Floods as a Spectator Sport
To evacuate or not, that is the question.
One week after we moved into our first “own” home, first responders interrupted our breakfast with heavy knocks at the door. Although we were far inland, Hurricane Fran was dumping heavy rains, and the power had already gone out. No matter, our house was on a little knoll, we had accessible water, and we could cook on our woodstove. Despite the creek that bordered our yard, we figured we would be fine. The neighbors all reported many past storms with no trouble, no need to panic no matter what the weatherman said. So we gathered our pets and children in the house and prepared to wait out the storm. But first thing after breakfast, we should go down to the tree-shaded creek bank and relocate our big heavy doghouse that DJ had made with lavish care for our family dog.
Then came the knocks and terse instructions. We had 30 minutes to get out before floods were expected to cover the area.
What to do? The neighbors were still staying, with grimaces for the ignorant responders who thought they knew more than residents of 40 years.
We looked at our three young children, 4, 6 and 8 years old. DJ remembered historic floods from his childhood in which many died. I thought of others where we had lived previously that had washed out bridges and ruined homes. We decided we couldn’t risk it.
There wasn’t time to move the doghouse. We didn’t have room for the cats’ carry cages in the sedan and were afraid they would escape and get lost if we tried to take them without them. Surely the second story would be safe for them. With prayerful hearts, we set out plenty of food and water and litter boxes in the upstairs bedrooms. Leaving our half-made breakfast behind, we packed the children in the backseat along with our 50-pound Golden Retriever/Lab mix, threw in a few supplies, and started off. Shaking their heads, our neighbors watched us go from their favorite front porch rocking chairs. The consequences of our foolish decision in going against their advice would be upon our own heads.
So be it. Every mile we second-guessed. We had to cross water running across the road—despite all warnings, there was no choice, more water had gathered behind us by then and it was the only escape route. DJ was right, it wasn’t too deep yet and neither carried us away in the current nor swamped our engine. Thank You, Lord. We thought of our house and our pets and our breakfast left behind, the fun and laughter and sense of adventure as we tackled life in our new place. Now we huddled in the car, peering through sheets of rain, detouring past already-submerged bridges. Finally we made it to the interstate and headed toward DJ’s parents. A trip which normally took 45 minutes had already stretched far longer. We were almost to Granddad and Grandma’s house when we were stopped by a heavy channel of water cutting across the road. This time we couldn’t risk it. We backed until we could turn and considered new options. Shelters weren’t open to pets; our options were limited.
Each hasty decision a gamble, with your children’s well being and very lives the stakes. Will the winds shift north or south? Will the waters overflow the banks here, or further down the channel? Like sports spectators, those following the news pontificate and analyze what others should have done. Look at the risk to the first responders due to those stubborn non-evacuees. Look at the people caught out on the roads, their cars swept away. They knew a hurricane was coming, why were they even still in the area?
Turns out, Hurricane Fran changed the creek channel, took out a huge chunk of our yard and swept away our doghouse. However, our house, our pets, our half-made breakfast and our head-shaking neighbors were all still there upon our return. If we’d only known, we would have stayed put. (God, were You trying to tell us that, and we didn’t listen? We were trying, in the few minutes we had to decide.)
To evacuate, or not. To go this direction, or that. We can each only do our best—and pray.