My friends at UVA honored Hurricane Isabel on September 18, 2003, by drinking Hurricane 40s. Their apartments were flooding, but they were too drunk to care. I observed Isabel in the ER from a fever, since I was still recovering from my bone marrow transplant. I was sent home at midnight, shortly after the worst of the storm. My dad drove us down the leaf-covered roads, dodging small trees. There was a downed tree on our street, and we had to walk the rest of the way.

Our house stood at the bottom of a 700-foot hill. Towering trees lined the street on both sides. With a small flashlight, the two of us slowly crept down the dark, wet concrete. The wind howled and the stinging rain punished our faces. We could only see a few feet ahead. Suddenly, we heard the crash of a tree falling. How close was it? Were we in danger?

“We have to get out of here,” I whispered to myself.

Halfway down the street, we reached the behemoth. My dad lifted small branches as I crossed over. Two more trees collapsed around us. We made it home, which had lost electricity, and went to sleep as the wind pounded against the bricks.

Related story:
Quarter Mile of Shit