After several telephone call attempts, I reached Crissi only to learn that South Florida was no longer under a "Hurricane Watch," but under a "Hurricane Warning." She related that she and her host family had spent all morning preparing the house for the coming storm. Furthermore, she said excitedly, "a mandatory evacuation order has just been issued for the Keys and all of coastal areas of South Dade County!" I had her hold on the line while I quickly switched Edda's television on to confirm the news. In living color, the weather scope, depicted on the TV screen, validated the information; according to the announcer the citizens of Florida were being warned that although Hurricane Andrew was still over 400 miles out to sea, it was gaining "the strength and speed of a Category 4 hurricane...on a direct course for the Bahamas and South Florida!" Barometric pressure was reported to be between 27.90 and 27.17 inches of mercury, the winds fluctuating between 135 and 150 mph, the storm surge could be 13 to 18 feet. "Extreme damage," said the forecaster, "Prepare for the worst."

The announcement changed the course of my life.

My immediate goal was to get back to Miami and Crissi. I told my daughter that I would return to Miami, but, in the meantime, I wanted her to go to the Graver's house, further inland, where I would meet her. I hung up and called Angie who was very distraught at both the breaking hurricane news and at being alone. Jim, her husband, an ex-Air Force fighter pilot who is a Captain for Northwest Airlines, was on a flight from Australia and currently in the air, somewhere between Seattle and Miami. She had been told his flight could be diverted. There was no guarantee it would land in Miami before the airport closed down. I assured her that I would somehow get back and asked her to pick up Crissi. She agreed.

Edda and I spent precious minutes calling airline, bus and car rental companies. Nothing was available. In fact, all commercial travel south from Tampa had been canceled. We called her husband who was the FAA supervisor at the Sarasota Airport Tower. He confirmed that flights to South Florida were being canceled because the Miami-area airports were preparing to close down.

Approximately 40 to 45 minutes had elapsed since Fuzzy had left us. We discussed the chances of catching up to him on the highway. Her car had a full tank. Figuring that Fuzzy had taken seven to ten minutes to fuel up and make his call, that his RV would only travel at 60-65 mph, Edda and I thought we had a fair chance at making up the time difference in her Le Baron and catch him.

We made a second call to her husband to advise him of our intentions, jumped in the car, with Edda's sixteen-year-old son David in back, and headed for Interstate Highway 75, South.

Once on the road, she kicked up the speed to 75 mph, faster when our view was clear of any Troopers. David checked our rear for cops while we checked the front, hoping Fuzzy's RV would soon be in sight. What we did not know, was that Fuzzy was also traveling hell-bent-for-leather at 70-75 mph.

Having made his call to Homestead, he had discovered that officers in his unit had desperately been trying to reach him. Orders had been given from Air Force Headquarters to "flush the field," i.e. fly every airworthy airplane out of Homestead! The base was under orders to be secured and evacuated, and a general recall had been issued for all available pilots to report to base in order to ferry the jets north to safety.

The highway was virtually empty and we drove south to Naples in record time. The traffic heading north, however, was beginning to get quite heavy. According to the news on the radio, which we continuously monitored, South Florida officials had issued evacuation orders which affected well over a million people from Key West to Fort Lauderdale. At two o'clock, the Florida Department of Transportation suspended toll collections and abandoned the toll booths in order to facilitate the massive evacuation of fleeing South Florida residents. As we neared Naples, we learned that that coastal city was also being evacuated. The traffic north became bumper-to-bumper.

We had traveled 150 miles, more than halfway to Miami, and not caught up to Fuzzy. Edda was beginning to worry about the logistics of driving back north to Sarasota. I decided the best course of action would be for me to hitchhike. We pulled off the highway at Naples and drove into a crowded gas station. I got out of the car and began approaching other drivers, asking if anyone was headed towards Miami. All replied in the negative and looked at me with a mixture of suspicion, curiosity and unbelief. Some laughed. It appeared more prudent to drive ten more miles down the highway to the Everglades Interchange for State Road 41, more often referred to as the "Tamiami Trail." We knew the traffic would have to slow down to clear the narrow curbs at the toll booths. I would not only have a better chance at intercepting a vehicle headed towards Miami, I could be more choosy about whom I flagged down.

We parked the car just short of the toll-booth, unloaded my luggage and stood on the curb. A uniformed toll collector was locking up the facility. She walked over and asked if we needed assistance. We briefly explained the situation, while watching a few vehicles, not many and none suitable, drive by. Between the four of us, we scoped out a few more cars and queried some of the drivers. Nobody was going to Miami. Then, a single Hispanic man pulled over to ask if we needed help. He appeared clean-cut and sincere. I once again explained my situation, whereby he volunteered that Miami was his destination and suggested I accompany him. I felt it safe to accept, said my good-byes and thank you’s to Edda and David and gratefully tossed my luggage in his back seat. I got in his car, promising to call Sarasota when I reached Miami. It was almost three o'clock. I was 90 miles, an hour-and-a-half at the most, from Crissi and Angie.

EASTBOUND ON THE TAMIAMI TRAIL - COME-HELL-OR-HIGH-WATER

This kind Cuban gentleman, who's name I have unfortunately forgotten, said he lived with his wife and children in Opa-locka and was returning early from a Catholic Retreat to be with his family.

I was born and reared in Mexico City and Spanish was my first language, so we conversed in our native tongue with ease. However, it quickly became apparent that as a good Catholic, my rescuer was also a law-abiding man, even in the face of emergency. To my great mortification, he never once went over 55 mph! More often than not, he drove slower than the law allowed and I would have to remind him that the speed limit was 55. Portions of the Tamiami Trail were under repair with posted signs of 25 mph that nobody in his right mind would heed at a time like this. That is, nobody except my duly righteous driver! I was thoroughly exasperated! Particularly as the Miami Cuban radio stations, which we switched around with frequency, broadcast relentless monologues, in excruciating detail, of citywide preparations for impending doom and destruction. Following these logistical nightmare reports, were first-hand crisis interviews with panicky residents who had moved to Red Cross shelters, anxious business people who were closing up and apprehensive store-owners who were sold out of water, ice, candles, batteries, canned and dry goods, generators, plywood, hardware, masking tape, gas, propane, lanterns, flashlights, medical and emergency supplies, etc.

Every sound and sight along the road warned of Andrew's proximity. The radio stations broadcast 15-minute updates. The low-pressure system was visibly moving east. Its cloud layer hung low, thick and gray, laden with moisture, 1,000 feet above the ground as far as the eye could see. With each mile we traveled east, I couldn't tell who was rolling faster, us or the clouds. The whole sky seemed as if were being sucked towards Andrew, fueling the hurricane's turbines in the same way a tide is sucked out to fuel a Tsunami. Conversely, a huge high-pressure system stretched across the eastern half of the United States and out into the Atlantic. The media weathermen said it effectively blocked hurricane Andrew from swinging north or traveling in any direction but due west. The winds, gusting to 60 mph, swayed our little car and drove birds and wildlife to seek shelter.

Thousands of vehicles; cars, buses, pickups, trailers, motor-homes and RVs, many pulling boats; drove west bumper-to-bumper, as we continued eastbound on a virtually abandoned ribbon of highway.

"Come-hell-or-high-water" took on new meaning.

In the two-and-a-half hours it (needlessly) took to travel 90 miles, three cars and one truck passed us.

Finally, the familiar buildings of West Kendall appeared. Twenty minutes later, my new Cuban friend dropped me off at 11661 S.W. 98th Avenue. My round-robin travels had taken approximately ten hours. I was back to square one; in the location which was the exact latitude and longitude where the north wall of Andrew's eye would pass, carrying the hurricane's fiercest and most deadly winds.

But, we did not yet know that.

WEST KENDALL - SPIRIT OF CAMARADERIE

Thankfully, I was re-united with both my daughter and my friends in the comfort of their lovely home. A home they had owned for ten years. To Angie's great relief, Jim's flight from Australia had been one of the very last to land in Miami prior to the airport closing its runways at six o'clock. He was home, but severely jet-lagged.

Twenty minutes after my arrival, Fuzzy called and was surprised to hear my voice. I gave him a brief run-down on my extraordinary journey back to Miami and our attempts to catch him. He laughed and it was then I learned he had driven the RV for all it was worth. Upon reaching Homestead he had found the base totally evacuated and sealed, and drove on to his new rental home in Saga Bay. There, he encountered Metro-Dade policemen ensuring all residents comply with a mandatory evacuation of his neighborhood. They allowed him in only long enough to retrieve important belongings and make a phone call to seek refuge for himself, his dog Sasha, and his motor-home. Which is why he had called the Gravers. Folks who refused to comply with the order to evacuate were directed to give the officers the names and addresses of their next of kin.

An hour or so, and three futile gas-station stops later, Fuzzy parked his motor-home on Angie's lawn, snug up against the south side of the house where it would be partially protected. He joined in our nearly completed efforts to secure basic human needs and material safety in and around their house.

We all worked from a mental worse-case scenario backwards, checking and re-checking our supplies, the windows, doors, garage and surrounding grounds. Our actions were standard precautions against the advent of hurricane damage, and against power, gas and water shortages. All the neighbors did likewise. We had taped all glass windows and doors with masking tape; cleared the dome-screened patio of all furniture, potted plants, hanging Staghorn ferns, fixtures, barbecue grills and pool equipment; drained four feet of water in the pool; taken down the antennas; lashed gas and propane tanks to tree trunks; brought all garden tools and equipment indoors; boarded up the large windows; secured Jim’s boat (a 36 ft. outboard fishing vessel); turned off the gas; filled the bath tubs and washing machine with water and collected a week's worth of drinking water in empty containers.

Crissi, Angie and I drove to Dixie Highway and raided the local Howard Johnson Hotel for ice as there was none to be bought, while the men searched in vain for an open service station to fuel up Jim's pick-up truck and fill some gas cans. Between us, we bought batteries, lighters, candles and what few dry goods were left in the stores. We returned to the house, stocked our treasures then placed old coffee cans and plastic bags under furniture legs to keep them dry if we got flooded. We turned the refrigerator and freezer to the coldest setting; removed all appliances and breakables from rooms with eastern or northern exposures; cleared the kitchen counters and stored loose items in cabinets. The flurry of activity bred a feeling of camaraderie and excitement.

The late Summer evening fell on the hot, muggy, oppressive afternoon with an eerie calm. Low broken clouds formed a dense, solid, dark gray ceiling above our heads at 800 feet which obscured the sunset. Jim, Fuzzy and I recognized it as the kind of low pressure conditions which pilots avoid but storms seek to nourish and strengthen themselves.

Angie, Crissi and I washed our hair, knowing it might be a while before the luxury was offered again.

At nine-thirty, the TV news announced that Hurricane Andrew had slammed into the Outer Bahamas with "deadly winds up to 150 mph, heavy rain and surging tides," said Bob Sheets, director of the National Hurricane Center. We would later learn that the storm had spared its fury from the populous areas of the Bahamas without causing major damage. However, forecasters feared that Andrew could strengthen as it crossed the Gulf Stream to Florida. Hurricane-force winds now extended 80 miles from the eye, barometric pressure was reported to be dropping, the storm surge could be over 18 feet and the winds were rising, flirting with gusts over 155 mph. Conditions were on the verge of a Category 5 hurricane. "Catastrophic proportions," they said.

We fixed leftover dinner for five, fed Sasha, continued to monitor the television and spoke nervously among ourselves about what would happen. Unspoken, were unbidden thoughts; flashes, like mini-strobe lights of the imagined worst. But, nothing any of us could envision would prepare us for what was to come.

We chatted, peered outside when a sudden gust would swirl by, checked and re-checked window and door latches, drank coffee and killed what was left of Fuzzy's bottle of Jeremiah Weed - a favored fighter-pilot's liquor - with appropriate toasts to the occasion.

At ten-thirty, the hurricane was 150 miles from shore. At forward speeds of 15 to 17 knots, expected landfall was estimated in seven or eight hours.

MONDAY, AUGUST 24, 1992 - BLACKENED VIGIL

At eleven o'clock, the first band, the western edge of the storm, hit us with menacing gusts of wind and great claps of thunder. Due east over the coast, the radar image on the TV screen left no doubt that Andrew was baring down on us. Throughout the day, the eye of the storm had pulsed like the heart of a great monster, swelling to 24 miles in diameter, shrinking to eleven.

I recalled Hurricane David; 50 miles offshore in 1979; it had suddenly turned ninety degrees to the north and spared Miami. I prayed Andrew would do the same. However, the broadcast announcers, who would be our only link to the rest of the world throughout our virtually harrowing ordeal, reported that Andrew was moving faster, ahead of schedule. Now, at forward speeds of 18 mph, landfall of the eye was predicted to be five hours away. Maybe. Maybe sooner.

At midnight, when the eye of the hurricane was still 90 to 100 miles east of us, the lights suddenly went out on our side of the street. The neighbors to the west of us would have the benefit of electric power and TV news for another hour. We lit the scented candles purchased earlier in the day, turned off the main power switch, turned on the radio, kept our flashlights close at hand and maintained our now blackened vigil. We took turns napping as the skies above Miami lit up with a steady display of angry lighting. The flashes provoked a panorama of incredibly bright green and turquoise light above the lush tropical foliage now bending, yielding to the first strong winds of Hurricane Andrew. It was as awesome a sight to behold as it was frightening.

I called my husband Mike in Phoenix and told him "all was well." So far. Sharing our plight 2,500 miles away and monitoring the news on CNN, he relayed that Andrew's eye on radar "didn't look so good for us..." I promised to keep in touch as long as we had phone service.

By two o'clock in the morning, there was no doubt we were under hurricane conditions. The city was pitch black. The wind howled, rattled the windows, shook the doors and whistled through the AC and kitchen exhaust vents. The masking tape on the inside of the patio doors began to curl up from the heat and humidity. Watching it come unglued convinced us that it must be the tape manufacturers who perpetuated the myth that masking tape would protect us from broken glass.

One of us noted that the 40-foot Australian Pines in the neighbors' yard, which had shed purple morning shadows upon Angie's beautiful patio, were no longer there. We never heard them crack or break. Those dying sounds were obliterated by the unseen fury of Hurricane Andrew wrapping itself around the house.

The audible and visual vibration of the patio doors warned us to move behind the wall to the sunken living room - away from the family room and the possible onset of broken glass. The living room was equipped with safer "hurricane windows;" small horizontal panels, like glass louvers. We decided to clear the lamps, small furniture pieces, the rugs and the paintings from the family room facing the patio doors. We carried these items into the living room, brought the scented candles in and settled down. Lulled by the tranquil scent of Jasmine, we spread out on whatever seats or spaces were available; a patio chaise lounge, a corner of the sofa, a pillow on the floor. Crissi laid her blonde tousled head on my lap. Sasha curled up at Fuzzy's feet. We stayed together. Comfort in numbers. We listened to the radio and I called Mike two more times. Every now and then one of us would get up to peer around the corner into the family room and beyond, but we instinctively kept our distance from the windows and doors.

It was then that the threateningly unfamiliar sounds, that would accompany us for the next three hours, began.

The first freakish and unforgettable sound was metallic, like the dreaded impact of a car crash without the screeching of brakes. Startled, we jumped to our feet and shined our flashlights towards the patio. The 12,000 sq. ft. aluminum dome screen had been ripped off its foundations. Parts of it had crumpled 30 feet to the ground like so much tinfoil. Half the wreckage was in the pool. The rest, we would find later a block away, smashed up against a neighbor's house. Pieces of the remaining overhang swung and twirled crazily in the fierce wind. We watched the blades of the patio fan twist, rip off and fly away, disappearing into the night. The violence was instantaneous - now you see them, now you don't - and captivating. For a few seconds the wind died down, as if Andrew was conserving his breath. Renewing his strength. Inhaling to exhale more destruction.

We decided to lock Sasha in the bathroom off the narrow hallway into the bedroom wing. While Jim and Fuzzy headed to recheck some of the doors and windows, Angie, Crissi and I led the dog into the hallway. Without warning, she froze, laid her ears back, then twisted her head and glared back towards the kitchen.

A split second later, the glass doors to the patio imploded! In a thousand pieces they hurtled over 100 mph onto the ceramic floors to shatter into millions of crystal shards which fanned out forcefully into the kitchen, the family room and our hallway! For a few seconds, the phenomena of two different pressures, inside and outside, crashing together then seeking to equalize themselves, threatened to suck us out of the hallway. Doors slammed, ears popped and our bodies reeled from the impact! Instinctively, we all reached for something we could hang on to; door knobs, door frames, furniture... whatever! Every pore, every nerve-end in my body signaled my brain that my body was under decompression. I remember briefly comparing the feeling to what the passengers on the infamous Hawaii flight must have felt when part of their overhead fuselage ripped away in flight.

I heard Jim yell at us. His voice seemed a long ways off. Bricks, tiles, branches, rain and debris flew into the house. Fuzzy hollered to blow out the candles. Amazingly enough two of them were still lit! Within seconds of the implosion, the men found their way to the hallway. With a collective sense of urgency not felt before, we struggled against the wind's fury, closed all five doors to the hall and sealed ourselves in total darkness and silent fear. Dusted with fine splinters of glass, we were also soaked.

IN A NARROW HALLWAY - CLOSETED IN THE COILS OF TERROR

I have been close to death in illness when I didn't have the physical strength to fight for life. I have experienced in-flight emergencies while piloting aircraft where I had to rely on knowledge and confidence to survive. But, I have never felt the mortal vulnerability and uncertainly we lived with for two-and-a-half hours in that hallway. It was insidious; a situation none of us could change or control. We were trapped in the constricting coils of Andrew's reign of terror.

I can't remember who had the presence of mind to bring the radio into the hallway, or which of us had brought a flashlight but, we had both. I do remember grabbing some towels from the bathroom to sweep the larger chards of glass into a far corner while Jim ventured into one of the bedrooms, to pull a mattress into our cramped quarters and protect us from the smaller unseen pieces of glass. It was then we realized Fuzzy was struggling with the hallway door attempting to keep it from getting wrenched out of his grip. We immediately began taking turns, two and three at a time, pulling against the force that wanted to suck it out, pushing when it threatened to blow in - depending on which way the voracious forces of unequal pressures attacked it.

For two-and-a-half hours, our only knowledge of what lay beyond the door was what Brian Norcross, a TV weatherman broadcasting on the radio, told us. He warned that our location in Kendall would make us the target of Andrew's most intense fury, which occurred northwest of the eye, along the eye-wall. For two-and-a-half-hours we lived in fear of losing the door, the roof over our heads and ultimately the house itself as the spiraling, non-stop, counter-clockwise winds threatened to rip the house apart or dismember it in sections. We never felt the "calm" of the eye.

Under Andrew's merciless siege, every tree above 15 to 20 feet snapped, cracked, was blown to the ground or literally ripped out by the roots. Without this protective covering over our homes, the roofs were exposed to Andrew's fierce and relentless fury. The winds were being clocked at 162 mph. Ceramic tiles clattered as they tumbled across the roof. Beating an unfamiliar tune of ruination, they hurtled west into the street, mashing the neighbors' properties and cars. The roof tiles from houses to the east and north of us slammed into our walls and windows. Great sections of tarpaper were ripped like so much tissue paper, scattered, draped or flung with abandon. Roof pebbles pelted the remaining windows like horizontal hail. We felt, as much as heard, the roof shudder and strain against the hurricane forces that relentlessly sought to rip it off. Like a giant popgun, one by one, the attic doors blew out, seeking to equalize unexplained pressures from unexplained places over our heads. Pink insulation materials littered the closets and bedrooms. More windows shattered somewhere in the house and water began to seep into our hallway. We made plans to move into the bathroom and drag the mattress on top of us if the roof went. Crissi began to weep. Angie pulled her close, wrapped her arms around her and they comforted one another. Jim, Fuzzy and I continued to take turns holding the door, two at a time.

What little solace there was to be had, for those hours suffered, was togetherness ….single-mindedness and hope. Faith was a given, earnest prayer a must and hope - knowing it would not last forever - kept us sane. Other strange comforts were Brian's voice and the flashlight; one gave us a mental link to the rest of humanity and survival, the other visual light against the darkness.

MIAMI, DAWN ON MONDAY - TOTAL DEVASTATION

At five o'clock, it was over...much quicker that it had begun. The wind still gusted but, like the jet-wash of a great airplane when it passes, we knew it was gone.

Gingerly, we released our grip on the hallway door and pushed it open a few inches to peek into the rest of the house. Training the flashlight through the opening, we took turns looking at the incomprehensible devastation.

Having heard the unfamiliar, unexplained sounds of the hurricane's mighty furor, but not seeing, and therefor not knowing what was happening beyond our hallway, had been one of the most difficult things to endure.

Anxious and exhausted, but curious, we stepped into the immediate aftermath of the storm. Carefully, we filed through the main portion of the house, crunching a mixture of glass, water and debris underfoot as we walked into Andrew's wake. Silence among us was prominent as our minds began to absorb and process what our eyes beheld.

It was horrible, unthinkable, unforeseen. Beyond comprehension.

The walls were slashed and covered with foliage and mud. Chunks of brick and tile were imbedded in the paneling. The furniture was ruined; soaked, sliced with glass, marred with muddy debris. Computer and electronic equipment lay strewn in pieces from the onslaught of wind and rain. Conversely, there were areas totally untouched by Andrew's hurricane frenzy; porcelain statues and dinnerware remained intact on some of the shelves, delicate knick-knacks were upright, the stereo was wet but otherwise untouched, some forgotten baskets on the kitchen wall still hanging.

Human nature bid us go outdoors, towards the patio to view the rest of our surroundings. The neighbor's tool shed (three doors down) was in the pool - parts of it were wrapped around a broken tree. Brown and silver aluminum rain gutters looked like wet streamers after a party - indiscriminately twisted, coiled and strewn about. Jim's 500-pound trailer had been hurtled over a brick wall. Power and telephone poles had snapped like matchsticks. Their lines criss-crossed everywhere, some dangling - swinging in the now subdued wind. In the dawn's semi-darkness we could tell that neighbors had lost parts of their roofs, if not all. Great gaping sections of tarpaper and wooden beams scarred their once beautiful and safe homes. Huge trees; Pines, Ficus, Banyans, Cypress, lay mutilated and mangled over homes, cars and gardens. The fences were gone. Doors and windows were gone. The comforts and security of "home"...in many cases the homes themselves...were gone.

As dawn broke, shedding gray light beyond the reach of our flashlights, we quietly ventured toward the street, despite the radio's warning of impending tornados.

The scenes left us too stunned to speak. There was no doubt that we were fortunate to be walking out of the house at all. Masses of reddish and orange pieces of curved roof tiles repaved the streets, testimony to the forces of destruction. Felled trees, utility poles, furniture, clothing and debris obliterated any sign of front yards or curbs. In any direction one looked, it was 360 degrees of virtual destruction. An unfamiliar outline rose in the northeast distance; the buildings were in downtown Coral Gables, eight miles away! The entire city-scape had changed!

People began to come out of their homes. Slowly, joining together in groups of four or five, we wandered in shock, picking our way along what we knew were the streets. Cars were smashed, turned over, slammed into garage doors, mashed in by tree trunks, or flattened by roofs. A semi-truck in a driveway was turned over, thrown on its side. It's contents indistinguishable from the rest of the debris. A corner home had black gaping holes where windows and doors had been, and no roof. Boat sheds had caved in, front doors were punched in, entire homes gutted, patio screens crumpled, garage doors twisted and ripped off in jagged sections, or blown wide open. Patio overhangs were laid back as if they had been on hinges. Once beautiful trees lay on the ground, their roots reaching higher than the homes they had shaded. Street signs were non-existent. Carports were ripped out of their foundations and blown two blocks away. Roofs were peeled back like ripe bananas. Homes were split in two. Entire walls and second stories were gone. Indoor ceilings had collapsed, homes were flooded, personal treasures destroyed or blown to smithereens.

It was complete and utter devastation! The rubble was monumental!

In five hours, approximately 400 square miles of civilization in Dade County had been decimated. With one mighty assault of nature, 50,000 homes were obliterated, 103,200 homes were ravaged, 107,348 businesses and commercial buildings were damaged, 90 percent of the native vegetation was wiped out, 10,774 acres of agricultural land was destroyed and 33 percent of the area's natural coral reefs were injured.

Hurricane Andrew, no respecter of persons or property, had ravaged Dade County with equal disdain for a $1,000 trailer home as a $10,000,000 building. I know. I was there. I lived through it. I saw it.

It changed the course of my life.

I'm not sure I can explain how or why.

It began to change when I made the decision to go back and be with my daughter and friends. It changed in enduring a night of dread, and in witnessing the hurricane's devastation.

But, there was more.

Something inside of me died. In not being able to identify it, I also haven't been able to bury it.