The bay air is particularly thick today laced with the smell of bay bottom muck. It must be low tide I think to myself as I settle onto the chaise of the outer deck with my coffee and paper. I notice the snowy egret next door scrounging for bait scraps left by the old timer’s early morning fishing trip.  Word has it this egret has been showing up each morning for the past 13 years. At least some things remain constant, I chuckle to myself as I browse the headline. “Texas Governor seeks single contact for hurricane evacuation…he gets a committee of ten.” Guess the egret is not the only constant. Galveston politics has always tilted a bit left, in my opinion, and this was just the latest in a string of decisions made by a city government too politically correct to be effective. Every island problem…environmental, economical, or political… ends up in a black hole committee with no expectation of action.  The island’s endless supply of committees has bolstered many a resume over the years…most with political agendas where fence sitting is a much sought after trait by the controlling handful of old money families.

I felt the sun’s heat on my face as I closed my eyes and contemplated our move back to DC.  The silent moment was abruptly broken with the sound of our energetic Springer spaniel, Baxter, leaping the steps of the outer deck with the lease in his mouth
and my husband, Dave, in tow. “I’m taking Baxter for a walk…better catch the news when we get back, sounds like that storm is heading right for us.”  In the background, I could hear the storm radio going off.  It’s a blood curdling sound that can stop a person in their tracks.  It’s a way of life for people who live on the coast. Six months out of the year you live in fear of hurricanes coming up the Gulf of Mexico, and the other six months of the year you spend talking about the last one that hit and just how bad the next season will be.  Hurricanes are a sobering balance to the otherwise peaceful lifestyle.

The past few years, the hurricanes have been more intense and destructive. Forecasters say we’re in the middle of a ten year trend of really bad storms.  Katrina and Rita were among the worst in history to hit the Gulf coast. Even the scrappy west-enders, who brag about staying through hurricane Carla as if it was a badge of honor, left the island.  It was an unprecedented, massive evacuation of two million people. I never understood how coming face to face with a hurricane was anything but crazy.

The storm tracker shows hurricane Arlene has strengthened to a Category 3 and is expected to continue to strengthen as it moves through the Yucatan peninsula out into the warm waters of the Gulf. A twinge of concern creeps in as I remember my sister saying that if the turtles cross IH 3005 from the beach to the canal side of the island, we’re in for a big one.  I wonder if she has seen any turtles today.

At this stage, most residents are busily tying down and boarding up; waiting for evacuation notices. If Arlene hits the open bay waters it’s just a matter of hours before it hit the coast. Where it will make landfall is the million dollar question.

The phone rings – it’s Yuri, a researcher friend from the Biohazard Level 4 facility on the island.
“What’s up Yuri?”
“We’re in the middle of a lock-down procedure here so I can’t talk long, but I wanted to check with you to see where you were going to evacuate if this things gets nasty?” We will be heading up to the hill country more than likely. What about you? “I don’t know at this point, I hate to leave the animals here, especially Adam.”  “I’ll be here until the last light goes off, it’s the only way I know to keep the primates calm…they are already bouncing off the sides of their cages trying to get out.” “I think they sense something is about to happen.” “You are welcome to join us if they call for an evacuation,” I suggested. “I’ll have my cell with me if you want to connect up.” “Thanks Caitlyn, talk with you later.”

I met Yuri, a Russian immunologist, a few years back when I was working on a disaster recovery project for the island’s new biohazard facility. He is one of the few highly regarded infectious disease scientists who haven’t gotten lost in the bureaucracy. I remember a candid discussion with him one day about what keeps him up at night. Yuri tells it like it is—a refreshing character trait in a university setting. I guess his reputation has earned him a little leeway with the university powerbrokers.  In research, grants are the name of the game; and Yuri’s name associate with a grant request just about guarantees approval.

Progress and island time are usually opposing notions. The fact that a Level 4 national laboratory could be voted in and constructed within a few years is a remarkable feat. Politically, it was a shear masterpiece of work.  Level 4 facilities work with some of the nastiest diseases known to mankind. Before my work with the facility, I had no idea that many of the diseases had to be created first in order to be studied. Diseases like smallpox, malaria, and plague are being created in a handful of labs scattered about the United States. I’m sure most of the citizens of this island community are just as naïve about their newly constructed national laboratory.

I’ll never forget the first conversation I had with Yuri. “Why do you suppose a 32-mile island off the coast of Texas is such a great location for a level 4 facility?” When I didn’t answer immediately, he answered for me, “It can be easily quarantined —locked off from the mainland.” As I said, Yuri doesn’t mince words; he tells it like it is —unless, of course you are asking about his life —anything personal is quickly diverted to another subject.

Dave was pulled away from the news by an email alert on his Blackberry. I swear that holstered device could interrupt the most intimate of moments, thinking to myself. It was the Homeland Security official that was negotiating the final details of his new assignment in DC. Few techies can speak government. Dave is an exception making him a much sought after consultant on aviation technology and disaster response procedures.

Dave and I became acquainted about ten years ago through our interest in aviation technology. Retired Air Force, Dave has a global network of friends in the aviation/aerospace industries that most competitors would kill for. I was finishing my commercial pilot rating when I met Dave. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to engage in some verbal sparring with a female pilot. He was a quick-witted air traffic control supervisor who had mastered the art of weaving humor with sexual innuendos that traveled well under the radar scope of most people’s thinking.  My mother would be appalled to think that her well-bred, Irish Catholic daughter could pick up on such things without blushing. Dave was refreshing and exciting to me. I was always ready for the next adventure and Dave was my connection to a world full of interesting places and fascinating people.

“You have that look—what’s going on?” I asked as Dave entered the room. “Something’s off.” “This last email was more than a bit weird.” “We have a hurricane breathing down our necks and they want me on the next plane to DC.” “You’ve gotta be kidding,” I questioned with more than a bit of attitude. This is so typical, I though to myself.  “You know the government …they schedule things at their convenience, not ours,” he added.  “It looks like an evacuation is inevitable if this storm keeps tracking the way it has been.” “Can you handle this alone?” We found an old turkey ranch in the hill country that was far enough away from the coast as our evacuation spot.  “Get to the ranch as soon as they call for an evacuation, and I will join you as soon as I can.” I could tell he was concerned by his tone. It was more of an order than a request. Normally, I would take offense to what sounds like and order…but I’ve known Dave long enough to know it is his way of protecting me.  “And for God sake, remember…I will come to you if anything happens…you are to stay put,” he added in a scolding tone. Dave wasn’t one to leave things to chance and after 9/11, his military training kicked into high gear with plans and procedures.

Life changed for everyone after 9/ll. On the Texas gulf coast we typically worried about hurricanes, tornadoes or the occasional refinery exploding. Now, we worry about terrorist threats to blow up the ship channel, or the possibility of releasing some kind of biohazard in downtown Houston. Hell…if all of that isn’t enough, Mexican nationals protesting immigration laws last week threatened to take back Texas!  Life has been anything but boring.