Tropical Storm Irene and the tale of two towns

Sitting in the sand near the gently lapping surf on this sunny Sunday afternoon, it is hard to imagine what it was like here five years ago when Tropical Storm Irene slammed into our coastline.

Most of all, I remember the sounds and the silence…

After listening to the hurricane warnings, my husband and I had anchored our boat to the summer house and secured all my parents’ belongings. They had been there the day before, and my mother had left in tears.

Some of our neighbors had boarded up their windows, and most of the residents had already evacuated. When we drove away, we understood the very real possibility that upon our return, everything might be gone: the summer house destroyed and our yard underwater.

Back at our Massachusetts’ home in the deep woods, we had other worries. Our house sits across the street from a pond and is surrounded by 100-foot pine trees.

When we bought our home, we were amazed that our house was wired to an ancient-looking gasoline-powered generator that sat in the garage. But as soon as we moved in, we realized that it was a necessity. We lost power in good weather, as well as in bad, including once for five days after a snowstorm and after the onslaught of Hurricanes Gloria and Bob.

But then the electric company upgraded our area, and the generator sat unused in the corner of the garage for more than a decade and atrophied, no longer able to generate a spark.

When we finally decided to invest in a new generator, we hired an electrician to bring all the wiring up to code. And there it sat for two years, never tested, and we wondered whether our money would have been better spent on other upgrades around the house.

With the approach of the hurricane, everything changed. The generator was a godsend. We wheeled it out of the garage onto the driveway and filled it with gasoline.

My husband and I awakened early that Sunday morning of the storm and went to the early service. As the wind whistled around the country church and the rain splattered the stained-glass windows, I read the words of the Prophet Jeremiah:

“I say to myself, I will not mention Him, / I will speak his name no more. / But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, / imprisoned in my bones; / I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.”

Tropical Storm Irene was barreling up our coastline. God help us.

Back at home, we heard the sounds of the wind ripping through the woods, felling limbs and tossing them everywhere. The power kept blinking on and off, but after a half hour in the darkness, my husband pulled the cord on the generator and switched the electrical box over to emergency power. The refrigerator started to hum and the lights flickered.

It wasn’t long before we learned that a tree had fallen on our next-door neighbor’s home. A short way up the street, a massive tree had toppled taking with it all the power, cable and telephone lines.

I called my parents. The apple tree that had graced their front yard ever since they bought the property in 1947 had just split in half.

As soon as the tropical storm passed, my son drove to Fogland. Unbelievably, the summer house had survived intact, and all the trees were still standing.

In the evening we unplugged. The windows were open, and we heard sporadic gusts of wind; but without the buzz of household appliances, it was eerily quiet. I lit three candles and placed them around the room.

For my birthday, my family had bought me a new e-reader. Long into the night, I read the battery-powered Nook, the LED screen the only beacon of light in a world of darkness.

As I drifted off to sleep that night five years ago, I thought about how vulnerable we all are. But I knew then, as I know now, that whenever we speak His name, we are never alone. We always have back-up. 

Sea change

Early April, a month before we open the summer house for the season, and three to four inches of snow are expected with winds gusting to 33 miles per hour, according to the National Weather Service.

No matter the season, folks who live by the sea, respect the river in fair and rough weather.

We know better.

I knew an elderly gentleman, an officer in the Coast Guard Auxiliary, who assisted on weekend patrols in Mount Hope Bay and the Sakonnet River.

In the 1930s his family converted a small fisherman’s shack along Sakonnet Point into a summer cottage.

Coming of age there, he often sailed around the lighthouse or paddled his canoe up and down the coast, edging his way around the many boats in the fishing fleet.

He worked at The Fo’c’s’le, a popular seaside tourist spot, opening quahogs, shelling lobsters and peeling potatoes.

Then the 1938 hurricane struck without warning.

“We lost the house, and I almost lost my father,” he told me. “He was washed out to sea from Sakonnet Point all the way down to Taylor’s Lane. He watched five people drown, and he couldn’t save them. He had cracked ribs and was bruised all over, but he came out alive.”

Fifty homes in his Sakonnet Point neighborhood were destroyed.

It is the start of another season at Fogland, and I spy new construction dotting the lush green landscape that hugs the coastline. These homes are ideally situated and offer spectacular views, but many are at risk.

Scripture warns about the foolish man who built his house on sandy ground.

“The rains fell, the torrents came, the winds blew and lashed against his house. It collapsed under all this and was completely ruined.”

When my parents bought their Fogland parcel of land in the winter of 1969, they learned that their neighbor’s cottage had been beachfront property. Fifteen years earlier, Hurricane Carol had dragged it to its current site, three streets from the water’s edge.

In 1991, Hurricane Bob made landfall over Newport. When the water receded, one of the rental cottages along our beach had been torn from its foundation and set down in the middle of the salt marsh.

These days I marvel at the incredible beachfront homes that are constructed along the Sakonnet. With their multi-million-dollar price tags, they are indeed lovely to behold. Flood insurance protects the property and its contents, and in the event of a catastrophic hurricane, the house can be rebuilt and furnishings replaced.

Yet those who live by the sea have the deepest respect for their fickle neighbor. They cherish the calm demeanor and tranquility of their fair-weather friend, but they also know when it is agitated, slamming surf and kicking up sand, it’s time to get to higher ground.

The calm after the storm

Rising at the crack of dawn, my husband kisses me goodbye before heading out the door to go fishing. I awake hours later with sunshine streaming through the windows.

It is the last weekend at the summer house before the unofficial end of summer, and it is blissful.

I have a long list of things to do: walk the beach slowly, look for sea glass, sit on a boulder, draw in the sand, watch the tidal flush in the estuary, read under the maple tree, stop and smell the flowers …

What a difference a year makes.

This morning Tropical Storm Isaac swept across Haiti and a hurricane warning is in effect for the west coast of Florida.

We know what they are going through.

A year ago on the day before the arrival of Hurricane Irene, my husband and I drove to Rhode Island with heavy hearts. We anchored our boat to the summer house, flipped the picnic table, and secured all my parents’ belongings. My mother left the place in tears.

Some of our neighbors had boarded up their windows, and most of the residents had evacuated.

When we drove away, we understood the very real possibility that upon our return everything might be gone: the beach house destroyed and our yard underwater.

Back at our Massachusetts’ home in the deep woods, we had other worries. Our house sits across from a pond and is surrounded by 100-foot pine trees.

My husband and I went to church on that Sunday morning while the wind whistled and the rain splattered the stained-glass windows.

Hurricane Irene was barreling up our coastline. God help us.

Back at home, we heard the sounds of the wind ripping through the woods, felling limbs and tossing them everywhere.

It wasn’t long before we learned that a tree had fallen on our next-door neighbor’s home shattering their skylight. A short way up the street, a massive tree had toppled taking with it all the power, cable and telephone lines.

I called my parents. The apple tree that had graced their front yard ever since they bought the property in 1947 had just split in half.

As soon as the tropical storm passed, my son drove to Tiverton. Unbelievably, the summer house had survived intact.

A year later, Irene’s fury is a distant memory. The Sakonnet River lightly taps the shore while gentle winds blow.

I look at my list – so much to do, so little time.