A Hurricane Story

We arrived in Puerto Rico on Ruff Life, my 1971 Tradewinds trawler, earlier that Spring. My nerves were shot from the ordeal of the trip from Florida, but I was assured that Puerto Rico was the safest place to be in the Caribbean, and secondly we were on the Southwest side of the island. Hurricanes tend to bounce off the north coast, so San Juan gets more of a scare than the rest of the island.

While finding our way on the island, having literally just dropped out of the ocean, I worked part-time in the local supermarket, El Muelle, as a clerk, cashier, stock-girl, baker and office assistant. Hardest work I've ever done for 5 buck an hour. The store was the anchor for the little strip mall, which was the heart of the community for many years.

Cap was working as a sub-contractor on a local building project, but there wasn’t much call for my marketing skills around town.

I remember returning from one shift particularly cranky and barking,

"When we were in Oregon planning this Dream Life in the tropics, baking 110 loaves of bread on a Saturday morning wasn't part of the picture!”

You do what you have to. In addition to learning some basic Espanol, the eighteen-month experience taught me to better appreciate those on the other side of the counter; often verbally abused, as I was plenty of times. It's not that hard to be nice to a cashier.

The upshot was the number of local families which adopted a couple of Gringos. In a small community it’s difficult to be accepted, especially if you don't speak the language. Cap extended his hand to absolutely every man he encountered on the street and some would grudgingly oblige, but he persisted. It took over a year before those ‘old timer’s would make the same overture first. I keep that in mind in new places.

Market-owner Dave had television monitors throughout the store, tuned to then-cable channels CNN and the Weather Channel. All eyes were tracking tropical storm-turned-Hurricane Georges for the days before it hit landfall, and I tried my best to avert my eyes walking through the market, but terror is riveting.

It’ll turn; it’ll turn; they almost always do, I heard over and over, but it didn’t. Hurricane Georges left the African coastline and steadily made a beeline for us, period.

Another thing I learned was that experienced people rarely prepare for the emergency until the last day or so. Cap experienced hurricanes while working on oil rigs in the Gulf as a chopper pilot, but it was new to me and I was terrified. People invariably ask if we stayed on the boat.

Hell, no! Weeks earlier we'd accidentally gotten our anchor wrapped around an abandoned concrete mooring, so we zipped over and claimed it before the crowd arrived. We tied 4 more lines to additional anchors and the mangroves, allowing the boat to swing somewhat. Dave put metal shutters up along the strip mall, let the employees slip inside for some last minute provisions, then locked the place up tight.

Annette was the local Postmaster and my first friend in town. She offered her cement home as a sanctuary for an assortment of friends and family, which quickly turned into a party. I relaxed with mass quantities of Don Q and Cokes. By 8 pm the sky was dark but calm, and while waiting outside I thought to myself,

“This isn’t so bad.”

The electricity was out by 8:30 and by 10 pm so was I. While the party continued in the next room, I shivered next to annoyingly-confident Cap until around midnight, when suddenly there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

The eye of the hurricane. I was barely conscious, let alone able to stick my head outside to see the bright stars twinkling in the clear sky. I wish I had but I just couldn’t. It lasted about 15 minutes, and then,

WHOOSH! Around came the second half, worse than the first. That’s when most damage tends to occur, and why the boat needed to be free to swing.

In the living room I watched in horror as Annette’s strong, oak door concaved inward. Glancing at the pieces of flimsy-looking plywood nailed to the windows I assumed we would all die, and staggered back to where Cap slept. I hit him just for good measure.

“We don’t have a boat left,” I whimpered as the wind howled terrifyingly.

“Probably not.” If nothing else, Cap was calm in a crisis.

Georges was finished by 7 am. Trees and power lines were down; wooden structures looked like matchsticks. Damage indiscriminate; tiny shacks left standing next to substantial structures now leveled, usually from waterspouts (photo of our sister ship, Pleiades).  All you can do is keep your fingers crossed and pray.

Standing on Annette's balcony, there was an otherworldly feeling in the air. The roosters weren't crowing. Trees were pointed in the wrong direction. Dave drove by after checking on El Muelle, which remained intact.

“Andrea…I saw your boat…it’s fine.”

I burst into tears like a baby. Ruff Life sustained relatively minor damage, mostly due to our inexperience with battening down the hatches. Our black-hulled sister ship in Parguera, Pleiades, was a newer model being restored. She survived, too.

La Parguera was left without power for a week and water for almost three. UPS trucks loaded with generators were hijacked. When the ice truck hit town, a veritable paranda would follow; two bags per household the limit for fairness, but of course people cheated.

We'd wait for the water truck to come to town and lug our 5-gallon jugs back and forth out to the boat. Bathing was done off the swim platform, but since the ladder was damaged in the storm it was difficult getting back aboard, you can imagine.

Within two months, Hurricane Mitch reared its ugly head, followed by more boat repairs (and a new paint job, while at it.) After that first season I learned not to pay much attention to hurricane warnings until Cap declared,

"Time to move!

Over the years countless tropical storms and hurricanes passed through, but nothing like those first few months. You pick up the mess, hope Uncle Sam declares the place a Disaster Area and keep going. I’ll never forget my co-workers coming in with stories of roofs torn off and belongings scattered to the wind, making me ashamed to be complaining about my lost radar dish. Where was I going anyway? They laughed off their troubles and shrugged like I’ve done with bad snowstorms.

And bounced back.

Further reading:

Reconnecting with Puerto Rico, 2023

Ruff Life at Sea, a crising story c. 1997

Have Faith in FEMA

You won't hear anything bad about FEMA from me, no siree.  This was Ruff Life following Hurricane Georges in Puerto Rico, 1998, here's that story.

At the time I didn't know much about FEMA and assumed, because I lived on a boat, that they wouldn't help me with repairs; but au contraire!  Everyone was encouraged to apply - the worst they could say was NO.  Almost immediately I received a check for $500 to help survive the early days.  After that, maybe a couple weeks, I received another check for around $5,000, I almost fell on the dock.  For real?  YES.

FEMA never asked what I was doing down there, living on such an old boat; or whether I was properly anchored (I had 5 anchors out).  It was a simple process...so simple that I tried it again years later with another hurricane, Harvey, maybe.  I didn't have quite the same payout but I didn't have as much damage; and again, following their smaller, initial check for several hundred or whatever, I did receive a second, larger check a bit later.

I do understand how it is to be in shock after such an experience, and it's easy not to fully understand the FEMA rep's information.  So don't believe the former President when he's claiming you'll only get $750; or the Government is trying to take your house.

POPPYCOCK!  That's just fearmongering; but like most of the lies which continually spew from Trump's lips, loads of people believe him.  In a sense you can't blame them - they're desperate for a change in their lives and are grasping at Trump's straws.

DON'T, please, when it comes to FEMA.  They are truly trying to help, and aren't using disaster funds for illegal immigrants.

But go ahead - spread false rumors and put your fellow citizens in danger.  Can you believe there are people out there too frightened now of losing their homes that they'll remain in place in the face of upcoming Hurricane Milton?  Doesn't that bother you?

I don't do social media, so how about sharing some positive insight instead of the latest shelter adoption?  For those in real need, thank you.

El Muelle, Parguera, Then and Now

I felt invisible after a 14 year absense - a ghost wandering through La Parguera, the once-sleepy little fishing village along the southwest coast of Puerto Rico. I didn't see many familiar faces, for businesses are now owned, or run, by younger people.  I left the Plaza and walked towards El Muelle (the Dock), a strip mall where I worked shortly after arriving in 1998.

Back then, following countless open-door 'grocery' shops with dusty shelves in coastal Caribbean towns, El Muelle left me breathless.  Anchored by the most beautiful supermarket I'd seen in months, the shopping center included a Chinese restaurant, Post Office, pharmacy, surf shop, bar/cafe, video store and laundromat.  It was the proverbial Oasis in the Desert and, drenched in sweat by 8am, I declared to my then-partner, aka 'the Captain:

"That's it!  I'm done.  We live here."

The original plan was to cruise to Venezuela, but by Puerto Rico my nerves were shot; the boat was a wreck; and our cruising kitty was seriously low.  We needed money, and contemplated selling the boat once we fixed her up.  Dependable electricity was a necessity. 

Puttering along the canal in the dinghy, admiring the colorful casetas, we unrealistically dreamt of renting one for a couple months, working on Ruff Life at our leisure.  We stopped to speak to a man our age, lounging on the back deck of his cabin cruiser, Miss Kimlee.  

Juan spoke perfect English and was most congenial.  Casetas, if available, were quite expensive to rent, he told us; but when he heard we were looking to rent a place with power, he spoke to the owner of the dock where Miss Kimlee was moored (Ruff Life, the farthest right of the three).

During weekends Juan lived on Miss Kimlee, but during the week he had a plumbing business to run in San Juan, where he lived with his wife and daughters.  We'd jump back and forth between boats, and I enjoyed learning about Puerto Rico, look at this hunk, ladies!  His easy manner and sense of humor was an enjoyable interruption in our stressful days of co-habitation.  Admiring my needlepoint-in-progress, I teased, "Like Rosy Grier," and vowed to share this photo one day.

Juan hired the Captain to clean his boat for some extra cash; and when he learned of my business background, referred me to his good friend, who owned El Muelle.

"David needs office help - grab your resume and head for Supermercado El Muelle, pronto!"  I'll admit I wasn't estatic about the prospect, but at least it was something.

Preparing for Hurricane Georges

David Benevent and his father Carl built El Muelle up from virtually nothing.  Carl is a retired doctor whose practice was in the mid-West, but he dreamt of returning to the island and building a strip mall on part of his family's land.  Younger son David left his corporate job in Georgia to help him.

"You need to hire this Gringa," Juan told David.

"What am I gonna do with a Gringa?"

"Don't Get Off the Bus!"

The other day I received a phone call from my dear friend and 'art mentor', Miguel Rosario. We have several lengthy calls each year since he, like I, don't scroll phones or text. I love him dearly, along with his wife, Nelida, who has enbraced me like a sister and included me in their family.

The first time I met Miguel was outside supermarket El Muelle in la Parguera several years after arriving in Puerto Rico.  A newly minted Artesana, I'd set up a table with my artwork during a swealtering summer parking lot party, sponsored by the liquor companies.  We became friends and later partners in an art gallery, I won't repeat the story, but you can read an earlier story: Cayo Caribe.

Tourism, the lifeblood of Artists, dried up following 9/11; after which I usually went home from shows with 95% of the pieces I brought.  During one depressing weekend fest Miguel, a painter and Santos carver, said, "Come with me."  What, leave my table unattended?  "Don't worry about it," since artists always covered one another; plus there weren't exactly throngs.  "Come with me."

As we walked through the streets of Old San Juan I kept asking, "Where are we going?"  Miguel refused to say more than, "You'll see," while imparting words of wisdom like, "If something doesn't sell, RAISE the price!"   Huh?  "People will stop and look harder to understand why the price is high."  But I was starving.  Week after week was the same, taking its toll on my psyche, but I kept showing up.

We finally stopped at an old church.  I assumed he was going to show me some artwork inside, but we walked into a full Mass.  I went to plenty of Masses as a kid (marriages and funerals), a few as an adult, and always got tired of Stand Up, Kneel, Sit Down, Kneel, over and over; plus I can't stand the incense.  This was no different, except it was in Spanish.  I kept mouthing, "Can we go now?"  No, he'd shake his head.  So I sat on the hard bench and decided to make the best of it.

Miguel wasn't trying to convert me, but he did want me to be easier on myself and have a little Faith.  Stop and smell the roses, as it were. Sounds nice now, but at the time I didn't appreciate the lesson.  Anyway, since Miguel's first recommendation he's been my mentor, always offering suggestions, encouragement and advice.  "Paint the cat's eyes like a football, then curve the edges for the eyeball."  I can paint but I can't draw worth a darn, which is why my figures and murals take at least four times as long as most other artists. 

So during our phone call, when Miguel asked whether I was still writing and painting, I had to admit, "Very little."  I choked up describing the grief I still experienced over BC's passing, causing me to feel almost paralyzed.

"Don't do that, you'll depress yourself.  Don't get off the bus!"

What the hell does that mean?  I can't repeat his words verbatim but I'll try:

"We all are on a bus, heading towards our (destination/future/goals).  The bus may stop every once and awhile, BUT DON'T GET OFF - Stay on the bus.

Miguel had just finished describing the stroke he lad last month, what do I have to complain about?  Like the rest of us, his body isn't what it used to be but he truly enjoys life, I envy him that. They're still living without water or electricity following Hurricane Fiona in September, but he doesn't complain.

Without realizing it I took his words to heart and am almost finished with the ornaments which have been hanging like hams in my RV since October.  I also finished three Black Lab rocks to go with the earlier one, thank goodness.  They've been sitting on my stovetop for weeks, too.  (I'm not going into the rock-painting business; only for fun.)

Some of my spunk has returned, and most thankfully I can think of BC more and more without weeping.  I even had a couple dreams in which she was a part, not memories but new situations where she behaves like usual.  The sadness is ending.  Content may not be as good as Happy but it's better than Lifeless.

So, my friends, if the past couple years have taken a toll on you to the point where you start giving up and wondering, "What difference does it make?"...put aside those thoughts and let Miguel's advice offer some hope.  You're not alone.  (Photo right:  R. Delameter)

Hurricane Harvey

I began writing one story and discovered I already covered hurricanes 5 years ago, but lost it somewhere along the way. So here is a link to an easy-reading tale of my first encounter with a hurricane, Georges, in Puerto Rico, September 1998.

PS: BC and I are safe, dry and just fine, thanks!

What was Good Enough for Mom is Good Enough for Me

Here’s a story about Hillary’s and my own version of Auntie Mame: our Mom, Adrienne Courtney Pritchard Urban, whose one year anniversary of passing is today, September 14^th. Last year I penned a short piece, I Remember Mama, in which I mentioned a couple of pertinent facts, including her Christian Science faith and having been an Arthur Murray dance instructor.

I recently decided to pen my own obitu…biography, because I just know I won’t be happy with any living person’s review; and you know what they say: ”The dead don’t talk.” We all have highlights in our lives to which others might not attach much significance, but to us it’s a BIG DEAL.

Being a Safety Patrol during third grade comes to mind. Standing in the middle of the street with a Clorox-clean halter and policeman’s size shield, stopping traffic with a mere gesture, affected my life more than you’d think.  It not only instilled in me a sense of civic responsibility, but Amy enjoyed bullying the cars. I still have a tiny lapel pin, which no one on earth would understand, now that Mom’s gone.

One of Mom’s high points (not counting the schmaltzy stuff like getting married and having children) was her Arthur Murray experience.  She was new to Christian Science, having been brought up by an agnostic and Church of England couple who immigrated around 1919.

Originally from New Zealand, grandfather Sydney had been a steward for the White Star line after WWI, and made numerous transatlantic crossings before deciding to jump ship and stay in the U.S. permanently. Wife Elizabeth Hannah, known as Nancy, soon followed from county Dorset.

Granddad became a photo engraver with a lucrative business, according to Mom. The Pritchards lived on Claremont Avenue, one block from Riverside Drive (near the site of Columbia University), with neighbors like Arturo Toscanini. Before Mom was born, one of their neighbors, at least for a short time, was none other than F. Scott Fitzgerald while he was working on his first novel, This Side of Paradise. I uncovered all this while searching through the Ellis Island manifests and, well, you know...one search leads to another.

Immigrants were required to provide the address of their sponsor, and the records show Granddad Sydney living on Claremont when he sponsored his older brother, George in 1920.  Fitzgerald, not yet married, was furiously working to finish his novel, become ‘rich and famous’ and ultimately woo Zelda.  He was writing nearby at a relative's; and the novel was published in May of 1920. I like to imagine my grandparents partying with F. Scott; since after all, SOMEBODY had to be those people in the background of Hollywood movies.

Throughout the 1920s and most of the 30s, times were good for the Pritchards, and their homes in St. Albans are where most memories lie. On Jordan and Lewiston Avenues, Mom and her siblings grew up in relative comfort while Granddad survived the Crash and kept working during the Depression.

George and Sydney Pritchard
c. 1937

In 1920, Granddad sponsored his older brother, George Thompson Pritchard, his wife and two young children into the country. The Ellis Island manifest notes George's occupation as Engineer, as well as a bad cut resulting in the loss of his left arm (or use of) below the elbow. He could no longer perform his job, but where, how and when he became an artist are unknown to me.

During the Depression (1934-ish?) Uncle George showed up unexpectedly at his brother's for help; just like Vincent Van Gogh and his brother, Theo; or me and my sister, Hillary. Artists can’t survive without family. Here’s where the story gets a bit sketchy, since the brothers came and left the U.S. several times

G.T. Pritchard's biography briefly mentions that he spent time in NYC during this time period. Well, he was painting in my grandparent's basement.  Mom was a toddler (for her delightful recollections, read Starving Artists Run in the Family).  Throughout my life Mom would recall watching Uncle George, music blaring because of his hearing, stump swinging while he furiously threw paint on the 4 or 5 canvases he worked at once. He painted different styles under different names for New York department store commissions. Here's one of his oils, aka Jane Wilcox, in my cousin's home.

Uncle George left an untold number of paintings with my grandparents when he moved on, but they bartered some with the butcher or green grocer for unpaid bills when times got bad later on.  I did the same with my art during our last recession; so perhaps it’s fortunate our family retained any of his paintings at all.

It’s been interesting to go into my relative's homes and discover more of his art. He signed this Anne Hathaway cottage watercolor using his real name, since he gave it as a gift to his sister-in-law, Nancy. Suffice it to say that because that memory remained accessible throughout Mom’s final Dementia years, it must have been pretty significant to her.

It made an impression on me, too; Mom’s lesson in perseverance. George Thompson Pritchard  subsequently became a well known artist and his paintings are collected around the world.  This oil painting of a Dutch sailing vessel (which,until this story was corrected by Sis, I assumed was a Chinese junk) now belongs to me, but since it won’t fit in my RV, Sis has it in her house. WANTED:  wall space!

Granddad's false nose

Mom’s parents were energetic and fun loving until hard times finally hit them, too, forcing them to move to a modest second-floor apartment.  The chain of events from good times to bad affected my Mother dramatically, since everything she’d known as ‘normal’ turned 180 degrees, including her parent’s moods. She watched once vibrant Nancy retreat into herself, until she became ill and died at age 51. Mom searched for and found the comfort she needed as a teenager in Christian Science, which then became, in all probability, the MOST significant event which changed her outlook, if not her circumstances per se.

An advertisement for a free class at an Arthur Murray dance studio (somewhere) in New York City grabbed her attention, no doubt suggesting the world of opportunities open to participants. Her overbearing-at-times father wasn’t particularly supportive of her self-improvement project, but Mom didn’t let that stop her.

Eventually Mom became good enough that she was asked to teach, and had to lie about her age. She taught businessmen, entertainers and men just wanting to dance at their daughter’s wedding.  Mom was eventually asked to participate in a dance exhibition down in Virginia Beach, but she lacked suitable clothes for hob-nobbing around the hotel; and didn’t expect her father’s consent even if she did.

“Don’t outline,” her Sunday School teacher admonished, a phrase she was fond of repeating to us.

And don’t you know…someone told Mom of evening gown samples on sale and she picked up 5 for 5 dollars each. Granddad rose to the occasion and presented Mom with a beautiful matched set of luggage along with some spending money. She went on her Grand Tour, had a terrific time, and gained a whole bunch of confidence along the way. While writing, I can't help wondering if one of Uncle George's paintings paid for that, too; but something else Mom taught was, "Don't question your supply."

Save, save, save for that rainy day she tried to teach us as well as herself; but in my case it didn’t take hold so much as the live, live, live philosophy Mom shared with Patrick Dennis's character, Mame, along with their abiding sense of optimism.

“Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!” 

My Dad owned a modest graphic design business in Manhattan. Money was certainly tight, yet my parents tried their best to expose us to as much of life as possible in order to discover our 'passion' or at least find a hobby. Skating lessons, ballet and tap, sewing, swimming, horseback riding, piano, even painting, now that I think.

After Sis married and money became more flush, I was treated to trips into NYC to experience museums and galleries, exotic restaurants and Broadway shows, including:  Hello Dolly with Pearl Bailey, Cab Calloway and Broadway’s first all-black cast; Applause, Applause, B’way’s All About Eve, with Lauren Bacall; Richard Kiley as the Man of la Mancha; and Two by Two, with Danny Kaye hobbling around in a cast as Noah. Watching Liberace’s dazzling display of showmanship was, well, you had to be there.

Decades later Mom forced her way to Richard Chamberlain to be certain both grown daughters received his autograph, as he graciously begged,

“Yes, Madam, one moment, please,” placing his things inside the waitings limo.  I made some stupid comment about sibling rivalries, to which he gave me the most gorgeous Father de Bricassart smile, ahhh...

At five years old, visiting the 1960 exhibition of the work of Grandma Moses, I became hooked on folk art. Mom dabbled in painting for a time, too, I think because of Uncle George's influence, but her real interests were sewing, decorating, gardening and writing letters. She could win classical music quiz shows and was sharp as a tack on a variety of subjects. Her one addiction was tea, with tablespoons of sugar, and suffered debilitating withdrawals; but there are worse addictions for a mother.

Dad taught me woodworking and the fine art of sarcasm in the garage as we built skate boards and go-karts with old roller skates. He called me George when no one was around. I took golf in college after Dad took up the sport; but it takes me 4 hours to play 9 holes so I only like driving the cart.  Nobody realized, because I couldn’t explain my whacked vision from amblyopia, that with these eyes I can’t hit the target in anything.

In 1963 we finally moved out of the Concrete Jungle and closer to the Ponderosa, at least that’s what I thought when my parents returned to our Sunnyside, Queens apartment and announced they bought a Cape Cod in the country:  New Jersey.  We moved to a new Levitt and Sons development in what was called Strathmore-at-Matawan, near the Shore; and thus began our countrification. Dad continued to work in Manhattan while Mom jumped into suburban life with both inherently-wide Pritchard feet.

Tom Jones’s, “What’s New, Pussycat,” accompanied the ladies at Mom’s water ballet class in the community pool.  She planted vegetables while regaling me with sad tales of having to pick through day-old produce with her Mother when times were tough.

She might have been referring to the kind of discount bins I occasionally frequent nowadays, but compared to what she was used to it must have been shocking. Mom didn’t continue to grow vegetables as much as flowers, but perhaps just the idea that she could was enough. I know I was disappointed to discover green peppers grew without stuffing.

We took driving vacations to Niagra Falls; explored our history in Williamsburg, Gettysburg and New England; toured the White House while the Kennedy’s were away; and spent nearly a week on a train trip from New York to California. But I’d have to vote for the 1963 World’s Fair as a highlight and defining moment in my life for a variety of reasons which would only bore you. At least that’s what I’ll put in my obit…biography.

After Sis and I married, Mom and Dad moved into a larger house; which I now suspect may have reminded Mom of one of her childhood  homes.  She lived there for close to 30 years following Dad's death until Hurricane Sandy and dementia forced her to leave her beloved home and move in with my sister's family until her death.

In writing this, I decided to check and see if Arthur Murray still exists or if I’d need to add an explanation.  Hey, a sales clerk just asked me to explain the term hostess gift. Long story short, I emailed to ask when the local AM studio has their free lesson (they've already replied).  I’d like to learn country-western, salsa and the tango, and I don’t need a partner, although I do need a ride.

“Don’t outline.”  What was good enough for Mom is good enough for me.

Mom remains just as alive in my mind now as she was over a year ago. She taught me that lesson when I was a child, after hearing of a dear family friend killed in Vietnam. 

"You haven't seen Paul (Sawtelle) in years. He is just as alive in your Mind today as he was yesterday."

That’s another one of those significant moments I'd have to include in my obi...biography. A few simple words which made future events in my life more bearable. So Mom's not really gone.  I just can't see her right now.

FIN

Notes: The Kelp Gatherer by George Thompson Pritchard (right, behind Mom) now belongs to Sis. He reproduced this theme a number of times, but because it has always been in the family, I suspect this painting is the original from his time spent painting in New York City.

Any living relatives of GT Pritchard who would like to comment, correct or just dis-cuss the story, please write to me. I've tried to be as accurate as possible, but stories get a bit mixed up through time.

The Duart House in New Zealand has many of Uncle George's paintings and a more comprehensive biography.

I discovered the Vietnam Veterans Wall of Faces while researching our family friend.