It’s no secret by now that the Bahamas have suffered a series of devastating blows from Hurricane Dorian. With twenty dead and many more victims to be counted, well over 13,000 families are now homeless, and that’s a modest estimate. It’s hard to find a strong enough word to describe what happened to our neighbors just a stone’s throw from Miami. Horrific doesn’t come close. Catastrophic is not much better. When looking at the open wounds of these island people, those words seem too sterile or impotent.
Authorities have yet to estimate the cost of this devastating storm. More importantly, entire towns were obliterated, but the storm was non-partisan. Dorian has forever changed the lives of rich and poor, black and white. Many whose ancestors have called the Bahamas their home for generations now have no home to go back to.
The Bahamas, unlike many other Caribbean islands, is largely flat. So when the raging waters of the storm filled the home of one Bahamian family, mother and father and their children climbed to their attic. There they hoisted themselves onto the rafters of their humble house where they huddled in fear. Then the unthinkable happened. Dorian, with its 185 mile-an-hour winds, peeled the roof off, and spit its wrath onto the little family clinging for their lives. Merciless, the hurricane whipped wind and rain in their faces. Exposed to the full fury of the storm, children clung precariously to the rafters while mom and dad looked helplessly on.
Minutes later, another threat became obvious. Pieces of sharp metal ripped from the roofs of another home hurled themselves mercilessly at them. Other debris found their mark, ripping fingers that clung for life, and gouging faces that looked for mercy from a storm that would give them none. For over 24 hours the eye of the hurricane slashed at them, gloating in its torture.
Multiply that scenario by thousands of homes where, in some cases, three generations of Bahamians clung for dear life. The storm is past, and the families of the islands are left to pick up the pieces of their lives buried in the rubble of their homes.
If you believe in God, I urge you to pray for them. But don’t think that prayers are enough. Some one once observed: “More precious than the hands that pray are the hands that help.” The hurricane is past, and now it’s a time for doing. Pity, prayer, and thoughts of the devastated are all fine, but help is what these island people really need.
I’m not a wealthy man by any means, but I encourage everyone reading this to make a donation to the Red Cross or any other group directly offering help though you need to watch out for little known charities who far too often put your donation in their pocket.
If I were a Warren Buffett or a Bill Gates, or one of thousands of sports figures making millions of dollars every year, I wouldn’t hesitate to take one of those millions to help the people of the Bahamas rebuild their lives.
If I were the President of the United States or an influential politician, I would waste no time stepping up to the plate offering massive aid not just for relief, but to help the people rebuild their homes and their lives. We’re not talking a few million dollars which would be nothing but a band aid on a hemorrhaging artery. I’m talking about a massive infusion of cash. Twenty-five to 50 million dollars would be great for starters.
Maybe some of the millionaires who recently got massive tax breaks would be interested in returning the money that they never really needed, so they could help those whose only fault was being caught in the eye of a storm, incredibly brutal and cruel.
What’s your opinion? Do you think it’s enough just to pray for our neighbors just 50 miles off our coast? Or do you think we should do something about it. What would you do? Here’s a better question. What ARE you going to do?
The Uncommon Mariner
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Hurricane Matthew has long blown out to sea, and I know I speak for millions when I say good riddance. What began as a category four hurricane finally limped out to sea as a tropical storm after a week of spreading death and destruction to millions and creating havoc in the lives of millions more.
We should be particularly mindful of the folks in Haiti who lost over three hundred sons and daughters, parents, and grandparents when it crossed through the Windward Passage, the strait separating Cuba from Haiti. Ironically, it’s the same route buccaneers and pirates took hundreds of times when they wreaked havoc on passing ships in the eighteenth century Caribbean.
The Bahamas, as vulnerable as they are with their mostly low lying country, were spared the deadly impact of Matthew. Since Nassau was once a pirate stronghold with the ships of Benjamin Hornigold and Blackbeard filling their harbor, I’d like to think maybe they were keeping a watchful eye over the islands.
As for my wife and I, after two days of preparation, we finally evacuated our home in Murrells Inlet. At the time, Matthew was a category four hurricane still tormenting Haiti and the Caribbean, and Governor Haley of South Carolina was issuing evacuation orders.
Though the storm was downgraded to a category one when it arrived on my front door step, I don’t regret leaving. It gave my wife and I the opportunity to reunite with her cousin and his lovely wife in North Carolina where they were gracious enough to host us for five days. The laughter and memories we shared were priceless, and Johnny’s stories about his time in Vietnam gave me an even deeper appreciation of the Vietnam vet. Thanks Johnny and Peggy. I hope you realize how much it meant to us.
People ask me, “Don’t you feel a little bit foolish leaving when all that South Carolina had was a category one storm?” We all know Monday Morning quarterbacks are pretty common, and their insights worthless. As a writer I’ve done much research not only on pirates and shipwrecks but hurricanes as well, and I know how devastating a category four hurricane can be.
Governor Haley and I don’t share much in the way of political perspectives, but I have to give her credit. She gave everyone ample warning and was right to issue an evacuation for her state when she did.
Had Matthew moved a little faster and hugged the coastline a little tighter, the devastation and loss of life from Florida to South Carolina would have been catastrophic.
The folks who chose to remain behind would have been caught in massive traffic jams while a horrific storm bore down on them. How do you explain to your kids when your car is suddenly swept away in flood waters that you were too stupid or obdurate to evacuate earlier?
Hurricanes are merciless. They don’t care how smart you are or how rich; they don’t care how busy you are or how important. They don’t care how many storms you’ve survived in the past. Stand in the face of one often enough, and one day it will be your last.
Soon the cleanup will be complete, and the storm a distant memory. I hope neither the countries of the Caribbean or the United States have to endure any more for quite a while. Many of us need time to deal with Matthew’s aftermath. As for those unaffected by the storm, they might want to reassess their wait-and-see strategy for dealing with hurricanes. One day it will save their lives.
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It stands about a block off Bay Street in Nassau, Bahamas at the corner of King and George, but when the sun hits the sign on that deep pink building the drunkest pirate could find it after the wildest night of debauchery. And if you haven’t indulged too heavily the night before, you’re likely to hear Blackbeard’s voice boom as he swears gleefully at Benjamin Hornigold, his one time shipmate and mentor.
“And what the hell is me quartermaster be doing on these streets when ye got important business on the ship?” swears Hornigold.
Blackbeard studying his captain barely blinks. “I got me an itchin’ for that raven-haired wench at the Crossbones Pub and a thirst to match.”
“We be sailin’ tonight for sure. Word has it a shipload of Spanish coins, lots of rum, and an assortment of lovely baubles all be headin‘ our way.”
Blackbeard grunts then slips into the dark coolness of a nearby tavern. His dark beauty is waiting.
Nassau, Bahamas is a booming island, and whether you visit by plane or by ship, you’ll find the people for the most part warm and friendly, and focused on the business of daily living just like the old days when Blackbeard and Hornigold turned it into one of the most thriving Pirate Havens of the Caribbean.
Little is left of their haunts where they unloaded their booty and swapped tales and goods with local merchants and citizens. New markets have risen on the ghostly remains of the old, but the smiles and grinning eyes remain in the town’s descendants.
But to really appreciate the significance of Nassau, you have to wander up from Bay street till you come to the pink clad building cloaked in an air of mystery. Like one who consorts with pirates, it sees far more than it tells.
Rounding the corner, the first thing I notice is the lone black figure standing tall in the street. Black boots, black trousers, black shirt frame the figure, a tricorn hat long associated with pirates sits atop the pirate’s ebony face. And he grins.
He grins and waves me over. “Let’s see how it fits you,” he calls as he motions to his weathered stocks with a hole just large enough to place my head and two smaller holes to clasp my wrists.
The black pirate’s disarming smile nudges me just feet from the dark castle-like building, its opening like a mouth ready to swallow one more visitor into its mysterious depths.
His penetrating eyes stare into my soul, and recognizing a compatriot, I smile back. With the same playful banter between Blackbeard and Hornigold, he invites me into a world of pirates, and suddenly centuries fall away, and it’s 1715 again when pirates overwhelmingly outnumbered its citizens. Continue reading →