It was early September of 1961. I was just beginning my freshman year of high school, excited about being an upperclassman, and eager to pursue the academic classes and special extracurriculars that would pave my way to college and beyond. Already I had my sights set on editing the school newspaper and maybe even trying out for cheerleader for next year. But already my enthusiasm was being tempered: a hurricane was coming and everything, including school and work and Friday-night football, was shutting down.

     As early as September 1, the weather service was aware of a tropical “disturbance” tracking westward across the Caribbean Sea. Low-level wind circulations continued to develop and then shifted west a couple days later. On September 4, when the depression was situated about 250 miles east-southeast of Nicaragua, the Weather Bureau Office in Miami issued its first bulletin. The depression strengthened into a tropical storm on September 5 and was named Carla. The very next day, September 6, observations obtained by reconnaissance aircraft compelled the Weather Bureau to issue another bulletin indicating that Carla had reached hurricane intensity. In light of her new-found strength, Carla promptly curved northward in the Caribbean and intensified into a Category 2 hurricane.

     And this is how I found myself at home on that Thursday afternoon, September 7, with school cancelled for the next day and maybe for days into the next week, depending on the path Carla would decide to take. Interesting that even in 1961, without any sirens much less the kind of sophisticated tracking equipment we have today, people in South Texas were always alert during hurricane season (June through November), especially so when there was a growing storm headed toward the Gulf. Preparations born of past experience started early. In Victoria where I lived, we were just 20 miles inland from some of the small coastal towns of Port Lavaca and Indianola, and not that much farther from the larger ones like Corpus Christi. 

     Carla crossed the Yucatán Channel on Friday, September 8, entered the Gulf of Mexico and become a Category 3 storm. By then, many of us were already plotting her position at home on our hurricane tracking maps given out around town every season. By then, community angst was visible: cars queued up at gas stations, harried shoppers mobbed grocery stores, and scores of the faithful lined up outside church doors. By then, Mother and I had filled the bathtub with water (no bottled waters then), gathered candles and kerosene lanterns, assembled canned goods on the kitchen table, and collected old towels to sop up water coming in through the porches’ doors. And by then, squalls of wind and rain were already approaching. My grandmother, who was both religious and superstitious, was pacing the floor, praying out loud, and exclaiming with certainty that we were all going to blow away. 

     “Never mind, Mom,” my Mother told me. “She’s always been hysterical in bad weather. This old house has weathered many a storm. We’ll be fine.”

     But a lot of people didn’t share that confidence. As Carla entered the Gulf of Mexico and headed toward the South Texas coastline on Saturday, September 9, over a half-million residents  in low-lying areas were encouraged to leave. Most did, and that became the largest mass evacuation ever in Texas up to that date. Carla kept coming straight at us, and on September 10, she was upgraded to a Category 4. Moving into the northwestern Gulf on Monday, September 11, she was believed to have strengthened into a Category 5 hurricane with sustained winds of 175 mph (though a reanalysis of data in 2018 concluded that she did not reach a Cat 5 intensity).

     But let’s not quibble: all I know is that Carla made landfall at Matagorda Island just a few miles south of Victoria on Monday, September 11. Officially, she was a Category 4 storm with sustained winds of 145 mph. It was my first major hurricane and it was outrageous: hours of howling, house-shaking winds, sheets of torrential rains delivered with thunderous applause as the northern-most eyewall approached. 

     And then, all of a sudden, a stunning quiet. Clouds lifted, rain stopped, sunshine peeked through; we were in the eye. 

     Those who didn’t know any better might have thought the whole disaster was over, but they would have been wrong. I don’t remember how long the lull of the eye lasted in Carla; it can range anywhere from a half hour or so to several hours, depending on the size of the storm and where you are in relation to the outer eyewall.  But once the eye passes, the worst is yet to come: the winds on the other side of the eyewall rotate and blow in the opposite direction, bringing with them all the accumulated debris and the heaviest rains.   

          The rain continued to fall steadily, but tapered off by the next day. Carla was downgraded to a Category 2 on September 12 after passing over Port Lavaca, and then down to a Cat 1 as it moved inland. As she headed due north into Oklahoma, she became simply a tropical cyclone. Hurricanes are generally a long time in coming, but they dissipate quickly. Carla became the largest hurricane (in terms of area) then on record in Texas. The severe damage along the Coast due to prolonged winds, high tides, and flooding from torrential rains resulted in $326 million worth of damage, $3.4 billion in today’s monetary value. Incredibly, though, only 46 people lost their lives, a miracle attributed to early warnings, massive evacuations, and sensible preparations by coastal residents. Experience counts in hurricanes.

     However, the effects of Carla lingered. Resulting flood waters rose in the aftermath because of the sea surge and heavy rains pounding previously dry earth. The highest storm surge reached about 22 feet above sea level at Port Lavaca, and the waters spread inland for miles. As well as I can remember, we had a couple feet of flooding around our house, maybe more. I had sat on our screened back porch during the waning hours of the storm watching things fly by in the wind, things like sheds and cars; days later, I sat on the porch and watched the remnants of what was left float by in the flood water: lumber, furniture, tools, toys, and trees.

     I sat out during the daylight, of course, because we had no electricity for several days, no phone lines, and no potable water except that which we had stored in advance. I don’t remember exactly how many days we were at home or how long it took for things to get back to normal, but it seemed a long time to me since I was anxious to get back to school. But I can still see those bent fences looking like strainers for the debris and the uprooted trees that blocked the streets for a very long time. (Similar remnants of Hurricane Harvey are still around in Victoria now eight years later).

     The constant news coverage of the recent flooding of the Guadalupe River up in the Hill Country has caused all my own memories of major storms to come flooding back, some of the worst prompting moments of PTSD. Victoria, you see, is also on the Guadalupe River, and so all of my past experiences, whether begun with hurricanes from the south or converging rivers from the north, somehow end up with the Guadalupe. Coincidentally, I recently found a photo of myself at 5 years old standing on the edge of our front porch and pointing down to roughly three feet of water in the flood of 1951 caused by Tropical Storm Dog (yes, “Dog”). It made landfall in August of that year and subsequently caused the Guadalupe to rise and flood almost all of Victoria for days..

     I have been both amused at the ignorance and irritated by the statements of politicians and others attempting to deflect blame over what happened — or what didn’t happen —in Kerrville.  “Nobody could have seen this coming,” some said. “Who’s to blame is the word choice of losers,” accused the Governor. “Nothing like this has happened for 200 years,” the President proclaimed. Wrong, wrong, and wrong again. They don’t call that area of the Hill Country “Flash Flood Alley” for nothing. In my lifetime, I have directly experienced the two disasters recounted above, plus the River Flood of 1998 and Hurricane Harvey in 2017 and I’m not  200 years old, though I may feel like it sometimes. [Scroll back to see blog posts about those on this site:  “Come Hell or High Water,” 9/4/2017  and “Part II: The Debris,” 9/17/2017.] 

     People who live in disaster-prone areas, even if not actually in a designated flood plain, are aware of the risks, or should be. I have always longed for a home right on the Gulf, but Mother Nature has no obligation to accommodate my dreams. Better to rent a condo for a while in late summer, but even then … 

     As all these memories come flooding back to me, the one thing I appreciate, besides my survival, is the knowledge gained through experience. Who knows? I might need it again sometime.