As a historical comparison, on September 8, 1900 the Galveston Hurricane of 1900 landed along a path similar to Ike's, bringing with it a storm surge that inundated most of Galveston Island, which was Texas' largest city and a major U.S. port. As a result, much of the city was destroyed, and at least 6,000 people were killed in a few hours. Engineers subsequently increased the average elevation of the island by 4 ft (1.2 m) and constructed a 17-foot (5.2-m) seawall to block incoming waves.
On Sept. 10,2008 U.S. President George W. Bush made an emergency declaration for Texas in advance of Hurricane Ike, making more federal help available for preparations and evacuations.[42]
On Sept. 11, forecasting models began to show Ike making landfall just south of Galveston. City Manager Steven LeBlanc late Wednesday issued a mandatory evacuation order for the low lying west end of Galveston Island.[47] Later, the mandatory evacuation order was extended to the entire island of Galveston, as well as low-lying areas around Houston, Texas.[48] Residents evacuating ahead of Ike were received by emergency workers in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. The fleeing residents were provided a place of refuge, medical treatment, and provisions until Ike had passed. After Hurrican Katrina devastated the Gulf Coast and submerged New Orleans, the DFW area became a place for New Orlean residents to recover from the storms destructive forces. The DFW area was still providing relief to evacuees from Gustav earlier in the 2008 hurricane season when it began preparations for Texas coastal residents leaving prior to Ike's arrival
Also on Sept. 11, at 8:19 p.m. (CDT), the National Weather Service in Houston/Galveston, TX issued a strongly worded bulletin, regarding storm surge along the shoreline of Galveston Bay. The bulletin advised that residents living in single-family homes in some parts of coastal Texas may face "certain death" if they did not heed orders to evacuate.[49][50][51][52] Reports said as many as 40 percent of Galveston's citizens may have not paid attention to the warnings.[53] It was feared to be much the same in Port Arthur, and it was predicted that low-lying areas between Morgan City, Louisiana and Baffin Bay, Texas, particularly those areas east of Ike's projected eye landfall would experience the greatest damage from storm surges of up to 20 feet (6.1 m). Waves at sea were expected to be higher, up to 70 feet (21 m) according to computer simulations.[54]
The price of gas increased in the expectation of damage to some of the numerous oil refineries along the South Texas coast, or at least delays in production from the oil and gas platforms in the Gulf of Mexico.[55]
On the morning of September 13, 2008, the eye of Hurricane Ike approached the upper Texas coast, making landfall at 2:10 a.m. CDT over the east end of Galveston Island, with a high storm surge, and travelled north up Galveston Bay, along the east side of Houston [98] (see storm-path image). People in low-lying areas who had not heeded evacuation orders, in single-family one- or two-story homes, were warned by the weather service that they may "face certain death" from the overnight storm surge,[51] a statement that turned out to be true for some unable to evacuate.[99]
In regional Texas towns, electrical power began failing on September 12 before 8 p.m. CDT,[51] leaving millions without power (estimates range from 2.8 million[100] to 4.5 million [101] customers). Grocery store shelves in the Houston area were left empty for weeks in the aftermath of the storm.[102]
Flood waters begin to rise in a neighborhood of Bayou Vista, Texas.In Galveston, by 4 p.m. CDT (2100 UTC) on September 12, the rising storm surge began overtopping the 17-ft (5.2 m) Galveston Seawall, which faces the Gulf of Mexico;[51] waves had been crashing along the seawall earlier, from 9 a.m. CDT.[103] Although Seawall Boulevard is elevated above the shoreline, many areas of town slope down behind the seawall to the lower elevation of Galveston Island.
22.4.10
18.4.10
3.2 draft
Franklin Alexander Bartholemew III could feel the small beads of sweat running down his back as he sat staring at the small hand of the clock. The long hand seemed permanentaly stuck between IV and XII. If only he could push the hand forward with his mind, or somehow transport himself into the the future time, he could finally stop and have his lunch. His eyes blurred as he stared, listening to the steady rythm of the pendulum. He shook his head and ran his eyes up and down the clock, enjoying the careful scroll work on each side of the clock's cabinet. He smiled as his eyes came to rest on the image of the bird etched in the glass covering the inner workings. Strange, he thought, I have no idea how the thing works, yet I can tell time.
His Grandfather had brought the clock back from one of his many adventures abroad, and then his father had placed it here, in the center of the office, where it had hung for how many years, he did not know. The metal arm inside the clock struck the coil and the air vibrated as the clock marked the hour. Franklin's ears hummed as the sound washed over him, and he pushed back from his desk, anticipating the lunch hour. Leaning back in his chair, he thrust his arms up, stretching, and let a wide yawn overtake his mouth even as it forced his eyes shut.
Settling back, he waited for Miss Metoyer to come tipping up the stairs with his lunch, as she did most everyday. He contemplated the machine sitting on the desk in front of him, and read the small brass plate attached to the front, "Phelps Elctro, Printing Telegraph, 1882." The word electro repeated itself in his mind, and he smiled, remembering the hours of training he received from that Italian fellow who'd sold the contraption to his father almost eight years ago. More sweat trickled down his forehead, his back, under his arms. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Looking back at the telegraph machine, the little keys reminded him of his sister's piano, sitting in their family parlor, just off The Strand, over on Post Office St. One made beautiful, music, the other made their family money.
The stairs outside his office creaked gently, announcing Miss Metoyer with his lunch even before the door opened. Swiveling around in his chair, their eyes met as the Creole woman pushed the door with her ample backside while swinging the large wooden tray onto the smaller tea table by the window. Her long curly hair was pulled back, and he noticed small tendrils stuck to her cheeks from the heat. The puff of her blouson sleeves tappered down to her slender wrists. He admired her small waist and imagined the long legs under her apron and the many folds of her long skirt. Her buttoned boots rested on the floor with the attention of a soldier addressing an officer. A grin broke out across her face and the spell was broken.
"Betcha thought I wasn't coming today" she said, pouring a glass full of the dark, sweet tea from the big glass pitcher. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of pitcher onto the linen cloth folded carefully beneath it. He allowed himself to relax and smile. He gestured for her to pour herslef a glass of tea and join him. This would've no doubt never happened when his grandfather was alive and ruling the law firm with his iron fist, but now with his father in control, and so often out of the office, Franklin enjoyed taking these liberties.
"JoJo, you're simply the best, and I never doubted you for a minute," he found himself saying, although he had indeed doubted the very fact not more that fifteen minutes ago. He reached out as she handed him a plate with bread slices, two chicken legs and some cheese. Their fingers touched briefly, and the electrical current ran up both their arms and they again locked eyes for longer than what seemed physically possible. He dropped the plate on his desk, causing the chicken legs to jump around, and a few pieces of cheese to tumble to the floor. Oh leave it for the mice, he thought. She smiled and seemed to agree.
They ate in silence, and when the clock marked the half hour she rose to go. He frowned and she immediately sat down. Nervously, she handed him the newspaper she'd carried up in the pocket of her apron. Knowing he hated to think about business during his lunch, she immediately regretted not waiting until his plate was empty and she had cleared the dishes and re-filled his glass, or offered him the piece of the pecan pie she'd hidden under a lace doily on the back of her tray. He snatched the newspaper and his eyes quickly scanned the large print just below the date, September 7, 1900. The bold block letters spelled out “unsettled weather likely” and the smaller type below mentioned something about the Leeward Islands, and tropical storms accompanied by h a map of the Gulf of Mexico and more notes from a ship that had recently arrived from the Antigua Islands. He quickly flipped the pages, and stopped on "Betty Bowers Social Register." The front page headlines, and subsequent business stories rarely interested him as much as reading the gossip and scandal of the island's most prominent citizens.
"You got that look on your face..." and before Miss Metoyer could ask him what it was, he blurted out news of the marriage of the oldest man in town to one of the youngest women they knew, the arrest of a church elder for drunk and disorderly conduct, and the discovery of an infant left at the steps of the Archbishop's Mansion. They did not take pleasure in the misfortunes of their neighbors, but it confirmed that things were never as calm and serene on the surface as people would have them believe, and they secretly shared a thrill in peeking behind the curtain of polite society. Their own relationship, if ever discovered, would be equally scandalous, and they somehow understood this, even as they never openly admitted it.
The clock marked the two o'clock hour, and reluctantly, he allowed her to collect the last of their lunch remmnants and slip silently out the door. Only the creaking of the stairs on the other side of the door hinted that she'd ever been in the room at all. He stood up and walked over to the large window, surveying the city and bustling port below. He marveled at the sheer force of commerce, the endless bales of cotton being loaded on the ships, the negro and white men counting bushels of corn while they haggled over quality and price, the wagons continually arriving with their cargos of rice, sugar cane,cotton, and the children darting in between the carriages of the rich men who occasionally tossed out coins to the precious little urchins. On such a day, it seemed strange to think that anything might have the power to disturb the bustling economy he and his family helped create and control. His gaze briefly flitted out across the open bay, to the dark clouds that were now growing on the distant horizon. He licked his lips and wondered if he could finish the last pieces of that delicious pecan pie.
His Grandfather had brought the clock back from one of his many adventures abroad, and then his father had placed it here, in the center of the office, where it had hung for how many years, he did not know. The metal arm inside the clock struck the coil and the air vibrated as the clock marked the hour. Franklin's ears hummed as the sound washed over him, and he pushed back from his desk, anticipating the lunch hour. Leaning back in his chair, he thrust his arms up, stretching, and let a wide yawn overtake his mouth even as it forced his eyes shut.
Settling back, he waited for Miss Metoyer to come tipping up the stairs with his lunch, as she did most everyday. He contemplated the machine sitting on the desk in front of him, and read the small brass plate attached to the front, "Phelps Elctro, Printing Telegraph, 1882." The word electro repeated itself in his mind, and he smiled, remembering the hours of training he received from that Italian fellow who'd sold the contraption to his father almost eight years ago. More sweat trickled down his forehead, his back, under his arms. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face. Looking back at the telegraph machine, the little keys reminded him of his sister's piano, sitting in their family parlor, just off The Strand, over on Post Office St. One made beautiful, music, the other made their family money.
The stairs outside his office creaked gently, announcing Miss Metoyer with his lunch even before the door opened. Swiveling around in his chair, their eyes met as the Creole woman pushed the door with her ample backside while swinging the large wooden tray onto the smaller tea table by the window. Her long curly hair was pulled back, and he noticed small tendrils stuck to her cheeks from the heat. The puff of her blouson sleeves tappered down to her slender wrists. He admired her small waist and imagined the long legs under her apron and the many folds of her long skirt. Her buttoned boots rested on the floor with the attention of a soldier addressing an officer. A grin broke out across her face and the spell was broken.
"Betcha thought I wasn't coming today" she said, pouring a glass full of the dark, sweet tea from the big glass pitcher. Beads of sweat ran down the sides of pitcher onto the linen cloth folded carefully beneath it. He allowed himself to relax and smile. He gestured for her to pour herslef a glass of tea and join him. This would've no doubt never happened when his grandfather was alive and ruling the law firm with his iron fist, but now with his father in control, and so often out of the office, Franklin enjoyed taking these liberties.
"JoJo, you're simply the best, and I never doubted you for a minute," he found himself saying, although he had indeed doubted the very fact not more that fifteen minutes ago. He reached out as she handed him a plate with bread slices, two chicken legs and some cheese. Their fingers touched briefly, and the electrical current ran up both their arms and they again locked eyes for longer than what seemed physically possible. He dropped the plate on his desk, causing the chicken legs to jump around, and a few pieces of cheese to tumble to the floor. Oh leave it for the mice, he thought. She smiled and seemed to agree.
They ate in silence, and when the clock marked the half hour she rose to go. He frowned and she immediately sat down. Nervously, she handed him the newspaper she'd carried up in the pocket of her apron. Knowing he hated to think about business during his lunch, she immediately regretted not waiting until his plate was empty and she had cleared the dishes and re-filled his glass, or offered him the piece of the pecan pie she'd hidden under a lace doily on the back of her tray. He snatched the newspaper and his eyes quickly scanned the large print just below the date, September 7, 1900. The bold block letters spelled out “unsettled weather likely” and the smaller type below mentioned something about the Leeward Islands, and tropical storms accompanied by h a map of the Gulf of Mexico and more notes from a ship that had recently arrived from the Antigua Islands. He quickly flipped the pages, and stopped on "Betty Bowers Social Register." The front page headlines, and subsequent business stories rarely interested him as much as reading the gossip and scandal of the island's most prominent citizens.
"You got that look on your face..." and before Miss Metoyer could ask him what it was, he blurted out news of the marriage of the oldest man in town to one of the youngest women they knew, the arrest of a church elder for drunk and disorderly conduct, and the discovery of an infant left at the steps of the Archbishop's Mansion. They did not take pleasure in the misfortunes of their neighbors, but it confirmed that things were never as calm and serene on the surface as people would have them believe, and they secretly shared a thrill in peeking behind the curtain of polite society. Their own relationship, if ever discovered, would be equally scandalous, and they somehow understood this, even as they never openly admitted it.
The clock marked the two o'clock hour, and reluctantly, he allowed her to collect the last of their lunch remmnants and slip silently out the door. Only the creaking of the stairs on the other side of the door hinted that she'd ever been in the room at all. He stood up and walked over to the large window, surveying the city and bustling port below. He marveled at the sheer force of commerce, the endless bales of cotton being loaded on the ships, the negro and white men counting bushels of corn while they haggled over quality and price, the wagons continually arriving with their cargos of rice, sugar cane,cotton, and the children darting in between the carriages of the rich men who occasionally tossed out coins to the precious little urchins. On such a day, it seemed strange to think that anything might have the power to disturb the bustling economy he and his family helped create and control. His gaze briefly flitted out across the open bay, to the dark clouds that were now growing on the distant horizon. He licked his lips and wondered if he could finish the last pieces of that delicious pecan pie.
16.4.10
3 story draft
He woke to the guide licking his face, as he did each morning. The bright light burned his eyes as it poked through the thatch roof. Blinking and rubbing his eyes, his faithful companion sitting on his chest, he felt the gentle nuzzle and cold snout along at his right ear. The shells hanging from his lobe got tangled in his matted hair and he sat up and shoke his head. The small ball of fur cocked his head and waited for the master to begin the morning ritual of relief, walk, and food.
Walking along the waters edge, the sun was alredy high in the sky and it burned it his skin. He had not applied the oil and grease yet and promised himself to do so as soon the morning ritual was done and he returned to his small hut. Standing in the water now, he relieved himself and watch the urine arc into the shallow waves. His companion raised a hind leg and made a puddle on the sand. Yapping and running circles the companion was demanding food. He too, could feel his empty stomach rumbling.
Approaching the larger group of huts nestled among the trees, he greeted his sister who was sitting in the largest of the dugouts. She had not come out into the sunlight since her warrior was lost at sea. Smiling, he asked about morning meal preparation but she said nothing. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, telling him that she wished to be dead, like her lover, and that she refused to eat, but that he should have her portion of the crab and small berries, to keep his strength. Her mouth did not move.
Inside, he took a small seat far away from his father. His mother lovingly greeted him with a kiss on the forehead, a scold for not using the oil on such on a hot day, and swift kick for the small companion who was now cirlcing the food which had already been laid out on the table. He reach up to fill a bowl and put it down for the little beast, who began to eat it as though he had not eaten in days, eventhough they had gone through this ritual many times.
The crab was cold from sitting in the water all night, and the berries were sharp, sweet and delicious bursting in his mouth. He did not know how hungry he was until he began to eat. His mother brought a small cup of the berry leaf brew and set it next to him as she had done for the father. The boy had not grown accustomed to the dizziness and light headedness yet, but he was determined to learn. He must learn how much to drink; too much and he would loose his morning meal, not enough and he would not be alert during the hunt, but if he learned the correct amount, he could have the strenght of two men, and could hunt all afternoon.
He caught his father's gaze resting on him. Slowly he looked up and engaged the older man eye-to-eye. Much like his sister, the father did not speak from his mouth. In his head, the father's voice spoke his new name, Monanguia. You must be strong, the voice told him. Lead the others today and make us proud. The young boy nodded his head and the shells hanging from his ear spoke of the sea once more. At his feet, the little compaion was now licking his leg, ankle and toes, happily unaware of the task before his master.
Walking along the waters edge, the sun was alredy high in the sky and it burned it his skin. He had not applied the oil and grease yet and promised himself to do so as soon the morning ritual was done and he returned to his small hut. Standing in the water now, he relieved himself and watch the urine arc into the shallow waves. His companion raised a hind leg and made a puddle on the sand. Yapping and running circles the companion was demanding food. He too, could feel his empty stomach rumbling.
Approaching the larger group of huts nestled among the trees, he greeted his sister who was sitting in the largest of the dugouts. She had not come out into the sunlight since her warrior was lost at sea. Smiling, he asked about morning meal preparation but she said nothing. He could hear her voice clearly in his head, telling him that she wished to be dead, like her lover, and that she refused to eat, but that he should have her portion of the crab and small berries, to keep his strength. Her mouth did not move.
Inside, he took a small seat far away from his father. His mother lovingly greeted him with a kiss on the forehead, a scold for not using the oil on such on a hot day, and swift kick for the small companion who was now cirlcing the food which had already been laid out on the table. He reach up to fill a bowl and put it down for the little beast, who began to eat it as though he had not eaten in days, eventhough they had gone through this ritual many times.
The crab was cold from sitting in the water all night, and the berries were sharp, sweet and delicious bursting in his mouth. He did not know how hungry he was until he began to eat. His mother brought a small cup of the berry leaf brew and set it next to him as she had done for the father. The boy had not grown accustomed to the dizziness and light headedness yet, but he was determined to learn. He must learn how much to drink; too much and he would loose his morning meal, not enough and he would not be alert during the hunt, but if he learned the correct amount, he could have the strenght of two men, and could hunt all afternoon.
He caught his father's gaze resting on him. Slowly he looked up and engaged the older man eye-to-eye. Much like his sister, the father did not speak from his mouth. In his head, the father's voice spoke his new name, Monanguia. You must be strong, the voice told him. Lead the others today and make us proud. The young boy nodded his head and the shells hanging from his ear spoke of the sea once more. At his feet, the little compaion was now licking his leg, ankle and toes, happily unaware of the task before his master.
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