And Tropical Attitudes in the Risky Latitudes
By J. Lee Austin, MD
As a result of our recent atmospheric disturbance, our regularly scheduled menu … that of lambasting phony elections, castigating wretched politicians, and saving assaulted liberties … will not be served. Instead we shall talk about the weather. Generally I try to avoid palavering on about such mundane topics but in light of the in-your-face and on-your-doorstep nature of this week’s turbulent spectacle, I’m willing to make the rare exception.

Future historians may tell the tale of an Atlantic Hurricane, oddly enough named “Beryl” that unceremoniously smashed into the upper Texas Gulf Coast, thoroughly rattling the plaster on the 8th day of July, 2024.

J. Lee is a contributor to Crystal Beach Local News, and is the founder of The Good Help Network, a reader-supported publication.

It was an all too familiar scene … angry and impetuous high tides, horizontal stinging rain, and soaking-wet weather nerds frantically panting ad nauseam on the channel, accompanied by the customary frenetic background of wildly whipping palms, flying fragments of god-knows-what and traffic lights swinging violently on their vines, a reality show of hypnotic chaos, to be sure.

Prior to this event, my one and only reference for the name Beryl came from a song released in 2015 by musical genius and legendary guitar picker Mark Knopfler, front man for the British rock band Dire Straits. A few years earlier he had achieved the enviable status of filthy rich celebrity by singing a catchy rhyme in his most famous work, “Money for nothing, chicks for free.” Some guys have all the luck.

His sullen yet melodic lament called “Beryl” was about the great snubbing of Beryl Bainbridge, a veritable giant of English fictional literature. She had been nominated 5 times for the prestigious Booker Prize, but was never awarded it until it after her death in 2010.

This posthumous, obligatory tip of the hat irked Knopfler enough for him to sing about the utter iniquity of it, driving home his bitter point with the haunting refrain, “It was all too late you dabblers, it was all too late … ” Indeed it was, maestro, indeed it was.

And since Bainbridge herself reportedly attempted suicide with the ol’ head-in-the-oven trick, I’m guessing she was a little miffed about the whole thing, too. Or maybe she was just having a bad day in the kitchen.

Anyways, back to our exigent weather event. When the storm entered the gulf, we perked up. When it wobbled northward, away from Mexico and towards the newly terrified middle coast of Texas, we sat upright and began to pay real attention.

After a bit of studious rumination we made the grown-up decision to “bug out.” Since I don’t trust hurricanes, much less the monkeys who purport to predict their behavior and intentions, it was a pretty easy call to make.

I must confess I may have been influenced by a book I’m currently reading called “Isaac’s Storm,” a masterful account of the horrendous hurricane that demolished Galveston in the year 1900, killing over 6,000 people and earning the title of the deadliest meteorological event in American history. Quite the riveting page-turner, not much of a tranquil bedtime story I must say.

So, like a couple Nervous Nellie Beverly Hillbillies we packed our trash and pointed the horses north, aiming for the unholy land of Palestine so we could impose upon our family in a place I call Corvette Hill. It’s our son’s farm and the home of multiple, utterly gorgeous Indianapolis 500 Pace Cars that his grandfather had collected over the years.

So there we went, excited to be hanging out in a virtual car show, in a house embellished with an incongruous array of elaborate, entirely ornamental, silver-clad Western Saddles dominating the other cowhide covered furnishings, along with surprisingly life-like, life-sized posters of James Dean, Elvis the Pelvis, Red Adair and Spindletop. A bit like bunking in a museum. The soft and fuzzy, overly seductive Marilyn Monroe blanket gently draped over our queen bed really brought it all together. Captain Nostalgia off the chain and on the loose.

Back to our sudden “evaculation” (as our dear ebonics friends might butcher it). Kim piloted the motorhome, with yours truly following closely behind in the pickup truck, two kayaks in tow. Plowing through intermittently torrential rains drenching the piney thickets, we were happy to rinse the months of crunchy, accumulated gulf salt from our vehicles. Refreshing it was, said Yoda never.

Great having the kayaks with us, as we took comfort in knowing, that in a hazardous high-water crisis, we could always hop in the little boats and paddle our way to safety, swimming snakes and gators notwithstanding.

Ironically enough Palestine was directly in the path of the storm. Winds however, gusted merely into the 40’s by the time it made landfall here in Anderson County. What’s that … I can’t say that? Well, there is mostly land here, so riddle me that, Gilligan.

Forty miles per hour winds were much better by half than the 80 mph winds at the coast, but still plenty strong enough to snap large trees, one of which I was lucky enough to witness in real time as it popped like a bomb and smashed into the yard, narrowly missing vehicles and power lines. Helloooo Beryl!

Good luck telling the brave folks who rode it out on the coast that it was a Category One anything. Quite the exhilarating experience, I’m sure.

Soon thereafter I received a photo-text of our storage facility. Seems the tempestuous Beryl had spawned either a twister/tornado or vicious straight winds that ripped the large double doors clean off of thirteen storage units, somehow sparing ours. I guess all those years of good clean living finally paid off.

Good friends with a big fine sailboat in Galveston were not as fortunate. Sadly the poor little SS Minnow was moored in a marina that got largely destroyed. Yet another text-pic told that mournful story, as the ship’s lonely mast pointed skyward from the water’s surface, its gashed hull now resting peacefully on the bayou’s bottom. With luck and help from insurance, they may finally get that bigger new boat. Thanks Big Mama Nature!

We are eager to return and help with restoration, once Reddy Kilowatt gets the current flowing through the peninsula again. Guess we oughta bring some sand, as several of the intrepid locals who stayed, tell me the dunes are all gone bye-bye.

This news is tragic on several levels. Now the sea turtles will have no dunes on which to lay their eggs. And the Go Topless drunkies will have no dunes on which to perform their annual stumbling ritual of indecent tinkling. I guess it’s true that God works in mysterious ways.

I reckon now is a good time to remind ourselves that people (and reptiles for that matter) are quite resilient and will surely persevere in the long run. Here’s to the spirit of co-operation bound to swell into a grand show of unity, as our beloved seaside communities work to put Humpty back together with Dumpty again. May The Good Help Network ride strong in the coming recovery.

Best of luck to all, in these all-too-interesting times,
~~ j ~~

“Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get.”
~~ Mark Twain

[J Lee: Jul-12-2024]