Exclusive Images of the Terrifying Aftermath of Hurricane 2003
We all knew it was coming, but can you ever truly be prepared?
I awoke to a foreboding quiet, the quiet after the storm. I must assume that my neighbors were still hunkered down in the safety of their apartments. I wanted to assume this, because the alternative was too frightful to bear. Slowly rising to my feet, I stumbled into the living room and glanced out my window.
Nothing, a blur of gray and green.
Cursing, I then stumbled back into my bedroom, put on my glasses, and returned to the living room. Looking once more through my windows I beheld the horrific repercussions of Hurricane Isabel and her capricious wrath!
Leaves! Leaves, leaves, and more leaves. Strewn haphazardly across the landscape like Mother Nature's arterial spray. It was humbling to imagine that such a transformation could take place over a mere twelve hours or so. Gathering up my courage, I pulled on a pair of jeans, slipped into my River Island suede sneakers, and grabbed my digital camera. Someone needed to document this nigh-apocalypse lest we forget just how small we truly are in this world.
I wandered into the parking lot and, not surprisingly, first made my way to my car.
My God, my car! A multitude of leaves, perhaps four, had adhered themselves to the side. Beyond that, the entire surface was peppered with droplets of moisture. To think - this is what might have happened to one of us had we chosen to spend the entire night standing in the path of a hurricane. I ran my hands across the water slick surface, shivering at the thought of proximity to such primal destructive force. I then moved around and inspected further.
Greater terrors awaited me beneath the car.
A branch, dense with foliage, had wedged itself firmly beneath my rear passenger-side wheel. At some point during the furious bluster, it must have ripped free from some tree, flown through the air, and then skittered to a rest beneath my vehicle. I will most likely have to fetch a shovel or similar implement in order to fish it free, otherwise this severed limb will pose a serious impediment to backing out of my parking space. Thankfully, this seemed the extent of horrors inflicted upon my automobile.
Others, however, were not so lucky. I feel it is my duty to tell their stories as well.
I turned around to regard an even more massive tree limb, ramose and many-leaved, resting literally next to another car. Can you imagine what would have happened if the vehicle in question had been parked three feet over, across two parking spaces?
I would prefer not to.
The hood of this poor soul's automobile has been nearly buried under green. Speckled with grass and leaves (or, more accurately, a leaf), it reminded me to be thankful for what I have. I will probably be able to pick those four leaves off the side of my car over the course of say an hour or two, but the owner of this car is destined for a long wait in the car wash (unless the blades of grass just dry up and blow away on their own).
This twig in center frame is resting right in the middle of our parking lot, directly blocking any and all traffic, be it pedestrian or automotive. I imagine the city's response time will be slow, considering the number of residents suffering similar fates. I am afraid it may be a long time before we are actually able to dig ourselves out of this apartment complex and rejoin the outside world, rejoin the rebuilding of society.
Shaking my head in awe, I wandered back inside and encountered something I had not noticed before.
'Wet floors' indeed. This moment in particular was a bit of a wake-up call for me. Nowhere is safe when Nature decides to lay the smackdown, not even your own home (or the hallways of the building in which you rent a one-bedroom with loft). It is particularly scary to think that I did not see this warning sign when first descending those steps. I could have ended up like the individual depicted, apparently taking flight while doing the robot despite a curious lack of hands, feet, or a neck.
A sigh of relief accompanied my return to the imagined security of my apartment. That is, until I discovered the last--and most personally painful--ramification of Hurricane Isabel.
My damned cable is out.