Hurricane Patricia's lingered just outside my front door. Her misgiving path intensified hastily; leading her closer and causing more uncertainty about our decision to hunker down and ride the storm out, at home. This was our first hurricane with potential for a direct hit...nonetheless, the strongest hurricane on record.
This particular morning, I did not master the art of waiting patiently; nor for that matter, the art of keeping my fuckin' cool. A neighbor's response to us choosing not to evacuate was the first time I cried. I went home and snuggled into Sam who was still asleep, waking him and telling him my fears. Not necessarily my angst over not leaving; the fear of the unknown, the waiting. What do 200 mph winds look like? Will our tiny cement 'casita' keep me safe? The dogs...how do I protect the dogs. I pulled my shit together and went down to check in with Tiana and Ryan...our dear friends who were visiting at the time. We all felt confident in the latest NOAA reports and decided we would do everything possible to prepare the house for a potential hit.
Several neighbors stayed behind. We continually checked in with each other to offer physical help (digging canals around the patio to prevent water from entering through the house, lifting air conditioning units out of windows, removing loose bamboo from a car port). We confirmed strategies and gave suggestions (bolt your gas tank and air conditioner units down) and most importantly provided emotional support (a round of hugs the second time I cried and the optimistic reinsurance we would gather tomorrow to eat carne asada around the pool).
The morning became afternoon. Our minds were set on 4:00, the estimated time of the storms arrival. We worked. We cooked meals, but did not eat. We continued to check weather reports and review our emergency plans. E-mails of concern continued to roll in.
The closer the storm got, the more I pleaded with mother nature for her goodwill.
"Please do not let us be the recipients of your fierce destruction. Turn, please. Turn," I begged repeatedly in my head. I am sure I was not the only one.
This particular morning, I did not master the art of waiting patiently; nor for that matter, the art of keeping my fuckin' cool. A neighbor's response to us choosing not to evacuate was the first time I cried. I went home and snuggled into Sam who was still asleep, waking him and telling him my fears. Not necessarily my angst over not leaving; the fear of the unknown, the waiting. What do 200 mph winds look like? Will our tiny cement 'casita' keep me safe? The dogs...how do I protect the dogs. I pulled my shit together and went down to check in with Tiana and Ryan...our dear friends who were visiting at the time. We all felt confident in the latest NOAA reports and decided we would do everything possible to prepare the house for a potential hit.
Several neighbors stayed behind. We continually checked in with each other to offer physical help (digging canals around the patio to prevent water from entering through the house, lifting air conditioning units out of windows, removing loose bamboo from a car port). We confirmed strategies and gave suggestions (bolt your gas tank and air conditioner units down) and most importantly provided emotional support (a round of hugs the second time I cried and the optimistic reinsurance we would gather tomorrow to eat carne asada around the pool).
The morning became afternoon. Our minds were set on 4:00, the estimated time of the storms arrival. We worked. We cooked meals, but did not eat. We continued to check weather reports and review our emergency plans. E-mails of concern continued to roll in.
The closer the storm got, the more I pleaded with mother nature for her goodwill.
"Please do not let us be the recipients of your fierce destruction. Turn, please. Turn," I begged repeatedly in my head. I am sure I was not the only one.
Our families knew the potential for communication could be lost for many days. The government notified the residents of the Bay of Banderas the power would be cut at 2:00 p.m. Our families and friends stayed calm during our phone calls; gave us support, trusted our preparations and emergency plans (or at least doing a really damn good job of pretending) and reassured us with their blind faith all would be ok. Deep down we all knew that wherever the storm struck, it would not be ok.
There was nothing else we could possibly do. We took a walk. We attempted to play cards. We enjoyed each other's company.
The more I urged Patricia to change paths, I grew eerily aware of the consequences of these wishes. The storm eventually made landfall about 100 miles to our south. The relief I felt was coupled with guilt. Over the next few days I grew disturbed by the remarks on social media implying the gift of mercy we had received and the underlying tone that the people of Puerto Vallarta must be more worth saving and protecting. "Somebody must be doing something right and living a good life", said a neighbor the day after the storm brutally pounded the coastline. While I would like to believe this righteous Puerto Vallarta saving soul to be myself, I cringed and attempted a smile. The storm passed and Puerto Vallarta was unscathed. What fucking luck {for us}.
Although we still braced for hurricane force winds, we briefly celebrated our fortune. Cards of Humanity came out and so did my first margarita. As the winds continued to downsize and the mighty Sierra Madre mountains shielded us from harm, the tequila flowed. New dance moves emerged....and the 'Flutterfly' blew our minds.
We went to bed physically and emotionally drained. The 1 a.m weather report tucked us into bed with more hope for weakened winds....now forecasted at tropical storm force winds.
I awoke like many others in the Bay of Banderas with a little hangover and a big sense of relief. The wind had knocked off one plumeria flower and the rain had lightly fallen from the sky. Thank you, lady luck.
After a day so gut wrenching and worrisome, there is nothing better than sipping your morning coffee with loved ones and hearing your neighbor cheerfully yelling 'Buenos Dias' see you at the pool for a carne asada at 3, as she passed by for her morning walk.
There was nothing else we could possibly do. We took a walk. We attempted to play cards. We enjoyed each other's company.
The more I urged Patricia to change paths, I grew eerily aware of the consequences of these wishes. The storm eventually made landfall about 100 miles to our south. The relief I felt was coupled with guilt. Over the next few days I grew disturbed by the remarks on social media implying the gift of mercy we had received and the underlying tone that the people of Puerto Vallarta must be more worth saving and protecting. "Somebody must be doing something right and living a good life", said a neighbor the day after the storm brutally pounded the coastline. While I would like to believe this righteous Puerto Vallarta saving soul to be myself, I cringed and attempted a smile. The storm passed and Puerto Vallarta was unscathed. What fucking luck {for us}.
Although we still braced for hurricane force winds, we briefly celebrated our fortune. Cards of Humanity came out and so did my first margarita. As the winds continued to downsize and the mighty Sierra Madre mountains shielded us from harm, the tequila flowed. New dance moves emerged....and the 'Flutterfly' blew our minds.
We went to bed physically and emotionally drained. The 1 a.m weather report tucked us into bed with more hope for weakened winds....now forecasted at tropical storm force winds.
I awoke like many others in the Bay of Banderas with a little hangover and a big sense of relief. The wind had knocked off one plumeria flower and the rain had lightly fallen from the sky. Thank you, lady luck.
After a day so gut wrenching and worrisome, there is nothing better than sipping your morning coffee with loved ones and hearing your neighbor cheerfully yelling 'Buenos Dias' see you at the pool for a carne asada at 3, as she passed by for her morning walk.
