This vacation began much like so many others before.
My wife works in the central office for the Lewis County Board of Education and her work schedule is like any school district’s calendar.

The board sets the calendar for the school year in December, about eight months before school begins. As soon as it is approved by the board Tammy begins the task of searching every online travel site imaginable.
She compares the dates for Fall Break, Spring Break, Christmas Break and all the holidays with available deals she can find for all the locales we’ve ever thought of visiting, and some we haven’t thought of.
She even has a contingency plan for snow days.
About eight months ago she was checking the travel deals posted that day and found a Groupon deal for a trip to Freeport, Bahamas.
After a few minutes of entering some information, and a credit card number, she secured the trip at a deeply discounted price and we made plans to travel to an all-inclusive resort where we would enjoy the sand, sun, and plenty of good Bahamian cuisine.

The date of our departure neared and I put in the extra work to be able to take off five days so we could enjoy Fall Break in Freeport.
A few days before our planned departure, as I was putting together a story about an upcoming parole hearing, I heard an update on a tropical storm that was building steam in the eastern Caribbean. It was named Matthew.
Matthew soon became a hurricane and quickly intensified.
As I worked to get my stories together for the upcoming edition of The Herald, Matthew worked toward a Category 5 rating with winds of 160 mph.
The meteorologists on TV presented many various projected paths that Matthew could take over the next several days.
They mentioned areas that could be affected by the wrath of this newly designated hurricane: Haiti, Jamaica, Cuba, The Bahamas . . .
The Bahamas?
A quick search of a Caribbean map led to the realization that we could very well be crossing paths with Matthew a few dozen miles off the coast of Florida.
Concerned the trip may be cancelled, my wife called the company that sold her the vacation package.
“We are monitoring the situation,” they assured her. “If it looks like the weather will impact your destination we will call you to reschedule.”
That was on Saturday morning, October 1. Our flight was scheduled to take off from the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport at 9:30 a.m. Monday, October 3.
She called five more times over the weekend. Each time she was assured they were on top of the situation and we would be in no danger.
Between those calls she packed our bags, confirmed the kennel arrangements for our two dachshunds, and gathered all those last-minute items that need to be gathered as you prepare to take a vacation trip.
During the final call she made to the vacation company, Sunday evening before we attended a chili competition at our church, she learned that we were to report to the airport by 6:30 a.m. and any changes would be conveyed to us by a telephone call or at the airport where we would be waiting at Gate 4 in Concourse A.
About 10:00 p.m. Sunday she declared her preparations complete and headed off to bed, admonishing me not to stay up too late.
I rewrote a part of the parole hearing story as I continued to monitor the Weather Channel on the television and checking Matthew’s projected path updates online.
I uploaded a couple of obituaries, scheduled some stories on our website, and told myself the vacation organizers wouldn’t send us into danger.
I headed to bed about 3:00 a.m. and checked my alarm. If I went to sleep immediately, I surmised, I would get about 40 minutes of slumber before I would get up, check the weather, and prepare for our drive to the airport.
I factored in the stop at the kennel and the dense fog, and the morning traffic on I-275, and the construction zone on the AA Highway west of Maysville, and the shuttle delay in long-term parking.
I allowed two hours to make a trip that on most days would take me about 90 minutes.
We pulled from our driveway at 4:30 and when my telephone/alarm clock signaled to me that 6:30 had arrived, the time we were to be at the airport, I was about to place our checked bag on the scale at the airline counter.
We were the first ones to arrive at Gate 4. My wife tracked down an airline representative and was assured the flight that had been chartered by the vacation company would take place as scheduled.
It was about 30 minutes before the next travelers strolled into the waiting area. In that half-hour I checked on Matthew, scanned news headlines, and wondered aloud if perhaps the other passengers had better sense and decided to stay home rather than chance a meeting with a hurricane.
It turns out most of the travelers were on other flights that would bring them to Northern Kentucky where we would all board a Boeing 737-800 and fly just over two hours to Grand Bahama International Airport.
At noon Monday we were just clearing customs at Grand Bahama International Airport and preparing to board a chartered coach to travel about 20 minutes to the beach resort where a buffet had been prepared for the hungry hoard headed in their direction.
We checked into our fourth-floor room and admired the lovely, and noisy, air handling units on the roof just outside our balcony window. Since it was a clear day we could see the tops of a few tall palm trees just past the roof.
We prepared for our first of what we thought would be many visits to the white sand and beautiful blue waters of the Caribbean.
The sun was shining and there were plenty of people at the resort pools, restaurants, bars and beach.
Through the process of checking in and dining on fresh conch salad, I asked some of the resort workers their thoughts about the approaching hurricane.
I had been practicing some Bahamian English phrases since our ride from the airport during which time the driver, D-d-d-d-d-DJ, gave us a quick lesson.
My plan was to blend in with the locals with the goal of learning the best places to be on the island at the best times. “They would see me as one of their own,” I thought.
I already looked the part as I was sporting some of the most fashionable of island wear.
Tammy strongly advised against me utilizing my new language skills for any reason.
I did learn the local residents weren’t much concerned about the approaching visit by what weather pundits were now calling a major hurricane.
“A little rain and a little wind,” they said. “Nothing to be concerned with.”
Tammy had gotten me a GoPro as a birthday gift a couple of years ago. Included with the accessories was a waterproof camera housing.
As I cautiously tested the waterproofness of the contraption in the controlled environment of the bathroom sink I briefly thought how this could be a great tool for capturing video and stills of some of the wind and rain of the approaching hurricane.
I believe it was at that point I thought we were there until our scheduled time of departure on Friday morning and had started to establish a plan on covering this major news event as it unfolded before me.
With waterproof testing out of the way I was ready to head to the beach and capture some great action video in the beautiful water.

The waves seemed a little choppy, and the water was a little colder than I expected.
I braved the obvious dangers and had ventured into water that, between waves, was about waist deep. Tammy caught my attention and directed my eyes toward a small commotion in the water nearby.
There were dozens, perhaps millions, of fish that appeared to be a cross between angelfish and piranha swimming around two women. They were silver in color and quite fast (the fish, not the women).
I wondered why these fish were swarming around these women and had no obvious interest in anyone else.
Through intense questioning Tammy learned the women had absconded with a couple of dinner rolls from a nearby restaurant and were feeding the fish bits of the bread they pinched off and tossed into the surf.

The ensuing feeding frenzy was something I immediately decided to recreate, giving careful thought to the possible consequences should someone think I was taking pictures of something other than fish while I held my GoPro beneath the water’s surface in the midst of a gaggle of women.
We soon decided to dry off and change into our supper clothing in preparation for dining at an Italian eatery on the beach.
It had, after all, been nearly four hours since the buffet on our arrival at the resort.
As we readied ourselves for the evening ahead a sudden rain storm moved through the area. “A prequel to the hurricane,” I thought as I watched the heavy raindrops pounding the air conditioning units just off our balcony. I snapped a photo.
We waited for the rain to let up before hiking out to the Italian restaurant, located just past one of the resort’s pools. It is a big pool.
“I could use the GoPro to record my reports on the hurricane and bring the story to the living rooms of people everywhere.” I thought. “Or at least to my friends on Facebook.”
I envisioned it to be just like the weather reporters on television wearing bright yellow rain coats while fighting against the elements and bracing themselves against the wind.
My memory reminded me that one of those on-the-scene reporters was struck by a stop sign during live coverage of a hurricane.
I immediately began looking for ideal locations where I could secure the GoPro and it would stream the video back to my tablet where I could report on the now imminent event. I would be safe behind the plywood covered windows and I could add my voice to the video later.
The pasta with seafood sauce was delicious and the view spectacular while we dined just feet away from the crashing surf. I wasn’t sure whether or not to eat the mussel shell that was part of my main course. I didn’t. I discreetly placed it beneath my upside-down coffee cup.
The waiter assured us the hurricane wouldn’t amount to much by the time it arrived at Freeport.
“A little rain and a little wind,” he said. “Nothing to be concerned with.”
After dining we decided to walk across the street to the straw market and pick up a few trinkets as mementos of the trip.
At this time, about 9:00 p.m. Monday, I had not yet briefed Tammy on my plan to cover the hurricane as it passed through. I was sure she would fully embrace my decision to bring exclusive coverage of this historic event to the readers and followers of The Lewis County Herald.
Many of the straw market shops were closed because of the approaching weather system and workers were cutting plywood to fit over the windows.
I wondered if they knew Matthew would be “nothing to be concerned with.”
I decided not to tell them.
I reasoned they must already know Matthew posed no threat to the island.
“They’re only following work orders to keep their bosses happy,” I thought to myself.
We decided to turn in early following such an event packed day and the lack of sleep from the previous night.
Back in the room Tammy turned on the television and we watched the weather people talk about Hurricane Matthew and how it is bearing down on the islands.
The night seemed very short as the room telephone began to ring and I squinted my eyes enough to see the time. It was nearly 9:00 a.m. Tuesday.
The day was half gone already and I had missed photographing the sunrise. Sunrises and sunsets are fun to shoot on the beach. I had already thought the approaching storm may add another dimension to the color during the golden hour and was beginning to think the remainder of our stay on the island would be under cloudy skies, or worse.
The kind woman on the telephone had called about us attending a presentation on some type of time share plan.
That’s all I have to say about that.
We had our breakfast and swiped a couple of rolls to feed to the fish later.
Someone had forgotten to bring sunglasses along on the trip so we trekked back across the street where we found an acceptable pair.
Additional plywood had now been installed over the windows and some of the restaurants had begun to place metal devices over the panes of glass. The shutter-like devices are designed to prevent, or minimize, hurricane damage.
We headed back to the beach and noticed the waves were a bit higher than the day before and the water seemed colder.
Tammy fed bits of bread the passel of fish as I snapped a few pix and shot a couple of videos with the GoPro.
She decided to retrieve her telephone/camera from the room so she could take a few photos of her own and forward them to her sisters and mother.
I remained on the beach and located a lounging chair beneath a tall coconut palm. These specialized trees do not provide an abundance of shade. I had deducted some time back that God had designed these beach trees in such a way as to minimize the visual obstructions to landlubbers as they approach the beach so they may easily see His beautiful water and sand from a distance.

I took notice that resort workers down the way were utilizing a lift and samurai-worthy machete to chop the drupes from every tree and let them fall to the ground.

What I initially thought to be a coconut harvest was actually an effort to minimize damage resulting from cannonball sized nuts being propelled by Matthew’s powerful winds. A major league pitcher can toss a five-ounce baseball toward home plate at 100 mph. Matthew could propel these three-pound fruits/nuts/seeds toward anything at 150 mph. I generally fall under the definition of “anything.”

I leaned back and was taking in the sounds of the waves and the people.
I chose to begin filling in my plan for covering the approaching hurricane.
Two women we spoke with earlier that morning had told us to stock up on bottled water in preparation for the storm and advised us to be prepared in the event of an electric outage.
I quickly reviewed the equipment I brought along on the trip and was making a plan to keep the batteries charged should Matthew knock a palm tree onto the electric line and cause a blackout at the resort.
In addition to the GoPro and my telephone, I brought along a Nikon P-7000, my usual vacation camera.
I had also brought an iPad and a couple of external batteries that would quickly recharge all of the equipment.
“Surely a worker here at the resort would let me charge these devices in their vehicle,” I thought as I wondered how much battery time I might need.
I checked the weather on a large TV screen above a bar at the pool.
Matthew was setting his sights on Freeport. I was getting excited at the thought of covering this storm.
“I wonder if Willard Scott got started this way,” I thought.
Alas, my excitement was short-lived.
Tammy returned with her cellular phone/camera/paperweight and some news.
“They are evacuating us in the morning,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Here is the information.”
She handed me a slip of paper that instructed us to be at the resort’s front door by 6:30 a.m. Wednesday to be picked-up and shuttled to the airport. The very next day. Not Friday, not Saturday, not after the hurricane.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s mandatory and the airport is closing at noon tomorrow,” she said. “They’ve chartered a plane and the flight is at 9:30 tomorrow.”
My plans were ruined. How could I produce the greatest hurricane coverage ever if I wasn’t going to be where the action was?
We decided to enjoy a nice dinner and prepare for the trip back home. The trip back home two-and-a-half days early.

We had managed to hoard three large bottles of water in preparation for the hurricane and since I hadn’t had time to purchase any trinkets, and these would make great souvenirs, I packed them in our checked bag. I had seen customs officials confiscate coconuts in earlier trips through the airport and didn’t want to risk having to explain, in my now perfect Bahamian English, that I was, in fact, helping to protect the island by removing these potential projectiles from Matthew’s reach. The bottles of water could also be utilized as a bargaining tool in the event we were stranded at the airport with other thirsty strandees.
I set the alarm for 5:15 and checked the weather again. The Bahamian government was adamant that tourists be evacuated from the island and Matthew’s landfall was now imminent. I wasn’t really a tourist, I had become one of the islanders with my secure grasp of Bahamian English and flawless presentation in native attire.
The trip to the airport with 50 of our traveling friends was pretty quiet.
A short distance from the airport the driver picked up the microphone for the speaker system on the coach.
He directed our attention out the windows and said the fields we saw would be under water in a couple of days.
The predicted storm surge associated with the hurricane would put water in the resort’s lobby, he said.
He wished us a safe trip and said he would pray for our continued safety as we returned to our respective homes.
As we passed one of the entrance doors at the airport someone pointed out what appeared to be a long line at one of the counters.
The bus came to a stop, I collected our water laden bags and we went inside. There was one line to the only counter that was open. That line stretched the length of the airport and then some.
As we waited in that line we learned the two women ahead of us didn’t have seats reserved on a flight.
They hadn’t flown in as part of a group (like we did) and the airline they traveled with to Freeport had cancelled all their flights in and out.
One of the women had flown in from Canada and the other was trying to get home to Georgia.
We finally made it to the ticket counter and received boarding passes on the next-to-last flight out before the airport would close.
As we waited on our flight the information monitors indicated all flights had been cancelled. Our flight was not listed because it was not a scheduled flight.

The two women who were ahead of us earlier were able to get boarding passes on our flight to Northern Kentucky. They would have to find their own way from there.
The television in the waiting area was tuned to a news channel and they were reporting on the hurricane and the areas in its path. It seemed surreal to watch news reports about the area you are in and hear that the very airport where you are will be closing in a few hours.
The boarding passes were issued in the same order as the flight on which we traveled to Freeport.
The plane we traveled on to Grand Bahama had three seats on each side of the aisle with no first-class section. The plane we were returning home on had a first-class section with three rows of two seats on either side of the aisle and the remaining rows were the same 3X3 configuration as the earlier flight.
As it fell, I was in one of the seats in the first-class section and Tammy was one row back, in the row behind first-class.
The flight back was uneventful and we arrived at the airport about Noon Wednesday.
By my calculations, we spent more time in the air than on the beach.
Winston and Abby were happy to see us when we stopped to pick them up at the kennel.
Except for Winston experiencing a small gas leak, the remainder of our return trip was nothing to write home about.
I am thankful we were safely evacuated and after seeing some of the reports on Hurricane Matthew since our return, I’m thankful we didn’t remain in Freeport.
The minor inconvenience of having our vacation cut short was just that. Hurricane Matthew was one of the worst on record and I am deeply saddened by the deaths and destruction that have been attributed to this weather system.
Our thoughts and prayers remain with the victims of this deadly storm and with those who were otherwise adversely affected.

A story about the evacuation efforts

Photos from Freeport showing damage by Hurricane Matthew

 

 

 

 

 

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