispelling fears of food and water shortages, municipal garbage trucks were prowling the roads collecting refuse for the incinerators, and the Brasserie at Villa Créole was offering a tired but happy clientele their choice of sirloin steak, lamb chops, or duck breasts in green pepper sauce.

  By Friday a massive island-wide cleanup was in full swing. Electricity had been restored to Gustavia, Public, Corossol, and sections of St. Jean, with teams from EDF Guadeloupe arriving to speed the process for the rest of the island. Roads became crowded with trucks carrying debris, and terraces everywhere were festooned, as if for a royal visit, with laundered articles of every color and description. For a brief period, Gustavia was closed to traffic as a handful of yachts, hurled ashore by wind and sea, were removed from Rue du Centenaire.

  The wonder is that a storm of such magnitude didn't do more harm. No one on St. Barths was killed, and no one was seriously injured. Predictably, beachfront properties in Flamand, Anse de Cayes, and St. Jean sustained the greatest loss. The repetitious assault of towering, crashing waves undermined foundations in Flamand, causing decks, swimming pools, and buildings to topple onto the beach, providing an impressive panorama for those seeking sensational photographs. Only a handful of homes elsewhere became uninhabitable, most suffering only superficial damage.

  On Monday night, as the first fringes of Hurricane Luis were approaching the island, before communications had been cut, a local girl telephoned a friend in New York to share her anxiety and excitement. "I'm going to be in a hurricane ! It's starting now ! " There was a pause to consider the matter, and finally her friend asked, "What are you going to wear ?"