If ever there is a good time for a hurricane story, this probably isn’t it. I would, however, like to make this an offering of deep respect to the powers beyond us. Anyone who has been through ‘a bad one’ honestly believes ‘theirs’ was the worst ever and I believe them—but here’s mine.
It was September, 1989 in St. Croix, USVI. Garry, my new husband of just over two months, and I were recovering from not only the wedding, the family’s visit and the bills but, also the deaths of two close friends taken by cancer.
We, as in the island collective, had already been spared a couple of close storms. It is easy to become complacent especially since it had been some 35 years since the island had suffered a serious storm. But, on the 15th of said month, a full-fledged hurricane called Hugo made its way across Montserrat. Though news was sketchy at best, none of it was good. Hugo was now in the warm Caribbean waters, made a right hand turn and stalled directly south. Tracking these storms had recently become important to me and not a storm too soon. After another day or so, Hugo did rebuild, strengthen to a category 3, and set a path directly north with no other islands in its way except--St. Croix. He was expected to arrive in maybe 2 days as a category 4 storm. Back then, there was no category 5. That was about to change.
