In this third installment, the seething surge cuts off escape and communications, as the writer watches it submerge the steps to the house, one by one.
- by Ellis Anderson Chapter 4 of the award-winning book that follows Bay St. Louis through the very heart of Hurricane Katrina – and three years of grinding aftermath. The Shoofly Magazine is publishing one excerpt from the book each week through the storm's 20th anniversary on August 29. 
Joe's backyard - at 26 feet of elevation and a quarter mile from the beach during Hurricane Katrina's tidal surge. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky
If it was passing, the surge was peaking. If the hurricane was still at sea, we were experiencing just the beginning of a tsunami. Phone in hand, I paced from room to room, unconsciously looking for a way to escape. In Joe’s office, I eyed the attic pull-down, remembering the old New Orleans adage about keeping an axe in the attic. Yesterday, I’d joked about the tradition. Joe had never heard of it, so I had to explain that people who retreated to an attic because of rising waters could be trapped there and drowned. If an axe were in the attic, they could at least hack a hole in the roof. It had seemed funny the night before—now I won- dered if I’d be climbing up there soon. My pacing took me to the kitchen door and I peered out into the storm. The Gulf of Mexico covered the patio and yard, but it looked more like the Amazon River. Sinister, dark eddies swirled against the stairs to the house. Five steps rose from the ground level to the porch landing. The first was already submerged, the second was under attack. 
Joe's yard before the storm on August 28, 2005. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky
Mesmerized by the sight, I almost dropped the phone in surprise when I heard a voice. I’d somehow gotten through to my friends Regan and Mark, weathering the storm at their house several miles inland. Regan had no new reports. Their radio had gone out, and the last they’d heard was that the eye should have passed at nine. Regan suggested that we try to make it back to my house. I moved to another window and looked longingly toward the massive white building. Through the sheets of rain, it beckoned like a lighthouse. But the short path between Joe’s house and mine had disappeared beneath muddy rap- ids, seething with debris. The current ran against us. “Ahh, honey,” Regan said, her tone heavy with pity. She put Mark on the line, but our call was cut short. Their roof was blowing off. It was the last phone conversation I’d have for three days. 
Joe's yard during the storm surge, when it was coming up the steps. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky
The Second Step Still working the phone, I joined Joe on the back porch. He seemed unperturbed by the gusts of wind pummeling him and held his camera to his eye as he framed shots of his yard. The raging river was rising—the second step had been overtaken and water lapped hungrily at the third. A flying sheet of tin sent us scurrying for cover, and, once inside, I put my hand on his arm. In a shaky attempt at humor, I asked Joe if he’d put the axe in the attic. “Ellis,” he said, a hint of irritation in his voice, “you’ve already asked me that three times. No. The axe is in the garage.” I realized then how addled I was. I had no recollection of asking before. We gazed at the garage, only twenty feet away, separated from the house now by a rushing torrent. Joe explained that if the water rose much higher, the house could float off the pilings. “When the water comes into the house,” he said, “we have to get out.” Some details stick in my memory like glints of glitter. He used the word “when” instead of “if.” Another wash of raw terror slid through my body. I looked out into the raging winds and across the expanse of black, pitiless water. An incredulous voice in my head protested: Are you crazy? Just shoot me in the head right now and get it over with! I hadn’t spoken aloud, but my face must have registered horror. Joe’s teacher persona took control. Suddenly, he was directing students during a bomb threat or fire drill. “We need to look for floatation devices,” he said. “See what you can find.” I salvaged the remains of my composure and began roaming the rooms on the bizarre hunt. It’s amazing how few things in most houses will double as life preservers. Furniture, books, beds, toilet seats, computers—nothing offered any buoyancy. The voice in my head shouted as I searched: There are no frigging floatation devices in this house! Then, I remembered the Tupperware stash in the kitchen cabinets. I actually laughed aloud at the image of Joe and me swimming for our lives clutching plastic leftover containers. The Third Step I returned to the kitchen to make my report and noticed the water had overtaken the third step. Joe had continued shooting while I’d searched and didn’t seem surprised at my failure. I understood then that he’d given me the job to focus my attention and disperse my panic. He decided that I was calm enough for swimming lessons. Joe’s an avid kayaker and knows the ways of wild water. His measured voice com- manded my attention—he might have been in a high school classroom lec- turing students on darkroom technique. He began with a reminder about the futility of fighting currents. I already knew this from experience, but his next piece of information surprised me. “Don’t try to reach out and grab something in front of you. The water can push you into it and hurt you—you could go under. Turn around in the water and try to catch something that’s going by or already passed.” He noticed my skepticism. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s really important you remember that.” My inner movie theatre began projecting a surrealistic film. An Esther Williams version of myself backstroked across Joe’s lawn. I wore a bathing cap, accented with a spray of hibiscus flowers. I avoided the pecan tree in front of me. Instead, I gracefully wrapped my arms around the palm to the side, embracing it like a lover. Joe must have wondered why I smiled. I assured him I wouldn’t forget his advice. 
The steps to Joe's house during the surge of Hurricane Katrina, by Joe Tomasovsky
The Fourth Step
I looked at the battery clock on the kitchen wall. It read 10:15. The hands had not moved in hours. I decided it was broken, but a glance out the door proved that time had passed. The water had marched past the fourth step and was relentlessly working up towards the landing. A few more inches and it would begin to invade the house. The water surrounding the house reminded me of the Mississippi River during spring flooding. When I lived in New Orleans, I used to walk my dogs on the riverfront and watch the malicious, writhing currents hurl freighters around the bends as if they were paper boats in a whirl- pool. I’d be in that water soon, with 150-mile-an-hour winds screeching overhead. I decided to take a break and collect myself before entering the mael- strom. The safest place in the house seemed to be Joe’s office. He’d screwed plywood over the storm windows that, in turn, protected the inner windows. Three degrees of separation made the room feel very secure. I collapsed on the sofa and tried to meditate. The rational, Zen part of myself began a deep breathing routine. The hysterical, screaming part repeated the warning from the night before-- fifty-five-foot waves in the Gulf! The rational part of me curled into a fetal position when my head did the math: we were at twenty-five feet of eleva- tion. The remaining thirty feet would more than cover the roof. Suddenly, I wanted to vomit. I struggled to get a grip. A phrase from the sci-fi novel Dune popped into my head. “Fear is the mind-killer.” Whatever was to come in the next few hours, I knew that panic would paralyze me. I’d need every iota of self- possession if I wanted to survive. My eyes closed and I called serenity to me, repeating a phrase from my old-hippie lexicon: Be Here Now. My pulse slowed, the adrenaline abated. Feeling at peace with the uni- verse, I opened my eyes. In front of me, the bank of boarded windows afforded a sense of security. Then a blast of wind hit the side of the house so hard that the entire wall of glass actually bulged into the room, undulating like a sail of a boat. I leapt up and fled into the kitchen. Apparently, there was a hurricane version of the secret to inner peace--Be Somewhere Else Now. Joe was checking on Cleo in the living room. I wondered how she would fare if we had to release her into the storm. How could either animals or humans survive that fury without shelter? Many of my neighbors had stayed in their homes and those houses closer to the beach would be underwater by now. All over town, families would be struggling for their lives. 
Houses closer to the beach would be underwater now... after the storm on Citizen Street, closer to the beach. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky
Calling 911 wasn’t an option. Even if the phones had worked, no one would have answered. The people who might have helped us needed help themselves. Later, I would learn that the entire Waveland police force—twenty-seven officers—was hanging on to a tree in their parking lot. At the Emergency Operations Center, thirty-five people were trapped in a dark building with water rising. They passed around a flashlight and a marker, writing their names on their arms to make body identification easier. I checked the step gauge. The water hung at the four-plus mark. The clock seemed to be working again, and I watched its second hand revolve with a speed that mimicked three-hundred-year-old tortoises. Five eternal minutes passed before I allowed myself to look back at the steps. A tiny twig had been stranded on the top of the fourth step by the retreating surge. “Joe! Joe!” I shouted. “It’s going down!” Joe joined me at the kitchen door and forced it open. He stepped out onto the landing and examined the water line. For the next ten minutes, we watched silently until the surface of the third step was revealed. Our hands slapped together in a spontaneous high five, as I danced a jig of joy around the kitchen. The eye had passed and the tide had turned. Luck had saved us from the surge. The worst was over. But I should have remembered the lesson I’d learned in Joe’s office: security is simply another illusion. Next Installment: Chapter 5 - The Passing of the Eye The eye may have passed, pushing the surge back to the sea, but the storm was only half over. The clock read 11:30. Katrina had been raging for over six hours, with at least six more to go. Joe and I were checking his front rooms for leaks when we heard knocking at the kitchen door. Our eyes widened in disbelief. Who would be politely visiting in the middle of a hurricane? But the rapping came again, insistent and much too rhythmic to be caused by the fitful winds that shook the house. to be continued... 
Under Surge, Under Siege is available in paperback and as an ebook.
In 2011, Anderson founded her first digital publication, the Shoofly Magazine and served as publisher from 2011 - 2022. She established French Quarter Journal in 2019, where she currently serves as publisher and managing editor. Anderson currently divides time between the New Orleans French Quarter and Mobile, Alabama.
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