Part 3: Hurricane Georges Arrives
Monday morning, we all woke up around 0630 to a whining and keening wind, but only moderate gusts. The skies are gray, but no rain yet. Around 0700, the power went off, but the Moorings generator kicked in almost immediately. We threw clothes on and headed for the bar to see what was going on. Breakfast would be served at 8:30, so we strolled the docks. Every now and then, a gust of wind blew through. Breakfast was eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, cereal and juice. Following breakfast, we stood around the breakwater and watched increasing waves wash over it and into the suites at the end of the hotel. We couldn't resist watching and wondering when the full onslaught would arrive. Around 10, T and I picked up box lunches and then returned to water's edge for a bit longer. By now, spray was coating us and boats were really rocking. Captain Rick decided it was time to take shelter.
We pulled chairs onto our balcony to watch the storm. As we were seemingly in the northern portion of the storm (at least for now), the winds were coming from the east, so we were safe and protected on our west-facing balconies. We carried on a dialogue with our neighbors, Halcyon II on the right, and Tacks Shelter on our left. Fierce gusts are now rolling in regularly, with the sound of a freight train. The freight train is accompanied by a cacophony of clanging halyards. The noise during gusts is deafening, and the main event is still a few hours away.
The storm begins in earnest around 1130. We started eating our lunches on the balcony around then, and the fierce gusts become too steady to leave the chairs and ourselves out on the balcony in comfort. Nevertheless, the balcony is a relatively comfortable (especially since we have no AC in the room) perch from which to observe the progress of Georges, despite the dangerously rain-slicked ceramic tile. The balcony has a deep overhang, and even though the roar and shriek of the wind is deafening, and the rain is driving, we have a good measure of protection.
Meanwhile, our other door and bathroom window face east. We have placed towels on the floor near the door to keep out the wind-driven water, even borrowed duct tape from Tacks Shelter, and yet the unrelenting wind drives the rain around the tape and into the room. Every now and then, we wring out the towels. We keep the bathroom window open, to equalize pressure. It keeps a steady breeze flowing, as well as lots of moisture. We have tried to fill the tub with water as a contingency to flush the toilet, but we have a defective drain which we are unable to keep closed. It turns out to be unnecessary anyway.
Throughout all of this, we try to entertain ourselves. Occasional visits to the balcony assure us that Georges is still here. The maddening itch of my many mosquito bites reminds me that I am in the islands and drives me to take some Benadryl to ease the itch, but also makes me doze away part of the afternoon and sleep through the height of the storm. We listen to Georges' progress on the radio via St. Croix, about 30 miles southwest of us. Midafternoon, the station we are listening to cuts off, just as the announcer is telling his family he loves them and expresses concern about the roof he is (or was) then under. We are forced to find another station.
Miraculously, we still have generator-supplied power, and receive incoming phone calls. We read, eat, and play games. Jeff braids, twists, pins, tucks and otherwise tortures T's hair. We try to play an 80s music trivia game, but are not particularly successful. Despite our efforts and the ferocity of the storm, we are getting cabin fever.
Later in the afternoon, we find out that Moorings has agreed to sell liquor at the bar beginning at 1830, to be followed by dinner. We're surprised they would even attempt it; the storm still rages on and conditions are rough. But, the urge to get outside is overpowering, so we get dressed in windbreakers and raincoats and go outside to the bar and restaurant. Generator power is still on and lights our way, but also illuminates debris and damage. Trees are uprooted, palm trees are downed, dinghys are sunk. The pool is full to the rim with patio furniture, leaves and the remains of trees. The wind continues to roar through the pool area. Water stands everywhere, and we estimate that the storm will continue for many hours more, though by 2100. the noise level decreases noticeably (this is relative, of course; it's still awfully loud).
We enjoy a reunion with our Norwegian friends from Brigada and buy rounds of beer. I'm getting full of beer and silly. We take pictures and make funny poses. Jeff runs out to Braveheart, which seems to have weathered the worst of the storm well, though Graham tells us it will be Wednesday before any boats go out again because seas will be too choppy. Dinner is served and we applaud our valiant cooks, servers and bartenders, who are working on a voluntary basis. After eating, all I want to do is sleep. I'm not sure I can face seeing all of the damage in the daylight tomorrow.
It seems like the wind finally started to die down around 4 a.m on Tuesday, and by 0600, the noise of chain saws is what wakes me up. It's still very cloudy and gusty, with passing showers, but Georges is now behind us.
We survey the damage. Many shingles are gone, with piles of debris everywhere. Boats are damaged, some heartbreakingly so, but most of the Moorings fleet is intact, including Braveheart. Would we sail today? Graham was holding a briefing at 0900, after a breakfast of eggs and pancakes, the last meal the Moorings would be providing at no expense.
Graham tells us its OK to go out today, but we can't count on channel markers and moorings being secure or in their proper places. Provisioning would take patience, as they are working with less than full staff. Most other establishments are closed, but Bitter End is open. We could no longer stay in the hotel at the Moorings' expense, but could now stay on our yachts.
