December 1999 Table of Contents

FLOYD AND ME
By Denny Parker

(Hurricane Floyd will be with Abaco for a long, long time. Here is another comprehensive personal report of the storm's effect on Treasure Cay from a resident. We have edited his article to omit the sequence of events that led Denny Parker from Steamboat Springs, Colorado, to his Treasure Cay home in time to experience Hurricane Floyd.)

I arrived at our guest house on Galleon Bay Drive (we've yet to start the main house), about 10 am and met up with Tim Duggan and his crew of four who Ihad asked to help me plywood the windows. They did a great job and I felt I was ready, but worried about rising water. Floyd's central barometric pressure had dipped to near-record lows, as reported by the hurricane hunter planes and that meant the storm surge could be incredible, especially if combined with a high tide and onshore wind. Forecasts of 15-20 ft. had been reported on Miami radio. If that actually happened, Treasure Cay would virtually disappear beneath the waves. I was not prepared for that.

There was one other protective measure I wanted to take. I had sold my 42' Sea Ray several months before, but kept its aft-mounted RIB dinghy. It sat alone on the sand beside the house because I had run my new 26' Glacier Bay, "Rabbit Ears" to Florida for scheduled engine maintenance a few weeks earlier. Pre-Dennis, that was a fortunate, but purely coincidental move.

I put my 4-stroke Suzuki on the RIB, and four concrete blocks on its floor to keep it from blowing away. I didn't use the classical Bahamian technique of filling it with water as I felt I might need it. Then I tied the stern to my dock and laid out a large Danforth anchor from the bow, uphill into the yard. If the water did come up and the boat floated, at least it wouldn't float away. Then, I thought without much confidence, I was ready.

I watched the TV some, but spent most of my time online, checking the models and forecasts. The US Navy probably had the best model and graphic of what was happening (see www.oii.net). It showed Floyd turning to the north and heading right over Abaco. But there were other models, too. Which was right?

Between the models and the advisories constantly being updated, it was possible to begin to see two general alternatives that fickle Floyd might take. It could stay on its westerly course and strike South Florida somewhere, or turn to the north and annihilate Abaco. Cat Island, San Salvador and Eleuthera would get it either way. With unabashed selfishness, I was hoping for the westerly course. But it was not to be. The Navy model still drew the forecast track right across Abaco. I went to bed Monday night with visions of storm surges dancing in my head...

A cloudy Tuesday morning began way before dawn for me. The wind was picking up, I discovered when I awoke about 4: am, but the Weather Bureau still was unable to report that all-important turn to the north. Watches and warnings had even been extended south of where they had been the previous day. Did they really think Floyd was headed into Miami or were they just covering their government derriere? Ominously, the Navy model was virtually unchanged.

Soon, it became clear that a northerly turn was happening. The Navy was right. Floyd was on its way. I continued to watch TV and monitor the web throughout the morning. The Weather Channel reporters were busily reporting onshore breezes in Melbourne and Palm Beach, while the action was taking place a hundred or so miles offshore at a place they hadn't heard about yet... Abaco.

The Abaco website, oii.net, was the brainchild of Sinclair Frederick of Treasure Cay. My wife, Nora, and I have become good friends with him and his buddy, Barbara Farnam. They knew I was alone and in the midst of a casuarina forest that might cover the house, so they invited me to spend the storm with them. I told Sinclair that, when my dinghy in the yard floated, I would be on my way.

The wind steadily increased. Sinclair and Barbara called several times advising my departure, but the dinghy hadn't floated yet. Finally, about 11:30 am, three things happened almost simultaneously that convinced me to cool the bravery. First, the TV showed the latest satellite image of Floyd - it was on a straight-line course for central Abaco. Second, a few minutes later, the power died .And third....the dinghy started rocking around, afloat.

I got in my Dodge van, taking clothes and stuff for a couple of days, and headed out amidst flying articles of all descriptions... coconuts, palm fronds, casuarina limbs, shingles, power and phone wires, and probably an unfortunate bird or two. As I turned onto Windward Beach Road, I encountered sea water moving down the road like it was a riverbed and soon I was pushing it with the van's bumper. Wishing for a 4x4, I hoped Chrysler had kept the Dodge's ignition system high enough not to drown out in a deep puddle. This puddle was getting deep....

I passed a Ford pickup that hadn't made it and felt pretty good about my Dodge as I turned onto Ocean Boulevard. It was wet but not flooded as I drove slowly past the growing destruction. I turned on Brigantine to avoid the screeching, unobstructed winds coming across the beach and decided to check out the Treasure Cay Marina area on the way. It looked OK, although several small boats had sunk. The water was still below the seawall, but I expected that would change if the wind shifted to the south. Brigantine Canal was incredible. We formerly owned a Royal Palm condo and I had watched as a northerly wind in Hurricane Erin pounded our 42' boat in our slip. But that was a stiff breeze compared to the havoc being wrought by Floyd. There were 3' seas in that canal. I could only imagine the damage that would soon be revealed in Royal Palm and Atlantis condos.

Fearing downed trees might cut off my route to Sinclair's, I reluctantly cut short my exploration and headed up Ocean Boulevard. When I reached the Frederick house, I saw only one car in the yard and assumed Sinclair and Barbara had gone to stay with friends at a higher site near the golf course, as they said they might. But I didn't know where that house was. Now what do I do?

I decided to stay in the car for a while, but I needed a protected place to park it or else risk serious damage from falling trees and flying debris. I found an ideal spot, tucked up against the south wall of the old, abandoned Treasure Cay Hotel. It proved to be quite comfortable, as I could sit there and watch the debris flying over me, while getting hit only by an occasional burst of flying gravel off the roof. I tuned around on the radio but found little information, except from Freeport ZNS-3 radio. Where was the eye? When would this end? The Freeport station said the eye would pass between Freeport and High Point on Grand Bahama. But the TV had clearly shown the eye headed east of there, toward Treasure Cay. Only time would tell.

After about an hour, I suddenly saw Sinclair in his pickup headed down the road and decided to follow him. But he turned off before I caught up and I lost him, so I found myself searching again for a refuge. This time, I picked an empty carport at an Ocean Boulevard. house and, like a threatened crawfish, carefully backed in. But I didn't stay long. I reasoned that the carport I was in could easily let go of its moorings and I didn't want to be under it when it did. So, back to the old hotel. I recall thinking what a great refuge it would have been, if operational. Its two storeys of concrete just stood there, taking all the force Floyd could deliver. After a while, here came Sinclair and Barbara again, this time headed toward their home. I didn't let them get away this time and we rolled into their Ocean Boulevard. front yard together.

The three of us sat and chatted as the north wind seemed to constantly increase. The noise was incredible and reminded me of tornado stories from the Great Plains, except it didn't quit but went on and on....

With no power, phones or water, we could only speculate about what was going on. Where was Floyd and where was it headed? We knew where it was in general - outside the front door. But where was the eye? Would it pass us? Storm shutters on the house's north-facing picture window began to rip off. Like giant paper aeroplanes, the large metal sheets flew away one by one. Our attempts to re-fasten some of them proved futile as we were blasted by 150 knot winds (at least) directly off the water of Abaco Sound. We gave up and began watching (hoping) for the wind to change direction. An expected turn to the east would take the pressure off the picture window, but in the meantime the slightest flying missile would come right through. We agreed that that this would be the time to leave.

But the missile never came and the wind never changed. Instead, about 5 pm, the wind began to die down. We knew what was happening. We were in the calm eye of the hurricane. Soon the wind would restart with a vengeance from the south, but for a while a serenity would possess the landscape and I wanted to be part of it. So I got in my van and headed for our house on the canal to see what it looked like. Others were out too, pulling trees off the main road so the few cars and pickups that were out could get by. I drove to Windward Beach Road and immediately felt defeated. There were so many trees down that I couldn't even see the road, which was flooded waist-deep in sea water. So I went back to where a narrow back road to Galleon Bay took off through the trees and parked the van. I had ridden it on my bike in better weather and knew the circuitous, tree-lined route well, I thought.

As soon as I began walking, I knew it would be a challenge. Wading knee to waist deep while climbing over or through downed casuarina trees was work. And the clock was running. I had heard the day before that the eye was about 20 miles wide. At 15 miles per hour, I should have over an hour before the wind started again. I thought I could make it, but I wasn't sure - I really didn't know what lay ahead. I tried to hurry, scrambling over one tree and under the next, but it was slow going and a bit bloody as my bare legs caught on stubs of broken branches. I wondered if any sharks had come ashore with the moving sea.

The roads and several intersections on the route were completely covered by downed trees, and the ground was covered by water. There was no path through the trees as there had been the day before because all the trees were down. It was almost impossible to see the way and I made several false turns. Finally I reached the home stretch, a strip of sandy road where the water began to get shallow as I approached my house. That sand was a good sign. It meant dry ground ahead. As I rounded the last bend in the road, I breathed a sigh of relief, the little house was high and dry. Closer inspection showed the water had covered the floor, but only about two inches. Of more concern was the forest of casuarina trees resting on the roof. I knew they should come off to prevent further damage, but there wasn't time, so I resolved to be back at first light to get after them with my chain saw.

The dinghy was OK too, but leaning crazily half- off the dock where it had landed when the water went down. So I untangled the lines and coaxed it into the water, then secured it fore and aft. Looking across the lagoon, I saw the Blue Runner, a large outboard that had been moored and tied to dock and trees when I left, sitting fully onshore with its bow protruding a few feet off the seawall. Amazing! But the most amazing part was yet to come....

After checking further and concluding little harm had been done so far, I reluctantly left. The calm of the eye was deceiving, I had learned as a boy growing up on Florida's west coast, and I knew I had to get moving if I was to make it out before the tempest resumed. I decided to try my luck on Windward Beach Road, instead of the back way I had come. Maybe it wasn't as much of a casuarina tangle. Wishful thinking.

For the moment, there was no wind at all. It was a dead calm. As I started up the road past Jerry Roberts' house, I felt strangely alone. There was not a sound. Not a bird, no surf, not even the hum of a mosquito in my ear. Suddenly, I heard the sound of something running up behind me and I turned to see a neighbour's puppy bounding up. He was so glad to see a human -any human - that he greeted me like his best friend. I was afraid he was going to follow me, but when I re-entered the water, he decided his home offered a better deal, even with no humans. The only other living creature I saw on the whole trip was a lone dove sitting on the ground. I passed within two feet. Sitting forlornly by the road, it couldn't fly as it was stripped of half its feathers and the other half was soaked. I wished him luck and was alone again, wading through water that got deeper with each step.

I passed deserted homes that could have been deathtraps had their owners stayed there. House after house was open to the elements, with doors, windows and walls blasted out by the wind and sea. The road was covered by trees that served as dams, creating logjams of debris that floated everywhere. If it looked like this now, I thought, what would the second half of Floyd bring?

I climbed over and through tree after tree, trying to hurry but cautious lest I sprain or break something. I knew I would be in a real fix if I couldn't make it out of there. Finally reaching the intersection of Windward Beach and Ocean Boulevard, I marvelled at how foreign and forbidding such a familiar place had become. I walked the short distance to the van, reaching it even as the wind began to pick up substantially. It didn't take long. Soon it was the same banshee as before, but howling from the south rather than the north.

As I drove back to the Frederick house, I thought about all the Abaco communities scattered along shorelines to the north and south of Treasure Cay. If Windward Beach, in the lee of the storm so far, had been so devastated, there could be no safe haven on the whole island. Revelations of the next few days bore out my speculation.

Barbara, as usual, proved as innovative as she is generous and gracious. Using an old propane stove Sinclair had removed from his old steel Fair Passage before selling it earlier this year, she prepared a candlelight feast amidst Floyd's din and we spent the evening with good friends, food and drink. After a while, Floyd seemed far away indeed...

But morning brought reality, and it was incredible. The roof of the house owned by Francis and Genevieve, a French couple across the street, had come off in one piece. Constructed of 3"x 6" beams covered with tongue & groove pine (very heavy), it had flown at least 50' out into the street, where it quite effectively closed it off.

After helping clear some of the trees and debris in the area, and forced to drive across one yard to get out, I was anxious to see what additional havoc had been wrought at my place. Following the same routine as my trip the day before, I parked near Cornish House and started the long walk in. It was easier this time, because the water was down to ankle deep or so, although I still had to play monkey through the horizontal casuarinas. When I reached the house, I realised we had dodged a bullet - the water was down to a normal high tide and the house appeared undamaged, but for seven or eight large trees (casuarinas, of course) on the roof.

I had carried a small chain saw with me from Colorado (drove the DIA security weenies nuts) and now was the time to try it. Too small for the job, it nonetheless ran and cut wood, if slowly. Except for my saw, there was not a sound. No boats, not the throb of a diesel or whine of an outboard and no cars, not even a Bahamian mockingbird or barking potcake. It seemed as if the whole world was on hold, waiting for whatever might happen next. But the storm was over. It was time now to rebuild, albeit a challenge with no power, water or communications.

During one of many pauses in the sound of my balky chain saw, I thought I heard another one. Yes...in the distance, like the familiar voice of another human, I heard the unmistakable whine of another chain saw. Someone was clearing the road. Before long, my neighbour Steve Russell, accompanied by half a dozen helpers, strode up, big Stihl saw in hand, cutting and tossing casuarina trunks and limbs aside like firewood. At least the back road to Windward Beach would be open soon. It would take another two weeks before the main road was cleared.

The next two days were filled with cutting trees - some to clear the roads, others to clear my roof. With blistered hands and overworked saw, I still realised how lucky we had been. Only a couple of inches of water had entered the house, ruining appliances, but not the structure. Our former residence in Royal Palm condos was facing reconstruction. It, and all the other condos on Brigantine Canal, had been flooded high on their walls. Electric power could not be restored until the saltwater-soaked outlets and wiring had all been replaced.

For us, it would still be a long time before power was back. All the transformers on Windward Beach road had been submerged by several feet of seawater. I saw them and I doubted their copper windings could be fixed. I also knew how difficult it was to get new ones. My neighbour, Jerry Roberts, and I estimated two to three months at least before power would be restored.

As I write this from my primary home in Colorado, I know that soon Abaco and Treasure Cay will again be the verdant green haven we know and love, although the sandbars and tree lines will be different. But still, the destruction, the natural power that has been displayed here, is a bookmark in the memory of everyone who experienced it. In time, Abaco will be the same again, but the people touched by Floyd will never be the same.