By the final slurp of our Brandy Alexanders we had a course of action. If the weather was no worse in the morning, I would go off in search of Dramamine while William packed the snorkeling gear. We would take that glass-bottom boat trip, we would see pretty fish, and we would not vomit.
Later in our room, while brushing my teeth, I drifted over to the television and clicked on CNN. I froze mid-brush and stared at the weather graphic in front of me. I made a gurgling noise to get William's attention.
The tropical depression now had a name: Wilma.
And she was a Category 5 hurricane.
This is the worst storm in Atlantic history for as long as storms have been recorded, the broadcaster intoned.
The map on the screen didn't target the Yucatan. It didn't target Cancun.
The single location pictured was a tiny island: COZUMEL.
Toothpaste dripped down my chin as I pointed to the TV. We have to get out of here. Mierda.
After umpteen futile attempts to reach the airline by phone (at $3 a minute), we had no choice but to wait until morning to seek help from the concierge.
We crawled into bed, exhausted from stress and hard thinking. After flopping around on the bed, smashing my pillow and uselessly squeezing my eyes shut, I gave up. I exhaled shallow, anxious breaths and tried to imagine how events would unfold.
Thanks to CNN, my head was filled with terrifying facts.
The power would go out early in the game, probably when winds reached Category 1 status at 74 mph. Our room would plunge into blackness. The air conditioning and refrigeration would shut down. An ocean surge would flood the hotel and the streets.
A Category 2 force of 110 mph would shatter those floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby and blow out the sliding glass door in our room.
And when the Category 5 gusts hit at upward of 155 mph—
No comments:
Post a Comment