By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
At that point, Hurricane Katrina was nearly a Category 3, with sustained winds of 115 miles per hour. It was more than 400 miles southeast of the mouth of the Mississippi, the river that defines New Orleans. Bastardi was saying that everyone on the Gulf Coast should stay alert and the oil industry should get everyone off the rigs ASAP. Not overly concerned, we did what the obsessive-compulsive do when a hurricane is in the Gulf: We went through our hurricane kit the batteries, flashlights, important papers in Ziploc bags, the bottled water, the hatchet in case flooding sends us into the attic and we need to hack a hole in the roof.
You see, we never chose to evacuateor as a local on the radio said, "evaporate"for a storm. We always stayed--through Andrew, Georges, Lili, Ivan, Dennis; and this was no different. The pact was (and still is) that we would only "evaporate" if a storm was a strong Category 4 or a Cat 5 and predicted to hit just west of the city.
Having recently returned from a business trip, I spent the morning in my home office catching up on e-mail and completing outstanding expense reports. I figured that if Katrina did come our way I at least wanted to be as caught up as possible and have the money in my bank account. My partner ran the typical "a hurricane is in the Gulf" errands to fill in the gaps in our kit, get cat litter, more water, and enough non-perishable food to last us a week.
By noon, the question throughout the city had become "Are you staying or leaving?" We, and most of our friends and family, were staying. As the day wore on, the strike predictions widened to include the coastline from Morgan City, Louisiana, 80 miles southwest, to the Alabama/Florida line. Katrina's intensity hovered at Cat 2 or 3. We believed we would likely experience some significant winds and rain and definitely lose power. No big deal. We decided to host a "hurricane barbeque" on Sunday to cook all the meat we had in our freezer. We called our friends and invited them to come over around noon the next day.
Around this time Dan, one of my best friends, called from Tulsa offering to catch a flight down and help us secure the house. When he lived here, we used to joke about experiencing the "big one" together. Many New Orleanians lived in fear, fascination, and awe of a devastating hurricane, and Dan and I were no different. Dan's hurricane kit consisted only of a flashlight and batteries, two cases of Diet Coke, and two cartons of cigarettes. We told him we'd love to have him here with us, but figured this wasn't the big one, so he could stay put.
In the early afternoon, we bathed our two dogs, Irma and Marva, and then went out to gas up our cars. I don't remember there being a long wait for gas business was brisk but not out of control. We confirmed our evening plans for dinner with our good friends Therese and Bob and then we took a nap. Around 6 p.m., we headed to Therese and Bob's house. We grilled steaks and talked about not evaporating we knew that this wasn't the hurricane we feared, the one that would come ashore just west of the city so that its upper right quadrant would slam us; this wasn't the one that would send 30-foot wall of water up the Mississippi and over the flood walls and gates that protect us. We briefly considered flooding and storm surge, but levee failure never entered our thoughts.
Each time we looked at the local weather stations or the Weather Channel or Joe Bastardi's predictions, we reassured ourselves that the track wasn't the worse-case scenario, nor was Katrina big enough or strong enough for doomsday. The four of us weren't worried. We were all staying. We returned home around 10, checked the weather channel again for the 10 p.m. update same story as the one at 8 p.m., a Cat 3 with landfall anywhere from Morgan City to the Alabama/Florida line.
We made a conscious decision to hold off on securing the house and yard, believing we had the whole day Sunday. Securing your house before a hurricane involves moving potted plants, lawn chairs, and garden hoses inside, tying shutters closed, boarding up exposed windows, bringing in the ladder for access to the attic. My house is a Victorian side-by-side shotgun double built in the 1880's to serve as a rooming house for nuns and nurses who worked at nearby Touro Hospital. A side-by-side shotgun has a common wall that splits the house in half from front to back. Each side is identical, and if you fired a gun through the open front door, the bullet would go clean out the back door. Built to handle extreme heat in the days before air conditioning, the house has 13-foot ceilings, pocket doors, hardwood floors, and a door in every room that leads to the outside. It is raised, like many of the homes across New Orleans, on brick pilings three feet above the ground. When I bought the place, I told my friends and family I would give it up only by coming out in a pine box.