Memories of these storms last forever

BY ANA VECIANA-SUAREZ

aveciana@herald.com

Sometimes I can still hear the wind. The sound of a hurricane barreling through a house is like no other. A howl. A bang. A rip. An infernally long shriek.

Thirteen years after Hurricane Andrew I cannot forget.

I know the Gulf Coast victims of Hurricane Katrina won't, either. News and video of the cataclysmic devastation is heart-wrenching, and for me, of special interest, not only as a survivor of a Category 5 but also because my best friend from childhood -- the girl who shared my first make-up, my first confessions, my first disappointments -- lives on the outskirts of New Orleans.

Hours before Katrina swept through the area, we spoke about the impending catastrophe through the marvels of cell phones. We in Miami had experienced Katrina as a Category 1, and that was scary and vicious enough. What more would the storm do now that her force had multiplied? The possibilities cast a long shadow over our late-night communication.

My friend described a tearful car trip north with children and pets, knowing that in all likelihood her home, or at the very least what she knew of it, wouldn't be there when she returned.

She was right, unfortunately so.

Katrina battered 540 miles of coastline across four states, as Alabama and Mississippi recorded wind blasts in the triple digits. Buildings imploded, boats were hurled inland, windows were smashed, whole neighborhoods flooded. As of this writing, the death count was still mounting.

Even without the benefit of photographs, I can close my eyes and see it all. Again. The wrath of nature leaves a permanent imprint like nothing else. Just ask the survivors of the tsunami. Or an earthquake. Or any volcanic eruption.

The worst is over, one newspaper blogger reported after the winds had subsided. Poor fool, I thought when I read that statement. The worst comes in many guises. It will be days before we know the real extent of the damage. Weeks before these pummeled cities pump out the water. Then months for the clean-up. And, finally, years for the rebuilding.

I dare not give a time for the scars to heal. They are too many, too varied, perhaps too deep, to invite predictions.

As millions of people try to cobble their lives back together, modern lives eased by electricity, refrigeration and satellite communications, they will nevertheless experience an ancient feeling, a very human emotion that no generation has managed to escape despite technological advances. It will be one of awe and fear.

When they survey the landscape of shattered glass, broken trees, and flattened buildings, they will marvel, with a horrific shudder, at the absolute majesty and power of something that we, for all our knowledge, have not quite managed to tame. They will stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as I once did, at how a few hours -- sometimes minutes -- can so alter years and years of building.

They will feel puny. They will feel violated. They will feel insignificant. They will recognize that there is something so much bigger than they are, and it chooses to remind us of this vulnerability always so inopportunely. It is a humbling experience.

But those feelings will also be tempered with gratitude. Yes, believe it or not, thankfulness. There is a cleansing that comes from such catastrophe, a readjustment of priorities and thought, of visions reassessed. Sooner or later, the beleaguered residents of the Gulf Coast will admonish themselves for having wasted time and worry on things that, in the end, did not matter.

If there is a ray of hope I can give my friend in this dark, dismal hour, surely it would be that nugget of knowledge.