Go Fish Galvez

The moon was almost full last night.

Will be nearly so tonight.

With a slight breeze to ruffle the tresses and soothe the soul, I sat out last evening on the front porch of my old 1937 home, in my comfortable cedar rocker, and contemplated the upcoming weekend, this weekend so full of meaning, and of memories.

Throughout the weekend, and indeed for the past two weeks, the media have been commemorating, in countless specials and documentaries, the ten-year anniversary this Sunday of the unspeakable act levied against our nation by madmen of twisted purpose on September 11, 2001.

“Nine Eleven,” as it’s ruefully referred to now, has become a new and bitter shorthand in the American lexicon. Although I’ve never heard it mentioned elsewhere, I’ve always wondered if the terrorists who rained death and destruction upon us that awful day specifically chose the date for added cruel effect: What is the meaning we all associate with the numbers 911? EMERGENCY. I think the bastards did.

It was very early on a Tuesday morning in very late summer back in September 2001. I was sitting in my little black Honda CRX on a ferryboat bound for the downtown Seattle terminal, headed for my office building on Lake Union, contemplating the workday ahead, when my cell phone chimed. It was Jeff. He was up early and had flipped on the TV, to CNN. He was calling to relate the impossible news. “We have planes.” So instead of a typical, unremarkable workday, this day unraveled into one of chaos, fear, and dread. We all remember where we were.

But this weekend also marks another anniversary, not the 10th but the 111th, of yet another horrific event, this one of natural, not maniacal, causes, but one of even graver consequence in its human toll and ruination of property, and perhaps even more devastating for its time, or in any time: Galveston’s Great Storm of 1900. When the winds and waters finally subsided that Sunday morning, this monstrous maelstrom’s due was twice and more the number of souls lost on 9/11, and in a single night, an equally vibrant and burgeoning port city was very nearly erased entirely from the map.

Date-wise, of course, this isn’t the exact anniversary of The Great Storm of 1900, which occurred on the weekend of September 8-9, 1900. Significantly, though, it is the corresponding weekend, and I’ve always been of a mind that the day of the week counts at least as much as the date itself. For example, I was married on a Thursday. September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday. And September 8, 1900 dawned a fine and hopeful Saturday. The day of the week matters.

For all of us islanders, whether IBCs (Islanders By Choice) like me or that more rugged breed known as the BOIs (Born On the Island), who have never read A Weekend In September by John Edward Weems, or the more recent Isaac’s Storm by Erik Larson, you really owe it to yourself to pause at this time of year, put your daily mundane affairs on hold for an evening, and immerse yourself in the woeful tale unfolded in these two historic books. Another excellent volume, made more poignant for its personal stories, perhaps even rivals the first two. It is called Through a Night of Horrors: Voices From The 1900 Galveston Storm and is a chronicle of first-hand accounts of the storm by the last remaining survivors, recorded before their stories could be lost to time with their eventual passing. I assure you that when you turn the final page in any of these small books, you will have gained a deep appreciation for our stalwart and persevering forebears who, through sheer will and unblinking audacity, pressed on in the face of monumental odds and rebuilt their wonderful city.

These men were giants.

Not only did they erect a massive seawall to help protect the town against future storms, they also embarked upon an incredible undertaking to elevate the low-lying island itself, carving canals throughout the city so that huge dredge boats could navigate the neighborhoods, first raising all the homes, churches, and buildings of all sorts and then pumping in beneath them millions of gallons of fill sucked up from the bottom of Galveston Bay, a truly astonishing feat for that era or any other. It is to them and their herculean efforts that we owe a tremendous debt of gratitude for our relative safety on the island today.

* * * * *

But I do not wish to end this post on such sobering and sorrowful reflections, because September 11 has another, far happier association for me. It marks the three-year wedding anniversary of a very special couple, my Mom and Other Dad, as I affectionately call them, who finally, after decades together, realized they were in fact the perfect pair and officially tied the knot three years ago tomorrow.

So Happy Anniversary to you, Mom and Other Dad Jim! In between all the 9/11 specials on Sunday, I will be thinking of you.

And I will not be remembering the words, “We have planes.” Instead, I will be thinking, “We have hope, we have life, we have freedom.”

But we will never forget…