20 Years Later - Hugo Remembered

[David Low]

HUGO: THE WINDS OF CHANGEHugo changed my life. "Hugo", the name itself unpretentious, unassuming, and innocuous, has been etched indelibly upon my brain. There have been other hurricanes - David, Frederick, Gilbert, and even Carol - plus many more I have long since forgotten. However, I will never forget Hugo, for I met him personally.On Sunday, September 17, 1989, the National Weather Service declared Hugo a Category V hurricane. Hurricanes are defined as tropical storms rotating around a central "eye" with sustained winds of over 85 miles per hour. They are divided into five categories, or classes, depending upon their wind speed and their expected destructive capabilities. Category I hurricanes are the mildest and can do damage to small trees and light structures. Storms classified as Category V have sustained winds of over 150 miles per hour and can cause almost total devastation to any structure or obstacle in its path. Hugo was heading directly towards my home on St. Croix, Virgin Islands, with winds of over 230 miles per hour. The expected time of arrival for the leading edge of the storm was around 8:00 p.m.My wife, Sharon, and I were ready for the storm. We had been through many hurricane warnings and one more was, simply, one more. We knew what preparations were expected of us. By 12:00 noon we had packed our requisite food and extra clothing into a waterproof bag, had closed the hurricane shutters on our house, had turned off the gas line to the house, and had performed countless other "trivial" necessities. Sharon and I also had an escape plan mapped out for our two children and ourselves just in case something happened to our home. If needed, we would run about one hundred yards across the street and take refuge in our neighbor's underground apartment. We were ready. After all, we had prepared many times before, then, just as expertly, "unprepared" the following day after the warning had been canceled.Around 6:00 p.m., Sharon and I stood outside and marveled at the beautiful sunset over the ocean. The fading rays of the sun illuminated and highlighted the storm clouds approaching from the east. The plethora of hues, their myriad of nuances vibrant and dynamic, filled the horizon with majestic beauty and splendor.The air was alive, its breath strong and sweet. The wind, refreshing and cool, caressed the island with cathartic thoroughness. The cool summer breeze blowing in my face was invigorating, cleansing, and exciting - like racing along a coastal highway in a sporty convertible.We put the children to sleep on the living room couch at 8:00 p.m. and settled in beside them for a long and exciting night. Sharon and I both stayed awake, awed by the immensity of Mother Nature's power and majesty.The first tree fell with a loud cracking noise followed by a final "thud" as it hit the ground. We grabbed the flashlight and ran outside to see exactly what had happened. The fallen tree was a mahogany, at least two feet in diameter and about thirty feet tall. Sharon and I looked at each other with mutual concern. We both begrudgingly began to realize and to respect the awesome forces that were encompassing and besieging our island home. With that respect came a dawning realization that everything we truly cherished on the earth was at stake that night in our battle with Hugo. We were in a fight for our lives and the lives of our children. It was 10:30 p.m.After the tree had fallen, the wind began to howl. Not metaphorically, but rather, it literally began to scream. I remember, and will never forget, the noise. The noise, with its ubiquitous roar, began as a subdued murmur and crescendoed steadily and continuously until it sounded like a fleet of 747 jets in our back yard. The noise - permeating, suffocating, entombing, and eternal - could not be squelched or muted. The noise, ferocious in its shrieks and its cries of impending doom and destruction, was deafening. The noise refused to be denied. The noise was Hugo's herald, announcing his presence and demanding subjection.Every five to ten minutes (each minute of that tortuous night seeming to take hours), I walked around inside the house with a flashlight inspecting the panels on the ceiling, looking for cracks or leaks. The house was creaking and moaning from the relentless assault upon every inch of its structure. The wind, persistent in its attack and undaunted in its strength, battered continuously, seeking an advantage wherever possible. One of the embattled shutters broke on its hinges and banged unmercifully upon the outside wall. Its erratic staccato pounding added its voice to the devilish symphony being orchestrated and conducted by "Maestro Hugo".Suddenly it happened - tranquility. The time was about 12:30 in the morning. Stillness. Glorious quiet. Pervasive, unnerving, unsettling, ominous silence. I had heard about the eye of a hurricane, and even read essays and stories romanticizing and extolling the virtues of living in the "eye of the storm". I succumbed to Hugo's subtle respite and told my wife she could go to sleep now. The worst was over, the kids were safe, the house was intact, and all was well. Little did I know that Hugo had not yet finished the game!Without warning and without fanfare, the roar and the winds commenced anew. Hugo returned, not gradually nor gracefully, but with venomous viciousness and ferocity. The eye had passed and his vortex of destruction was vying for victory in the endgame to come. The winds blew, not from the northeast as before, but, from the southwest. It slammed into our already weakened house with renewed vigor and savagery. The time was exactly 12:56 a.m. when the living room roof blew off (I know because the quartz clock that had been on our wall stopped, a victim and a reminder of Hugo's fury). Only minutes before, all was quiet. The next, we were being battered and soaked by the elements and the raw power of nature - exposed from above to the winds and the rains.Sharon and I grabbed our kids, who had been asleep until this time (amazing!). We ran into the back bedroom on the other side of the house. That part of the roof was still intact, but we were not going to take any more chances – it was already starting to weaken. We wrapped the children in blankets and decided to implement our plan by running across the street. We staggered to the front door at the same time the bedroom roof vanished into oblivion. We forced open the door fully intent upon running for our lives; however, Hugo had other plans.We were slammed against the doorjambs and stunned by the violence. It all happened so fast. Winds of 230 miles per hour are unfathomably intense. Imagine a car traveling over 100 miles per hour with the windows down. Then, imagine the force of the wind against a hand thrust out of the window. Hugo was moving 230 miles per hour and had already claimed the protection of our house as a victim of his fury."We can't make it across," I yelled, my voice barely audible in my own ears."The baby, the baby - grab the baby!" I heard Sharon shouting from another dimension.I looked up and to my horror, Jason, our three-month-old baby, was flying. Had it not been such an intense moment, I probably would have started laughing. He looked like Superman, his arms and legs straight out and his body suspended in air. Miraculously, Sharon was clutching his shirt and pants. I was holding Christopher, three years old, and somehow helped Sharon to grab and to secure Jason in her arms."We'll never make it across the street,” I yelled again. " Let's get into the car.”Our car, a 1984 Nissan Sentra, was parked ten feet away at the bottom of the steps, a monumental distance, but just as compelling as the Holy Grail. We had to go; we had no other choice. Despite the confusion, we remembered that the car doors were locked. We frantically began to look for the keys."Keys, give me keys!""Don't have them!""Where?”"Bag, find them!"Speech was almost useless. Hugo, vying for supremacy of all of our senses, did not want to relinquish control. We found Sharon's bag amid the mounting chaos and desperately located her keys by dumping the entire contents of the bag onto the flooded floor.I ran down the steps with Christopher and had to remove a large piece of aluminum siding that had blown against the car doors. Then I unlocked the front door and threw Christopher onto the seat, telling him I would be right back. I ran back up the stairs, took Jason, and led Sharon down and into the car. It was 1:30 a.m.For the next five hours, time became an idiomatic cliché. "It seemed to stand still like molasses in January and moved at a snail's pace."The roaring and screaming of the tempest was unremitting, sounding like a band of banshees bewailing warnings of horrors yet to come. The car was pummeled and battered by the indiscriminate and insatiable sirocco seeking unequivocal havoc and mayhem.Sharon, Christopher, Jason, and I sat together in our little Nissan Sentra, huddled together in unity. We prayed together. We sang together. We talked together. We hugged together. We believed together. For five arduously long hours, we were together, together, against the holocaust of nature and its purging pursuit of anything and anyone who dared to challenge. Outside our little sanctuary, Hugo ravaged and plundered St. Croix.At 6:30 a.m., Monday, September 18, 1989, the sun began to rise, announcing the start of a new beginning. The winds, having unleashed their anger for almost twelve hours, began to subside. Hugo had visited and I will never forget him. I had my life, and I had my wife, and I had Christopher, and I had Jason. We were alive. We had won!

[John Richeson]

I think I saw a statistic which said that like....95% of all hurricane deaths are from drowning.
That freakin storm surge is an incredible force too. Water is so powerful.

[Kevin Nye]

"Memories are good things to have. They mold us into what we are today. Hugo is a reminder of the important things in life -- God, family and life".

When you say "memories", in this case you are thinking of a memory where danger abounded on every hand. I think this way too when I am out moose or deer hunting where huge brown bears live in great number and every year, someone gets mauled and killed. I think about God, Family, and Life, and I always think of that statement on the "green card": "Makes Life Meaningful"...

And David and Sharon, Blue and Deb are on Facebook, If you are on there. Look up the name "Deb Bergmann" and ye shall find.

And concerning the bath tub thing. Well, for them, the bath tub was the right thing, and for you all the car was the right thing. Unfortunately, the cistern was the wrong thing for those poor folks who drowned. And David, did you all keep "guppies" in your cistern to eat mosquito larvae? My brother had them in his cistern when I lived with him on St. John. Fancy tailed guppies too!

[Billy Williams]

For some reason hurricanes and tropical weather are a great interest of mine, even though I obviously never have to warn for them in South Dakota (tornadoes are enough here).

In either event, bathtubs or bathrooms are considered safe than other places because they are often interior, and the pipes add to the reinforcement. But of course the roof falling in is a different story. Maybe you had some help there...

[David Low]

John and Kevin thanks for your thoughts. The subtle thing about hurricanes is that you are aware of them for many days in advance, just not their exact path. St Croix had not had a direct hit for over 70 years, so as with most adventures, people were joking and kidding while going about all the preparations -- many had hurricane parties planned. While living in the islands, we had endured countless hurricane warnings and watches and this was just one more of many. There was no evacuation plan cuz there's no where to hide on an 84 square mile island. For all the devastation (85 - 95 % damage) only a few people were killed and only because they hid in their underground cistern and were drowned. Everyone else hid where they needed to be at the time. Kevin, I'm glad we didn't even think about hiding in our bathtub, because that's the one place in the house that the roof fell in. Many others had their cars smashed, so our refuge wouldn't have worked for them.

Memories are good things to have. They mold us into what we are today. Hugo is a reminder of the important things in life -- God, family and life. When it comes down to it, material things rank very low in the hierarchy of life's valuables.

Kevin give our regards to Blue and Deb they are truly wonderful people.

[Kevin Nye]

Wow! Like John said, what a story! My oldest brother, Chris Nye, lived through Hugo over on St Thomas, USVI. He lives neqar a place called "Red Hook".Their home is made of concrete block, so, he put his wife and little daughter in the bathtub during the worst of it, put a mattress over them, then a piece of plywood on the mattress and then he lay exposed on top of the plywood to protect them. Miraculously, they made out without any injuries. Chris refers to that as the worst hurricane he ever went through. I wonder what kind of roof they had? And now, I will have to ask him if his roof blew off also, for, I forget the details of his story. Man David, that must certainly have been horrific! Thank God you had/have Him to look to and pray too..

And hey, regards to Sharon, and, didn't you two know Blue and Deb Bergmann when they had the Island Fudge Company in Charlotte Amalie? They are here in Juneau and we see them all of the time...

[John Richeson]

Wow! What a great story David. You ought to be a writer. I never knew you went through Hugo directly.

Having lived here in Florida for 30 years I can relate to your story. Though I was never in a direct path, we have seen the power of a hurricane even being in its fringes. There was the horrible Andrew in 1992 that wiped out part of South Florida. I saw some of its path afterwards when we went there for a job. One thing that amazed me were the street signs that were literally flat. Also trees were not just broken off they were gone. Big ones. Best way I know to describe a hurricane is that it is like a giant, very wide, slow moving tornado with storm surge flooding.

Here's a video of that devil, Hugo. If you skip ahead to the footage about halfway you can hear the high shrieking sound he made as you described. I am glad God protected you and your family, David. I hope this does not bring back too many bad memories.