By Lauren de Albuquerque
Managing Editor
The Gulf waters softly lap the shoreline on this balmy Sunday afternoon. Pelicans soar overhead as sandpipers scurry about in the breaking waves, looking for dinner. The sound of the surf and the seagulls’ cries enhance this scene of peace and tranquility—until I turn around and see the destruction wrought by Hurricane Ike.
This is Crystal Beach on the Bolivar Peninsula in Southeast Texas. Long a vacation playground for families and spring-breakers, the area had grown by leaps and bounds through the years. New developments sprang up from High Island to the Galveston Ferry. Restaurants like DeCoux’s and Stingaree’s always brought in the crowds, and the Big Store with its brand-new castle façade had absolutely anything a vacationer could possibly want—from imported wines to incense to garden hoses. Until now.
The Return
This is the third day of the Bolivar Return. Beginning Friday, Sept. 26, area residents can “visit” their homes on the island between 6 a.m. and 2 p.m., with everyone off the peninsula by 4 p.m. Because there are no utilities or water, no one is allowed to remain in the area overnight.
On Friday, the lines getting into Bolivar were reportedly backed up for five miles. But this Sunday morning, there’s only a 10-minute wait to hand the officers your registration form and proof of residency at the checkpoint before Rollover Pass. FEMA is giving out water, ice, hand sanitizers and tetanus shots at a staging area on High Island, but we’ve decided to skip it, since we’re anxious to see what, if anything, is left of our house.
My husband Phil and I had a vacation home on Crystal Beach. Four bedrooms, right on the water. We’ve been told it’s completely gone.
The bridge at Rollover Pass between Gilchrist and Caplen suffered extensive damage and has been reduced to one usable lane. Once over the bridge, the ride approaching Crystal Beach is harrowing: Rows of telephone poles snapped in two, vehicles smashed and submerged in muck by the side of the road, bed linens and clothing twisted around trees and flattened fences. And initially, no houses anywhere—just pilings and cement slabs. ‘We’ll Be Back” is scrawled on a piece of plywood propped up against a block of cement.
We eventually start seeing some homes in various stages of destruction. Ironically, some look barely touched by Ike. Others are half smashed, slanted on their pilings, looking like houses of cards about to fold.
DeCoux’s Pub is gone without a trace. All that’s left is the sign. The same for True Value Hardware. Mama Theresa’s Flying Pizza is a pile of rubble.
We come to the Big Store. It actually looks pretty good in the front, with its fish plaques and statuary intact, but as we drive by, we can see that the inside is heavily damaged. Our street is shortly after the store. The driving is treacherous, as the road is covered with thick sand. Halfway down, we realize that we’re going to get stuck, so we decide to pull over and walk the rest of the way.
Gone with the Waves
The rest of the way leads to nothing but a cement slab and some jagged pilings. That’s it. No furniture, nothing. It’s all gone.
It’s a lot to take in. The beach in front of our house has gotten a complete facelift. The dunes, wild grass and flowers have disappeared. Many of the houses around us have been obliterated.
Our house was named Amaris West. We had another beach house called Amaris on Dauphin Island, Alabama, that was claimed by Katrina. Amaris means Child of the Sea, and it’s ironic that both houses were taken by it.
We rented out Amaris West on a week-to-week basis during the summer months, but in the off-season, we would come down on weekends, bring friends, and enjoy the Gulf breezes and spectacular view from our deck. We had just installed new floors and French doors.
We notice people slowly moving through the nearby ruins in rubber boots and gloves, searching for something that Ike left behind.
Ron and Bonnie York live in Arkansas. They bought their two-bedroom vacation home on the beach this past June—two days after they got married. They had only spent a total of 16 days in their house, which, like ours, is now just a slab.
“We’re going to rebuild,” Ron York said. “We’re not leaving. We love it here.” He is not concerned about the rumors that the State of Texas may not let homeowners rebuild due to beach erosion and the Open Beaches Act. He points to what’s left of the beachfront homes. “Look there, “he said. “There are too many big money people who have homes here. They’re big taxpayers. The state’s not going to stop them from rebuilding.”
Meanwhile, Bonnie York is digging through the piles of debris that randomly dot the sand—smashed DVD players and Mardi Gras beads and battered frying pans. If she finds something intact that doesn’t belong to her, she painstakingly removes all the mud and sets it on the sand, in hopes that the owner will eventually come along to claim it.
“What I’m really looking for is my T-shirt with my daughter’s picture on it,” she said. “She died a year and half ago. She was only 16.”
As I walk with Bonnie, I discover a bright yellow dish from my house, just sitting on top of the sand—completely intact. With her help, I find two more pieces. I can’t imagine they survived Ike’s fury without a crack.
Cathie and Dan Mouton’s home was right behind ours. The Beaumont couple is sitting under an umbrella on their cement slab, facing the Gulf—which they can see unobstructed now that our house is gone. Like the Yorks, they want to rebuild. “We’ve only had it two years,” Cathie Mouton said. “We completely remodeled it. And we came every weekend. We’re not giving this up.”
She is apprehensive about the Open Beaches Act, however. “They say they’re going to wait a year—have the beach go through the four seasons—to see exactly how much erosion there is,” she said. “I’m worried.”
Various mud-encrusted tools, rakes and shovels are lined up next to their slab. “These are ours,” Dan Mouton said. “We found them in that ditch way over there.” Cathie wishes they had taken their professional margarita-maker home when they boarded up the house, but they thought about it too late. “Oh, well, it’s all gone,” she said.
Meanwhile, our insurance adjuster, a pleasant young man from Kentucky, shows up. “This is the eighth house I’ve looked at today,” he said. He shakes his head. “They’re all bad, really bad,” he said. “I worked on Katrina claims and let me tell you, it’s much worse here.”
As the witching hour of 4 p.m. approaches, we gather up our three dishes and a rusted sunburst plaque that hung over our fireplace and head for home. Will we rebuild, if we can? Probably not. There comes a time when you just have to leave it all behind.
