Journalists are gathering in Cancun to await Hurricane Dean, a Category 4 storm that is nearly dead on the track that Hurricane Gilbert followed in 1988 when it plowed into Jamaica. Five days later, Gilbert had grown into a powerful Category 5 storm and smashed into Mexico, the same landfall currently predicted for Dean. This week, journalists will face the storm with high-tech rain gear, satellite phones and generators. They will bring the storm to our living rooms, live.
St. Petersburg Times reporter Susan Taylor Martin and photojournalist Ric Ferro were in the same spot when Hurricane Gilbert arrived. But cell phones were unheard of then. It was pre-digital cameras, no laptops or Internet connections. Somebody at the paper got the idea that it would be a worthwhile adventure to go cover the storm. “It sounded like a fine idea,” Susan wrote in her first dispatch. (Read their stories here.)
In an e-mail sent this weekend in response to my questions about hurricane coverage, Susan wrote: “Coincidentally, my husband, son and I had vacationed in Cancun just a few months before Gilbert, so I knew how vulnerable the area was — it had been tremendously built up since the last major hurricane and most people really didn’t know how bad it could get (sound familiar?!).
“Ric and I flew from Tampa to Cancun the afternoon before the storm was due to make landfall — I remember the plane hitting violent turbulence about 30 minutes out and one of the flight attendants screaming, “Oh My God!” When we finally landed, I was appalled to see the terminal packed with hundreds of U.S. tourists and other passengers who had just arrived — apparently neither airlines nor passengers had kept abreast of Gilbert’s threat. People begged us for information, wanting to know what they could or should do, and of course there was nothing we could tell them except, ‘Good luck.’
“As we drove into town, we saw very little sign of preparation. What we did see were enormous waves — two and three stories high — already crashing onto the beaches, with landfall still hours away. It was one of the most chilling sights I’ve ever witnessed.
“We were lucky to find two rooms in an old downtown hotel with fortress-like walls — even there, the winds were so powerful they blew out every window and interior doors made of thick, solid wood. Ric and I wound up spending the night crouched in a bathroom to escape flying shards of glass and huge chunks of debris.”
Susan and Ric had done what seasoned journalists at the time often did. They arrived with little in the way of provisions. The grocery stores were already stripped bare by panicked shoppers. In her first story filed from the storm, Susan wrote, “Our hurricane rations consist of two not-quite-fresh chicken-and-avocado sandwiches, two Cokes, three bottles of carbonated water, a jar
of barbecue-flavored peanuts, two packs of crackers, two packs of
cookies and a little can of what seems to be the Mexican version of
Spam.”
Susan wrote this passage about Gilbert’s arrival:
to pass at 5 a.m. local time (7 a.m. Tampa Bay time), six interminable
hours from now.
I fall asleep quickly but wake up around midnight. The sound
of howling wind and pelting rain can be heard even above the roar of
the ancient air conditioner. We hear a thud.
“There’s goes the tree,” Ric says.
I am suddenly wide awake, staring at the ceiling as the minutes
creep by. Never has time moved so slowly or the wind blown so hard. The
lights in the hall go out and I hear a scream from somewhere in the
hotel. The power comes back on but a few minutes later the air
conditioner shudders to a stop and all is black. We have lost
electricity for good. I wonder what it is like out on the beaches and
on Isla Mujeres.
The wind continues to build. My ears pop, so great is the
change in pressure. The pipes in the corner rattle wildly as enormous
gusts buffet the water tank on the roof above. Glass shatters somewhere
beneath us and chunks of flying debris slam into the side of the hotel.
The heavy wooden door to our room is shaking so badly I have the uncanny sensation that Gilbert himself is trying to get in.
An unbelievably strong gust rocks the entire hotel and Ric
leaps from bed, shouting something in Spanish. Incredibly, our window
has held, but we are not taking any chances. We shove the mattress of
my bed onto the floor and prop the box springs against Ric’s bed, to
protect us from flying glass should the window go. There’s a whoosh
from above and the water pipe suddenly stops rattling.
“There goes the tank,” Ric says. We have no more running water.
Nineteen years later, she recalls, “We didn’t venture out until late the next afternoon — the winds were still high enough that gusts picked me up and propelled me along as though I was wearing Seven League boots. There was devastation everywhere we looked — hungry and thirsty people were already starting to loot stores.
“Ric and I soon got separated, and it was not until two days later that I caught up with an NBC crew in Merida, Mexico, who gave me a ride back to Florida on their Lear jet. While our ability to file during the actual storm was extremely limited, we did a long, first-person account for the weekend that I think gave readers a pretty good feel for what it’s like to go through a major hurricane.”
“A year or so later, I did a series on another devastating hurricane, Hugo, and I still have people tell me, ‘You know, those stories made me realize how dangerous hurricanes are.’
“So that’s why I think it’s important to be there,” Martin says. ” — to make readers/viewers understand the power of nature and that the time to get ready is days or even weeks before a hurricane threatens.”
After exchanging emails with me for this interview, Martin said she felt a compulsion to do what Floridians do before a storm — go buy a case of bottled water.
