I love a good storm. I love the adrenaline rush while being completely safe from actual danger, the way some people like monster roller coasters or scary movies. But a hurricane?
I vacillated between thrilled anticipation and abject terror. Looking at the projected path, there was really nowhere we could go to get to absolute safety, so we brainstormed all day about how to most effectively mitigate the chances of damage to Tomás and danger to us.
We spent the next day by the pool with our newly acquired friends in Paamul, a small expat community and campground on the coast of the beautiful Yucatan Peninsula. We virtually navigated back and forth across scary radar images on our phones trying to decide the safest route of retreat. Much like squirrels in the road zigzagging this way then that way trying to get away from danger while in fact staying in the direct path of the oncoming threat.
The day prior to Hurricane Beryl’s predicted landfall we drove to Playa Del Carmen to top off with fuel, water, propane and groceries—we wanted to be prepared to live off grid for as long as might be necessary. With a firm plan in place to leave the next morning and hunker down in Valladolid, a two-and-a-half-hour drive inland, we pulled up to the Mega Soriana, a giant grocery store chain in Mexico. This particular store had a large underground parking garage. Kevin and I looked at one another and I could almost see the light bulbs above our heads even before he spoke.
“Do you think . . .?”
“Could be . . .”
I jumped out and walked backward in front of Tomás to ensure that the roof and all the wires and pipes that hung underneath it were tall enough for us to navigate. He fit perfectly.
“If we park as close to that back wall as we can get, it should cut most of the wind,” Kevin suggested.
“So, unless the Soriana collapses and crushes us, we should be fine,” I joked cynically.
* * *
When we returned to our campsite in Paamul, the village was buzzing. Who was staying, who was leaving, who was boarding up and who was toughing it out.
We met up with our friend, Sandi at the pool and she invited us to a hurricane party being held at the restaurant next door. I had always thought that hurricane parties were held by people of little sense.
There is a hurricane approaching!
People die!
But let’s party like it’s 1999!
The atmosphere was more of a quiet get-together among neighbors. Most people chatted calmly about their plans—I was happy to hear everyone HAD a plan—or discussed the ingredients of a Hurricane, the alcoholic drink, which most people ordered out of obligation to the celebration. The party disbanded after only about an hour and we returned to Tomás for a last dinner in Paamul and further discussion of our plan now that there was a plan “B” on the table.
We watched updates on Mike’s Weather Page on Facebook, ZoomEarth, or chats with my sister until we finally fell asleep.
* * *
We awoke the next morning to soft tropical breezes over calm seas. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except the sounds of car trunks slamming shut, the crunch of tires on gravel and the whir of drills screwing plywood onto stucco.
One more look at the ZoomEarth app showed a slight shift of Beryl to the south. This shift put Valladolid almost at the eye and Playa del Carmen just at the edge of the cone. The decision had been made, we would ride out the storm underneath the Soriana in Playa del Carmen, Mexico.
We arrived fairly early in the day to get an optimal space in the safest position, only to discover we were not the only ones to have the idea this might be good shelter. There were some battened down food carts and many vehicles that had been driven there and parked for the duration of the storm, so we picked the only available space that would accommodate Tomás’ giant booty. Unfortunately, this meant we occupied not one, but two handicap spaces. We didn’t feel good about this, but desperate times . . .
This put the back half of the bus against a wall but left the front exposed. We would soon learn, however, that our spot had been hand-picked by the universe.
The first person we met was Miguel, a homeless man who had sat on the curb next to the bus. My first order of business was to make lunch; and of course we invited Miguel to join us.
“You know we may have company tonight,” I told Kevin while I cooked bacon wearing my Frida Khalo apron. “There’s no way we can leave him outside all night during a hurricane.”
Kevin agreed, and after a lovely chat, we discovered, to our relief, that Miguel had found shelter for the night. He tucked the sandwich I had made him into his backpack, offered us a small gift of a piece of fruit in exchange, then left our lives as quietly as he had entered.
While on a quick walk around the garage to get a short video for our families (along with our EXACT address—just in case), we watched a white van with a large solar panel and travel accessories attached pull in. Eduardo, another vagabond with nowhere to flee had come to seek refuge. A handsome young native Mexican who looked to be in his mid-twenties told us he had been traveling through Mexico for seven months. We always get excited meeting fellow overlanders. There’s an energy we connect with, and I think Kevin’s stories of our trip may have encouraged Eduardo to visit other countries.
Our next encounter was with Hector and was nothing short of divine coincidence. Hector came into our lives when, for no apparent reason, a power line directly above Tomás shorted out. The wire had been laying on a metal “I” beam possibly for years and chose the exact moment I opened the back door to finally give up the ghost with a loud “pop” and a spark that fell to the ground right in front of me. Hector and his assistant came with a ladder and some electrical tape to fix the problem. They laughed and joked all the while Hector perched precariously on a ladder leaning against a wobbly pipe. They brought an energy of humor and joy to the day that I am grateful for.
Our position in the parking garage lent itself well to high foot traffic in and out of the store. There were many more memorable people who came our way that day: the sweet Muslim couple from France; Penelope, the free-spirited young Canadian woman, Penelope, who was traveling solo when she met the “man of her life” as she put it. He didn’t say much, just looked at her with stars in his eyes; the food cart owner who said when he reopened after the storm we would always be special guests at his carts, and finally, Oscar, the manager of Soriana who, when the police came by and told us we had to move or get a note of permission marched me back out to the bus from his office and wrote a beautiful note about helping our fellow man in times of trouble to show them if they returned.
The whole experience of our shelter at the Soriana made me feel like Santiago in Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist. Every encounter we had that day was serendipitous and meaningful in a way I have trouble putting in words. Each meeting added to our lives, changing us ever so slightly.
Oh, and there was a hurricane as well.
The hurricane was the least life-changing event that happened to us over that day and night. We rocked a bit but were able to sleep without much problem. It was what happened before and after Beryl that will stay with me forever.
* * *
Everyone talks about the calm before the storm, but no one ever mentions the calm after the storm.
We woke the next morning and stepped out of the bus like we were entering the world for the first time. There was still wind and rain, but the atmosphere felt muffled. We walked the block almost numbed by the stillness. Streets were flooded, power lines lay on the ground, downed trees blocked roads, but there was no sense of urgency.
People exited their homes and stared quietly at the damage. No one spoke.
We drove away from the Soriana like we were leaving an old friend and navigated around fallen debris and power lines to Avenida Cinco. This is a famous walking street in Playa del Carmen normally bustling with tourists. Boarded up shops and restaurants met us instead. I tried to find the restaurant where I had first heard a particular musician play. Nothing was recognizable.
On a bench a man and his teenaged daughter sat silently staring at a damaged shop. Were they the owners?
Families sat calmly on curbs. The children, who I imagined would on any other day be playing nearby, sat motionless on parents’ laps.
Shopkeepers rhythmically swept sidewalks, their heads hung low.
Even city workers who had begun to clean debris from the streets did so in a muted way.
It was as if every inhabitant of the city was silently bonded and was collectively processing a shared trauma.
* * *
Although I hope never to be caught in a hurricane again, I will always be grateful to Beryl. I am blessed to have experienced a side of humanity that only tragedy allows us to glimpse.