GULFPORT, Fla. — “We need food. And wine.”
With those words, and a timely break in the rain that had been pounding Gulfport all day during Hurricane Eta’s passing, we set off on foot Wednesday night just before 10 p.m. for the TLC Mart, four blocks away.
What You Need To Know
- Hurricane Eta brought high winds and flooding to Gulfport
- Bay News 9 reporter Scott Harrell hit the street last night to document the storm
My partner and I decided to leave through the side yard and avoid the storm surge on beachfront Shore Boulevard. It was way too late for that; despite our building sitting relatively high, the alley behind was awash in two feet of water. By the time we got to 56th Street South at the end of the block, I had to take my phones out of my pants pockets and put them into my jacket—where the ground dipped, the water was nearly waist-deep.
We saw no one as we trudged through seawater, backed-up runoff (read: sewer water) and floating debris. If you’ve ever seen that scene in every natural-disaster or animal-horror movie (I’m thinking very specifically of 1997’s “Anaconda,” starring Jennifer Lopez and a bunch of other big names who didn’t deserve to be there), you know the feeling: scraping your invisible feet along unseen and uncertain terrain, hoping nothing’s floating (or swimming) up behind you.
I can walk to the TLC Mart from my place in about seven minutes on a sunny afternoon. Wednesday night, it took 20. We saw no one, and had to grab a fence or tree multiple times to keep the wind and the sloshing current from knocking us over.
For some reason, we brought the dog.
When we hit Beach Drive several blocks north, the going got drier and easier, but the wind was still fierce. At least we were able to put the dog down. The shopkeeper at TLC Mart seemed surprised to see anybody out and about; we picked up our needs, and headed south on Beach—we simply had to see if O’Maddy’s, a Gulfport institution where multiple hurricane parties have been staged over the years, was still open.
It wasn’t. Nor was anything else. Several sailboats had been torn from their anchorages and pushed up against the shore and the side of the historic Gulfport Casino. The one group of four or five people we encountered stood at the corner of Beach and Shore, obviously looking for an open bar, and finding none.
“Watch out for sharks,” I joked to one woman.
She didn’t think that was funny.
We trudged home, noting feet of standing water in the open, two-step-up Tiki Bar & Grill at 56th & Shore, formerly Little Tommie’s Tiki; a metal table left outside was just barely standing above the waves, and one of their giant planters had floated over to our parking lot.
We got inside, set our shower head to “Silkwood,” and cleaned up. (Kids, do NOT play in flooded streets near the coast—that’s an excellent way to get ringworm, and worse.)
We woke early Thursday morning after a few fitful hours of sleep (stupid dog), and headed for a walk around the neighborhood. The waters had receded, leaving piles of seaweed and other, more disconcerting things—a child’s flip-flop, half of someone’s floating dock, roughly 17 million plastic bags and cigarette butts. A total of seven sailboats had been run into water much shallower than they could handle; as I write this, at least four are still there, awaiting rescue.
Residents walked around in a daze, or took turns taking photos of the boats up against the Casino, minding the yellow police tape and trying to stay out of one another’s frames. For a neighborhood that’s used to everyone saying “good morning” to everyone else, it was an especially talkative morning, with people checking in with one another, stopping to pet one another’s pets, and asking if anybody needed anything.
Our condo survived with minimal damage. We only got a little water blown in under the door by last night’s wind, and towels can be laundered. Our internet was out for several hours this morning, but again, it’s a little thing compared to the hundreds who had to go without power in the wake of what was, really, a comparatively small storm, but one that (hopefully) marked the end of Tampa Bay’s annual hurricane season with a vengeance.