Death knell of typhoons

Soudelor struck swiftly in a night full of heavy rain and fierce winds. Caught off guard, management at my apartment complex took no chances with the twin threat of Goni and Atsani. They put up the window boards.

Goni came through the waters between Rota and Tinian, and though it made its presence known in Saipan, the young tangan-tangan trees that had already sprouted green leaves in spite of the battering from Soudelor stood their ground. The window boards were understandably cautionary but they were not necessary.

Atsani humped crustaceans to the beach in Pagan and Agrihan, downed coconuts while it swirled its way northwest, but its tail end only brought monsoon rain and the burst of gusty wind (redundancies are for emphasis) to Saipan. Tenants’ cloth dryers normally in the walkway made it indoors, but the skating board kids did not miss a beat. Atsani had sound and semblance of fury but to the kids, it signified nothing.

For most of us, with the staggered 10-hour combination of power and water access (six hours at night), the boarded windows in the bedrooms were windless desert. The south winds accompanying Goni were warm so even standing in the apartment hallway up the third floor offered no the comfort.

By Wednesday, when it became clear that Typhoon Atsani was not going to come to Saipan, I checked with our apartment complex on when they were going to take the window boards down. “Not until after the second typhoon had passed,” was the cautionary response.

By then, it was sweltering heat during daytime and for most of us who do not have regular offices to go to with CUC still unable to deliver power and water, the bedroom even at night offered no solace.

What was disconcerting was the second point of our maintenance personnel who exclaimed: “Do you realize how long and how much manpower it takes to put up the window boards?” 

Ah, yes, I was quite familiar with the work involved, but I am also clear of the customer service orientation of the company that owns the complex, and I am sure, the comfort of tenants take precedence over the convenience, or in this case, the inconvenience on workers to put up the window boards before the typhoons.

I was going to ignore the maintenance man’s rationale until I heard my 80-ish neighbor get the same response when he went down to the front office to ask his window board be removed. That Soudelor taught us a lesson on being prepared is understandable; that we use it as an excuse to sacrifice the judgment of the tenants for the convenience of the workers is unjustifiable. After all, I do write for a newspaper that daily follows the weather and I faithfully checked the “weather desk” to be duly informed of current weather affairs. Atsani was a no-show.

But apartment comfort was nothing compared to the typhoon effect Wednesday when I went down the lagoon of San Isidro in CK. The tide was on the ebb and I jauntily walked and swiftly swam my way to the breakwater on the reef line to look for shellfish. I underestimated the wave force and, though I stayed on the left side of the breakwater opening that gets into Sugar Dock, it became clear that the waves were stronger than my 70-year-old physique. 

I tried reversing my direction toward shore but suddenly I hit a spot where the water was up to my neck. Foolish me, I floated with the current thinking that the waves would drive me to the shore. The reverse occurred. Before I knew it, I was treading water, the undertow sucking me into the breach, and I was out on the open sea heading toward the channel moving to Tinian.

It would have been OK on a clear day, though I suspect boaters were reluctant to paddle the turbulent waters, and it was getting close to sunset. I really did not relish floating on the open sea without a life vest, and only rubber shoes, mask and snorkel for company. Besides, a couple of sharks welcomed me to the breach, and I became clear that the first thing to do was NOT to panic. 

The second thought was to damn myself for not writing an obituary for the paper, or, at least an epitaph, in case people dismiss my will to be cremated, and bury my remains six feet below the ground.

My third thought was that I intended to exit at 86, a good 16 years onward, so to quit now would violate my own timeline. I dropped my plastic bag full of seashells and started to body surf toward the reef south of the breach. 

A neighbor I went with to Wing Beach before told me of Pacific islanders refraining from visiting the waters four days after a storm and I did not heed the advice, so there I was flailing arms as the waves almost a km to shore dumped me into the coral stones, four-foot waves drenching me in bubbled water. The corals liberally poked my piguo but it was much more welcomed than floating in the open sea without sight of its murky floor.

I made it to the shore just as the sun glimmered before dusk. On Wednesday night, as Astani threatened, I went to sleep like a babe.