With Hurricane Delta and Tropical Depression Gamma recently hitting Cancun, I was reminded of my own evacuation from nearby Puerto Morelos during Hurricane Wilma in 2005, mere weeks after devastating Hurricane Katrina pummeled New Orleans.
"Hotel Eden is closed," Nety, the owner of the no-frills cement block structure said. "No rooms. We're evacuating our employees. Puerto Morelos could be point zero—again."
"But I have a reservation. Eden made it through Gilberto in 1988," I protested, well aware I might as well be talking to the whistling wind outside. "You know it can take a hit and you're four blocks from the beach. Wilma's surge will never come this far. We can't stay in our house—it's on the water, and we don't want to leave the area. It's always hard to get back after a storm." She shook her head. "Too risky, plus the mangroves behind us could rise a meter or two."
Where to go? It was 8 a.m. on October 21. Our house was on the ocean in Puerto Morelos south of Cancun and although we'd braved out Hurricane Emily in July, a category four storm, Emily had been dry with little rain and not expected to hit Puerto Morelos. Wilma, by contrast, was dropping lots of rain on the Caymans three hundred miles south as it lumbered slowly north at three mph. It wasn't expected to reach Cancun until late that night. But if we had to go to Cancun for shelter, we'd have to leave soon to find a hotel still taking guests. In Cancun, hurricanes were serious business and evacuations were issued well in advance, especially when tourists were concerned.
DECISION TIME
"Gotta head out. Eden's closed," I told Paul, my husband, as I rounded up the cat, my laptop, a few days' clothes, food, and water, after my failed trip. "Once you're done, we'll leave." Paul had been busy for days making the house hurricane ready—boarding windows with plywood, tying palm trees to each other, hoping they wouldn't break off when winds reached top force. When you live on the beach during hurricane season, "oceanfront" takes on a whole new meaning.
This storm had gone from an mediocre category one to a life-threatening cat five overnight. It would become the fastest strengthening storm on record, with top sustained winds increasing to 105 mph in just 24-hours. The waves had just started to hit our beefy twelve-foot above and twelve-foot below ground seawall, set back 120 feet from the tide line. It was decision time. Hurricane Wilma was the twentieth named storm of the season, the worst hurricane on record to date. Lower in barometric pressure at 882 millibars than 1988's deadly Hurricane Gilberto, another cat five that also hit the Yucatán Peninsula. The year 2005 was shaping up as the year with the most hurricanes in history. We were at "W" in October, and the official season wouldn't end until December 1.
We snuck in our eight-year-old milagro gato, or miracle cat as the vet had named him. No cat lives in the jungle for eight years, he'd said. But Max, outdoor-indoor kitty, did, avoiding snakes, dogs, whatever else was lying in wait for a tender morsel of fresh feline.
WAITING FOR WILMA
We checked into the hotel around noon and watched bad tele-novelas until midnight. Occasionally the satellite allowed us a glimpse of CNN International and our future, but that was spotty at best. Mostly it was Mexican TV or nothing, until the electricity went out around 1 a.m. At three I awoke to howling winds. The hotel clerk, a no-nonsense dark-haired woman in her thirties named Nancy had told us the hotel was double-walled, a true bunker, and strong enough to take on a hurricane like Wilma. I felt secure. Paul's second sense had kicked in before we settled on where to park the car after discovering the hotel's lot was full. He chose a spot on a side street where he thought we'd be out of the line of fire if electric poles fell. (His intuition was trusty as ever—an electric pole crushed a car right across the street from ours). When we awoke on Friday, all was dark. With flashlight in hand I went down to the desk where fifteen or so other guests had gathered.
"What's happening with the hurricane?" I asked Nancy.
"No one knows. Our satellite is out and we think the eye is coming soon."
"But it's been hours," I said.
"It may have stalled out."
This is the worst case scenario in hurricane speak and everyone's fear. We later discovered Wilma had crawled across our peninsula for over sixty hours with sustained winds of 150 mph. Destruction in slow-mo, like being whirred inside a blender.
"Where is it now?"
"Maybe over Cozumel? No one knows," Nancy said. "The eye's grown to 35 miles wide. We just have to wait. Oh, and don't use the water; it's almost out."
Great. No electricity and now no water. I wished I'd showered before I hurried downstairs to check on the storm. I watched a perky woman dressed in pink shorts with matching Xcaret cap pull a stylish bag towards the boarded-up front doors where two men made space for her to slip through.
"Where's she going?"
"She thinks she's going to Playa but she'll get stuck in the road. Once you leave, you can't come back in. No in and out privileges," No-nonsense Nancy explained with a determined look.
I paid for another night and went back to the room to report hotel policy to Paul and let him know the restaurant was actually serving breakfast. We thought it best to eat while we still could. Then back up to the room to brood and wait in the dark, for hours. The winds continued to howl, then a strange calm—the eye. But at three miles an hour, it would take ten hours to pass over Cancun. Occasionally we heard crashing noises outside. We hunkered down, petted Max, who'd moved onto the bed with us, and waited.
Occasionally I'd venture into the dark hallway to ask other guests for info. We were all equally clueless. Was it over? What was happening? Had the eye passed? By the third day, always the same response—ask the manager.
No-nonsense Nancy reported that everyone thought the worst had passed. She was waiting for police to come and give a final report. Having lived in Mexico for way too long, I knew that police report could be slow in coming, if at all. I walked up to the boarded front windows and peaked through the slats. Remnants of metal signs were strewn everywhere, electric poles were broken off like toothpicks, trees were ripped up at their roots. Wilma had wreaked havoc. Back up to the room to make a decision—to venture out. We packed up Max and our belongings, retrieved the car and headed out Lopez Portillo, Cancun's crossroads—the line of demarcation between what tourists called Cancun and what locals knew it to be.
As we crawled through areas with water up to our floorboards, we began to see hoards of people moving towards Chedraui Supermaket. The hurricane force winds had ripped a hole in the wall and looters were taking advantage by hauling off food, pampers, beer, soda.
KEEP MOVING
"Gotta move fast through here," Paul said. "Could be a bad scene."
I later heard it was. Police arrived and fired shots into the air, one account, or another that reported shots were fired into the crowd. On Avenida Kabah we traveled two miles, only to be diverted by a water impasse. Back to Tulum Avenue, center of town, treacherously trying to avoid flood waters everywhere. Anyone who's ever been to Cancun knows a slight downpour can clog city streets for hours. Amplify that and we had 60 inches of water in three days to contend with. We crawled past once lovely Plaza las Americas Mall where half of Sears was blown out, the VIP theatre seriously damaged. Hospital of the Americas was wrecked and unsalvageable.
Down to Puerto Morelos, slowly, so slowly on Highway 307. I thought we'd made it until four miles north of Puerto Morelos. Mangroves had breached the highway and fast moving waters crossed the road at nearly three feet—impassable. Fifty cars sat on either side of the highway, facing north and south, playing the waiting game. Water comes in, then it goes out, doesn't it?
THE WAITING GAME
"How long do you think?" I asked the driver in the car ahead of us.
He gave me a tired look. "They say four or five hours till it goes down."
I dragged my way back to the car and gave Paul the bad news. By then it would be nightfall. Now what?
"Should we try the hotel zone?" Paul asked. "All the tourists are gone."
"Okay, why not?" I was game.
We passed the green sign for the hotel zone lying at a forlorn angle on the side of the road. We had no clue as to what damages we'd see in one of the world's trendiest resorts. As we crept along, avoiding high water spots and rubble in the road, we were shocked at the wreckage, and we'd only ventured into the zone four or five kilometers. Almost every hotel window was blown out and large concrete columns lay on the ground blocking entrances. Walls had crumbled, street signs lay mangled on the roads. Trees were missing from a once lush landscape. Three hotel guards simply waved us off. One kind hotel manager extended us the use of his own unit, but without windows, electricity or water. We politely declined.
"We may as well see how the water is doing at Crococun Road," Paul said. The road was named for Crococun Crocodile Zoo, a well-known landmark between Cancun and Puerto Morelos, near where the water had breached the highway. Once there we could see the water was still too high for normal crossing. One entrepreneurial sort with a car carrier was carting vehicles across the watery divide for one hundred US dollars. We'd have gladly paid it, but were on the wrong side of the road and he had a healthy back-up of hopeful clients.
There was no other option except to sleep in the car that night with Max. Damp floorboards were filled with our clothes, a five gallon container of gasoline, food leftovers, an Electropura water bottle, and Max's kitty litter. Creature comforts.
THE GREAT DIVIDE
At 7 a.m. I awoke with the worst crick in my neck since my backpacking days. Paul was already up, mingling with other disgruntled travelers. Then I saw a high-axled vehicle and an idea came like a lightning bolt.
"Paul," I called, immediately awake. "I'm asking him if he'll cart us across. Us and Max."
I ran to the van, perched at the rolling water's edge. It was just a driver and one passenger in a large Suburban. His answer, "Of course."
"Get the cat!" I whooped! "And the computer! We're moving!"
I was in and out of the car in a flash and at the driver's door. He smiled and shook his head when I asked, "Can I please pay you?"
Across the great divide we went, slowly, watching others view our passage.
The Suburban dropped us at Crococun Road, about two miles further south on the highway, the back road to our house, or where we hoped our house would still be. As we gazed down the two-lane road with Max in tow, I gulped. The road was dry for a mere one thousand yards at best. Then— water. Serious water, streaming from the mangroves and racing across and down the blacktop.
"Let's start walking," Paul said. "What else are we gonna do? Go back to that water-logged car with gas fumes, wet floorboards, and Max's kitty litter? I don't think the water's that high."
Our decision was made. As we trudged to the water's edge, a gray SUV drove past, not only ignoring our requests for help but splashing us with mangrove water in his wake. Maybe disasters didn't bring out the best in everyone?
Moments later, along came a Puerto Morelos cab carrying two tourists. The driver rolled down his window as he munched on an apple and pulled to a stop next to us at the water's edge.
"Where are you going?" Paul asked.
"They," he smirked, pointing at the tourists in back, "have reservations at Secrets." Secrets is the new all-inclusive beach resort at the end of the three kilometer road we were on. I doubted the present state of the rooms and property would be up to the back seat tourists' standards.
"Are you driving there? Can we pay you to take us?" I asked.
"No, the water is too high. But it's even worse across from Pemex. I heard it's at least three feet high, all the way to the square."
"How is Puerto Morelos?"
"It's okay. Do you want a ride back to the crossroads?"
"But then what do we do? We'd still be stuck."
He shrugged, more interested in his apple than our future. "Wait for a big rig to take you to town?"
Since Casa Maya, our house, was a kilometer north of town, who knew how bad the roads would be? Would we be stranded trying to get there too?
CROCODILES
I looked at Paul. "Let's walk."
"You'll be eaten by crocodiles," the driver taunted as he nibbled at the core. "They escaped from Crococun."
For a moment Paul and I shared a look. Urban legend or reality bite? "We have to walk," I said, thinking of soaked floorboards, Max's kitty litter box, and the status of our house...in that order.
"You ready?" Paul asked
"We have to see what's happened to our house," I yelled back at the taxista as we started slogging through knee-deep mangrove water.
"Follow the yellow line," Paul said, with Max's container perched high on his shoulder.
"Okay." I kicked off my plastic sandals, a dangerous move, and walked barefoot through murky brown water, trying to think good thoughts.
Forty minutes later we trudged to the edge of Secrets' hotel entrance where three guards and a civilian eyed us as though we were criminals casing the joint. Cat burglars?
"Can't walk on the road," I managed to gasp, thoroughly spent from our water escapade. "Too much water. Can we cut through to the beach? We live here, vescinos. Neighbors."
I could tell they were sizing us up. I was a mess; hadn't showered for three days and my rolled-up jeans were soaked above the knees. They could have turned me away just for lack of general hygiene. Paul, amazingly, didn't look that bad.
"I'll get a guard," the one in civilian clothes shot back. "He can escort you." Maybe it was the fashion police they were calling for?
We took baby steps with our sea legs, happy to be on dry land. At the beach. We smiled at the shy guard who let us out the gate. We were on our beach! Now, would we have a house? Or would Wilma have claimed another for her own?
Past one neighbor's house after another. Some total disasters, some not so bad, but in general, none were really good. Concrete rubble and collapsed walls everywhere. Many swimming pools had been swept away but had saved house foundations. That was the bottom line. If you had a foundation, the house could be saved. La Sirena Condos had not survived Gilberto in 1988, and had been rebuilt. Now, sadly, they had not survived Wilma. Our immediate neighbors to the north lost their pool, and then we saw Casa Maya! Our house was still standing and the seawall, that glorious structure, still stood! It had saved our house from the storm.
Both our side walls were sheered off midway, and the north wall had received tremendous damage. We'd heard the winds have ravaged Puerto Morelos for more than forty hours. Our wall was the cutoff for damages on the north, and I believe our koi pond's three-foot deep concrete foundation had been vital in saving Casa Maya.
AFTER THE STORM
Our beach stairs and gate had been swept away as had our beach palapa along with most of our coconut palms, though Paul's idea to tie some to the front door saved a few. We climbed carefully through the rubble of the side wall and up to our lawn. The 3/4 inch plywood boards over the windows and doors, held down by stainless steel bolts that could handle two thousand pounds of pressure, had all remained intact. Paul had tied the front door to a palm tree which still stood. He found a machete in the bodega—built in the shape of a pyramid it had sustained no damage—cut the rope, and we went inside the house. Aside from a couple of inches of water in the living room that had squeaked through under the doors and through mahogany windows, the house was in good shape. We'd weathered the storm. The house was livable. Hats off to our seawall which held up admirably during the worst storm on record, and hats off to Mother Nature, who hasn't lost a battle yet.
To read about my further adventures living as an expat in Mexico, Where the Sky is Born: Living in the Land of the Maya, can be found on Amazon. Wheels Up—A Novel of Drugs, Cartels and Survival, and Tulum Takedown, books one and two in my Wheels Up Mexico cartel trilogy, are also on Amazon. Check for more info on the author at www.jeaninekitchel.com. Subscribe to my blog above for more Mexico tales.
