Flood & Fire

 Flood & Fire

Following the 1989 San Francisco Earthquake, Mommer decided it was time to move out of California before “the really big one hits”. One of Mommer’s childhood friends, Donna* and her daughter, Jennifer*, my childhood friend, had moved to Hawai’i just prior to the earthquake. We had visited Donna and Jennifer for a vacation on the beautiful island of Kaua’i. We both fell in love with the idea of living in the tropics with our friends. We made the move on the very last school day of my sixth-grade year in June 1991.

            We lived with Donna and Jennifer on and off over the next year. On September 11, 1992, our little island was struck by Hurricane Iniki, teaching us there can be natural disasters no matter where you live. It took our island months to recover from the heartache of that experience. There had been no phone service, electricity, or mail for over a month, following the hurricane. There was no fresh food, only MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) provided by the US Coast Guard, and only canned water had been deemed safe for consumption. Even the tropical fruit trees that typically dominate the island, which normally would have sustained us, had been stripped of their ripe fruits causing a sweet stench in the air of our once flourishing, now barren island.

Following Iniki, Mommer and I finally settled into a tiny studio cabin once again with Donna and Jennifer. It was a cabin on loan through the Seventh Day Adventist Church; the church that also managed the private school that Jennifer and I attended, Kahili Adventist School. We were beginning to feel a sense of relief and o’hana (family) after the catastrophe from Iniki. Our island was starting to host modern facilities once again and the communities were beginning to feel secure.

                Jennifer and I were invited to the main cabin at Kahili Mountain Park for dinner one evening. The cabin hosts lived in a large modular home at the base of Kahili Mountain. They were a family with a bunch of kids of varying ages. The host family invited all of the Kahili cabin kids over for dinner.  They were having some sort of teen night for us.

                It was a stormy evening with torrential rains, which is typical for the tropics in the winter months. Still, this storm was extreme. Jennifer and I sloshed through the flooded grasses from our little cabin home to the main cabin wearing only slippas (flip-flops) because that’s whatcha do in Hawai’i.

                We arrived at the main cabin, shook ourselves off, and joined the buffet-style gathering. We each grabbed a bowl of Frito pie and a soda. There were different rooms set up with different activities in each room. One room had board games, there was a movie playing in the living room, and one of the bedrooms offered video games. Jennifer chose the living room to watch a movie. I chose the video game room because there was a bed. I was a rather lazy teen so my choice was always to lie down. I was on the bed watching a friend play some game or another in a crowded space. There were at least four of us sitting or lying down on the bed. Some friends were sitting in chairs that were scattered around the room, and still, a few people were standing.

                Suddenly I heard someone from outside yell, “THERE’S A FIRE IN ONE OF THE CABINS!” Immediately and instinctively, I jumped off the bed and saw Jennifer standing in the doorway of the bedroom that I was in, holding her hand out toward me. In that moment, I thought it strange that she happened to be there right then, but had no time to ask questions or wonder what brought her to me. I grabbed onto Jennifer’s hand and together we ran outside to see which cabin it was.

                It was dark outside; pitch black. The rain hadn’t calmed; in fact, it was much worse. It was coming down in sheets rather than drops. The water on the ground had risen to mid-calf level, and sure enough, looking down the road we could see huge roaring flames. The fire was so enormous compared to the size of the cabins, there was no doubt that the entire cabin must have been engulfed.

                Jennifer and I started to run toward the flames but we were pulled back toward the main cabin and were told that ‘they’ are checking on the cabin.

                Was it our cabin? Jennifer and I stood in the flooding water, soaking wet. I felt the rush of the water flowing around my legs as the flood’s current worked to knock me down. We stood holding one another with every ounce of anything we had, waiting to find out what was going on, whose cabin it was, and whether or not our moms were alright.

                After an eternity, we heard sounds; groans and moans. Were they crying sounds? What were we hearing? Over the rains and the flood waters pouring all around us, the stifled sounds were like whimpering noises similar to the time I found puppies outside my bedroom window when I was five. We couldn’t make anything out visually. With the pouring rain and the darkness of night, nothing was distinguishable.

                We finally saw them. Mommer was half walking, half being carried by her rescuer on one side, Donna on her other, trying to support her. As Donna saw Jennifer, she ran and grabbed onto Jennifer. I was alone for a few moments until Mommer and one of the older teens from the event passed me by. I didn’t even know what to say or if there was anything to ask. I just waited for answers to come. As she passed me, Mommer told me that she had been burned.

                I followed her inside and walked toward the back of the house where she had been taken. She was in the bathroom; they were putting her into a cold shower. I tried to push my way into the bathroom but was told that I couldn’t go in. They asked me to wait elsewhere.

                I found myself wandering to the living room where the movie was still playing, although, the overhead lights were on now. The group of teens were sitting rather than lying down. The distraction from the movie was loud and over-stimulating. All of my focus was on the sounds coming from the bathroom; hearing only what came from that room – that taboo place. Moaning and yelling. Sounds of pain and trauma.

Donna and Jennifer were sitting on the couch together, crying. I was sitting on a chair in the center of the room. It felt like a center stage as I waited for some type of answer.  Donna and Jennifer were mourning the loss of all their things. I sat in shocked silence. I didn’t know if my mom was going to make it through this. And then what? What happens to me? I had no family on the island. I had no one to care for me. I had absolutely nothing! Fuck the things that are lost. Two months prior, we had lost everything we owned in the hurricane. It was clear that things don’t matter. Somehow, the stuff always returns, re-manifesting itself somehow. But what about my mom? I couldn’t manifest my mom! I could potentially lose my entire livelihood, and I couldn’t even visit the person I relied upon to provide my security.

                Another eternity and an ambulance somehow arrived. With the floods and the muddy sugarcane field backroads which carried us to our cabin home, the emergency vehicles had a near impossible time making their way to that modular cabin at the base of Kahili Mountain. Yet somehow, they arrived. Mommer was still in the cold shower. I was still seated in the chair.

                The EMTs brought a gurney inside the main cabin when they arrived. I stood to watch them try to fit that thing through the hallway as they struggled to find a way to get Mommer on it. The EMTs were concerned about infection to her legs if her exposed flesh were to touch the floodwaters. I heard Mommer tell the EMTs that the gurney wasn’t necessary. She could walk with assistance to the ambulance. I felt relief in hearing even that bit of information.

                Instinctively, I followed the procession out to the ambulance.

                I was told by one of the hosts of the party that I should stay with them in the main cabin. That’s when I finally began to cry. I can’t! I just can’t! I need to go with my mom. She’s all I have. I didn’t say a word of this. I cried quietly because that’s how I had learned to harbor my pain and my trauma. Silently.

                One of the EMTs reached out a hand and asked if I was her daughter. I said yes and he took my hand and said I needed to come with him. He told the party host that I was fine to ride along.

Savior.

            I remember the drive to the hospital clearly. I was amazed by the rising waters that were covering the roads; the voiced concerns of the ambulance driver as we crossed a flooded bridge. I remember the sounds of pain and anguished cries coming from Mommer as they held her down, treated her wounds, and asked her questions. I remember the kindness of the driver as he tried to distract me by asking me personal questions, “How old am I; Who’s my best friend; Do I have family on the island; Who can they call?”

                This conversation terrified me. The realization I had inside the main cabin was now voiced out loud: Where could I go? Nowhere. Who was around to help? No one.

            At the same time, the ambulance driver made me feel safe. He spoke to me as if everything was going to be okay and that I would be taken care of no matter what. I didn’t know how he knew I would be okay, but his reassurance made me feel secure. There were only a few kind words, but they made all the difference in my perception of what was happening.

                We finally arrived at the hospital. From there, I can’t remember anything. I don’t know if I followed Mommer on the gurney into a room, or if I was asked to stay in the waiting room. I don’t remember if anyone came to talk with me, or if I was left alone. I don’t remember if I was cold or if I had dried off from the rains. I don’t remember the drive back to the main cabin, or when that happened. But somehow, I got back. I don’t remember if Mommer was with me that night or if she stayed in the hospital.

The next morning, I was asked to go to school because “it’s best to move past these things”.

                I told the main cabin hosts that I had no clothes to wear to school. They gave me an old T-shirt and pants and shoes that didn’t fit. Slippas weren’t deemed appropriate attire at school. I wore yesterday’s underwear.

I remember being in class and feeling slightly embarrassed about the clothes I was wearing. I expected someone to say something to me. We were a small class with twelve students and three teachers. I expected someone to give me a sympathetic look, or ask a question.

               The only recognition I received was from Mr. Phillips* who gave me a slight bow of his head; respectfully. That motion made feel understood, recognized, and honored.

                I don’t remember how life carried on over the next few days. I don’t even remember when Mommer was brought back to me; I’m also not sure if we were ever really separated.

How’d that fire start in the first place? There was an old propane pipe that had sprung a leak which no one knew about. Propane is heavier than air so it doesn’t evaporate, yet it floats on top of water. Over time, the leaked propane had sunk into the ground rather than evaporate. The floodwaters from that night caused the propane to float on top of the water from the flood.

            Mommer and Donna had been cooking dinner. When they lifted the top of the pot from the propane-powered stovetop, it drew the propane from the ground to the flame under the stove, and boom – caused an explosion. Donna ran out the front door. Mommer was on the other side of the stove, blocked from the front door by a fresh wall of flames. She instinctively ran into the cabin. But there was only one exit.

            With no other option, to save herself, Mommer had to run back through that wall of flames to get out of the cabin. Hearty.

When you’re able to dig, you can often find a miracle in stories like these. I learned this truth through the earthquake, from the hurricane, and finally in the fire.

 Jennifer and I didn’t talk about the fire for a year and a half. We would see each other at school but were encouraged to carry on and move forward, so we did that rather than talk through our individual struggles or share with one another our particular stories. We ignored the reality that our lives had once been melded together and then, suddenly, that connection halted. We were separated by that fire and now continued on our own paths. I didn’t know what happened with Donna and Jennifer in the months following the fire. I would assume they didn’t know what happened with Mommer and me, either.

                When Jennifer and I shared our individual perspectives about that night, I was amazed by what I heard from her.

                I recounted my story, and stated how perfect it was that she happened to be entering the video-game room at the very moment we heard those fateful words, “THERE’S A FIRE IN ONE OF THE CABINS!”

                When I said this, Jennifer looked at me astonished. She said, “I wasn’t in the video game room, Brooke. You were in the living room where the movie was playing. You were there reaching out to take my hand.”

               

The people who still stand out for me are those who had compassion and who recognized the struggle I was experiencing; the ambulance driver and Mr. Phillips. They honored my pain without trying to mask it or to save me from it. The ambulance driver heard my words and encouraged the strength I would need to endure my new life, for indeed it would be changing. He honored the truth of my situation simply by asking questions and then listening to my answers. Mr. Phillips, though he didn’t say a word, made me feel capable of moving forward positively.

The kind words expressed from the ambulance driver and the respectful nod from my science teacher gave me the courage to walk the path I was on. They assisted me in discovering my faith. Through this experience, I learned that I am always going to be okay.

Bringing my pain to the surface was imperative. Those few gestures enabled my truth to be recognized. Stating my truth enabled me to carry the weight I would bear in the upcoming months. Watching Mommer heal from her third-degree burns which covered her legs, arms, and face; deeming her handicapped for over a month with daily hospital visits, and no vehicle to the hospital was the most difficult thing I have ever experienced. I was merely fourteen.

The fire taught me how crucially important it is to talk with each other and to build community surrounding someone who is going through a trauma. Simply listening to the people affected helps more than anything else you can do. Trauma does not mean the person will require that you solve all their problems or that you feed them, clothe them, home them; they simply need to know there are people who care. Take a moment, give them a hug, listen to the woe. Encourage them in their strength; assist them in their hearty** journey.

The end.

*Names have been changed.

**Hearty – My word combining humanity’s innate ability to be both hardy and with having a big heart; strength and love. Welcome!

http://www.trailblazerhawaii.com/2015/03/kauai-hiking-update-kahili-mountain.html (I hiked to the top of that tall mountain with my 8^th-Grade Kahili Class!)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Iniki (The Path of Hurricane Iniki; September 1992. The storm traveled from East to West (right to left in this picture). It was moving away from our beloved islands until suddenly, it seemed to make a b-line directly toward Kaua’i. Once it hit, it hovered directly atop our island for nearly three hours.)

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