Tuesday, July 20, 2010

I Thought Hurricane Season was Over

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