I was one of many Southeast Texans who had to evacuate their homes due to floodwaters. I was one of many who had to wade through waist-high water to make it to safer ground. I was one of many who had lost their car and personal items to the unrelenting rain Harvey had brought.

My story isn’t special or unique; but, I hold it so due to the very fact that so many other residents in Port Arthur, Houston and the Gulf Coast of Texas had to endure the same thing, if not worse. In our shared moment of misery, we had unity; and in that unity, we continue to have strength.

And I got my first helicopter ride out of it. That’s neat, right?

I woke up Wednesday to a deceptively quiet morning. For that one moment in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to a soft rain patter, I thought the storm had passed and the area only received some heavy rainfall. I thought things had returned to normal.

Then I stepped out of bed and into half an inch of water. The sensation numbed me.

My mother called out from the other end of the house, “It’s coming through the doors.”

I opened the curtains and looked. There were at least a couple of feet of water outside. The house sat on piers; and thus, floodwaters were only beginning to creep in. This most definitely wasn’t normal. I started to collect things and throw them hastily into a backpack. I made my way to the living room with little splashing sounds.

I met my mother at the front. “Can we get out?”

“No.”

I looked through the living room window. Nope.

“What about the emergency numbers?”

“They’re not answering.”

Of course.

We stood in the living room, not moving, just looking out at what had never occurred in our lifetimes. Flooding. Severe flooding. The kind of flooding that you hear about on the news and watch from the comfort and safety of your home—except it was now in our home and we were part of the news story, whether we wanted to be or not.

I paced around, putting what I could on the furniture—computers, shoes, some books—while my mother called family members looking for escape ideas.

One cousin said she had friends who could make it to our house in a very big truck. However, as soon as they had reached the outskirts of our neighborhood, they had to turn back. The water level was too high.

An uncle offered another emergency number to call. It was just as inundated with other calls as the yard was inundated with water.

We waited and watched the rising floodwaters continue to dwindle our options. Then there was a distinctive sound coming from outside.

It was loud, whirring and coming from the sky. I stepped out onto the porch to look for it. It was a helicopter, and never had anything looked so grand. It was hovering three houses down from us.

“Wave them down,” my mother said.

I got a yardstick; she got a white towel. We fashioned it into a flag. I waved it like my life depended on it.

There was a guy who was being lowered to the floodwaters from the helicopter. He was Coast Guard; and soon, he was helping an elderly gentleman get into a basket to be lifted up.

I continued waving and he saw me; he motioned for me to come to him. I told my mother and we waded out into the waters.

The water was cold. I don’t know why, but I never expected it to be that cold.

I held my mother’s hand and guided her through the lake that used to be a front yard. I tested the pond that used to be a driveway. I went first into the river that used to be a street. I didn’t want her to fall. She held on and braced herself against me.

Cautiously and ever so slowly we made our way down the three-house distance to the Coast Guard. The trip felt like it took a lifetime.

He met us in the yard-lake and directed us to the basket. It seemed much smaller and thinner up close.

“You first,” he told my mother.

He helped her in and up she went. I went afterward and was treated with the most terrific sight I had ever seen of my hometown—an aerial view of Port Arthur. Only, most of it was underwater; its rooftops were the only things visible.

It looked nothing like the neighborhood I had grown up in. It was no longer a neighborhood really; it was an area hit by a natural disaster.

Another Coast Guard guy pulled me in and I sat on the floor of the helicopter, cold but alive. And very thankful for it. They took us to safety.

The flood and rescue was, I hope, an once-in-a-lifetime experience and something wholly unique for me. But it wasn’t unique for thousands of others who experienced loss during and after Harvey. It was just something that happened to many of us.

And, hopefully, something that will make us all stronger together.

 

Lorenzo Salinas is a reporter for The Port Arthur News. The News invites readers to share their own survival stories. They may be emailed to jesse.wright@panews.com, or call the office at Call (409) 729-6397.