The calm after the hurricane
Gentle wavelets chuckle under our RIB as she swings off the stern of Pearl, which in turn swings off a mooring in Soper’s Hole, BVIS. It’s quiet after our bumptious sail from Spanish Town, with 28 knots of wind up the chuff and a large swell from the north. The Sir Francis Drake Channel lived up to its piratical name as tropical island after island slipped past, the odd one lost to a squally shower. Blonde Rocks, Dead Chest Island and Ginger Garden Point; it makes you wonder at the inspiration for their names. Charter yachts crisscross like butterflies blown in the wind, some motoring into big seas, others sailing with fluttering leaches. It makes me cringe when I think of the punishment to the sails, but I respect them for having a go.
As I bash away at my laptop, a cuppa by my side, a cockerel breaks the tranquility of our new location. It’s perfect until you glance up, look beyond the immediate colourful impression and scope the shore in detail. As you scan the coast, a scene of utter devastation becomes apparent. I expected a building site perhaps, but this resonates with a war zone.
Walking ashore, I am staggered by the power of a category five hurricane. The locals insist it was a category eight, that the authorities couldn’t measure beyond five. At every corner there is another incredible sight that intensifies the image. In Spanish Town, there is a large catamaran upside down on the side of the marina basin; it has a magnetic fascination that draws us to it. It’s a sorry sight that stops you in awed contemplation, then one of the locals quietly tells us that it started off on the hard the other side of the complex. The scene that must have unfolded that night is now beyond my imagination.
Talking to people, they say how grateful they are that it came during daylight so they could see and react as their world disappeared around them. Violently wrenched from happy homes and businesses torn to shredded matter by a storm that knew no bounds, they describe crouching behind walls trying to clear their ears as pressure waves assaulted their eardrums. One mother told how she had encouraged her distraught daughter to sip water, but not so much that she might have to go to the toilet, since that part of the house had disappeared.
A glazed expression slips into place as they recall the experience. For them, it is still real, a tangible presence. Many have lost everything and are living with friends or family as they rebuild their lives. Out of this darkness there is light though, and it is embodied in the quiet dignified strength that radiates from everyone. There’s hope and humour; they will not be cowed.
There is flotsam everywhere, potholes, running water, damaged buildings offering some semblance of shelter. A container is now a shop, and we have to skirt a 40ft yacht to get to the cash machine.
It is chucking-out time at school and the kids capture the character of the community. They are immaculate in their uniforms; a huge smile precedes a confident ‘Hello’ as they look you in the eye with heads held high.
This is just a setback, albeit a huge one. They need help and will accept it, though as a hand up not a handout. For all the devastation we have witnessed, it is pictures of just after the storm that show how much they have done already. Make a donation if you want to help but also book a holiday, as this will bring business as well as recognition that they are valued and not forgotten.
As for us, we must move on to the Turks and Caicos Islands. There’s a fair wind blowing and a fair wind must never be wasted. Tracey is sleeping below as I stand the first watch, the BVIS fading into the haze. We’ll be back next year and fervently hope the next hurricane season will be kind to them. If it is, we look forward to a colourful and vibrant paradise with open arms to all who visit.
Out of this darkness, there is light in dignified strength