(MENAFN- The Peninsula)
The Washington Post
ST. PETE BEACH, Fla: To those who live on the narrow spit of land that is the Pass-a-Grille neighborhood - the tail end of barrier islands extending from St. Pete Beach up to Clearwater known as "The Key West of Tampa Bay beaches” - it's a slice of paradise developed at the turn of the century and historically sheltered from major storms.
It's just down Gulf Way from St. Pete Beach's soft, white sugar sand and translucent blue-green water, often rated among the best in the world, and within sight of the Don Cesar hotel, a pink palace that's survived storms since 1928.
But that history did not matter Thursday, when Helene rampaged up the Florida coast, turning into the worst hurricane Pass-a-Grille had ever weathered. It flooded homes and businesses, tossed pontoon boats into yards, buried cars and streets in several feet of sand and claimed the lives of at least nine people in Pinellas County.
Those killed had mostly refused to heed mandatory evacuation orders on the barrier islands, which also include Indian Rocks, Madeira, Redington Shores, Treasure Island and St. Pete Beach. Marjorie Havard, 79, was found drowned in her flooded St. Pete Beach home after the storm, surrounded by debris, according to the Pinellas County Sheriff's Office.
Maureen Cox moved to Pass-a-Grille 30 years ago from Philadelphia, after visiting as a traveling nurse and falling in love with the beach.
"It's very secluded and the Don's right there, so it's like you're by an icon,” she said of the hotel.
Cox stayed for Helene but left her pink single-story house to shelter with a neighbor across the street in a newer, "hurricane-proof” three-story home.
Cox's home and three attached rental units, which she had just remodeled, flooded with three feet of water, while her friend's place was unscathed. She lost almost everything.
"Water damage is like a silent threat,” she said.
Her former neighbor, Ronda Lahey, had flown in from Arizona to help Cox clean up. They rode back from St. Petersburg together Saturday on a friend's boat.
"Is that the Coast Guard?” Cox said as a helicopter passed overhead.
The boat sped through the storm-churned channel littered with debris. Trash cans floated past. So did a refrigerator.
"Look at the boat up in the yard!” Lahey said, sounding awestruck. "Look at that one on its tail!”
Cox walked around her apartment and the rental units, pointing out how dark green stormwater had moved furniture and still filled her bathtubs and pool. A chest had washed into the hall, beds floated askew, closet doors made of composite wood had melted and refrigerators tipped over.
She stayed out of her bedroom.
"I've lost so much stuff, I don't even go in there,” she said.
As Cox assessed the cleanup, she thanked her friend for coming.
"I'm so glad you're here and I'm not alone anymore,” she said. "I don't know what I'm going to do about this because it's never happened before.”
Local business owners, some of whom had evacuated, were frustrated Saturday that they couldn't get supplies and help onto the island to clean up and prevent further damage. Already, in humid Florida, mildew and mold were setting in.
"Florida cannot evacuate itself out of its hurricane problems,” said Maryann Ference, a second-generation resident who owns The Dewey restaurant and Berkeley Beach Club. She said that as the state's population grows, "the old plan doesn't work anymore. We invited all these people to stay in Florida. So we need a plan to stay.”
Ference wished she could get some of her 20 employees onto the island to help muck out her businesses on historic 8th Avenue, a block she noted Ripley's had once dubbed "America's shortest and most beautiful main street.” But authorities had closed the access bridges to all the barrier islands after the storm, even to residents who wanted to return.
"We understand the government has to balance public safety and us as humans trying to save our homes and businesses,” she said. But "the damage is going to be worse if we don't get that all out.”
Nearby, Amy Loughery, another second-generation resident, was removing debris from her two flooded Bamboozled Etc. boutiques with supplies ferried in on "a clandestine bass boat.”
Inside the historic buildings, much was waterlogged, including resort wear, Pass-a-Grille T-shirts and "I love PAG” bumper stickers.
"I lost 200 pairs of shoes. I think they're washed up on the beach,” Loughery said, pointing up the street. "That's my curio cabinet sitting up there on the sea wall.”
Tony Feola, a retired pizzeria owner from the Bronx, drove past, pointing to landmarks that had flooded, including the Seahorse restaurant. Its wooden benches and deck were strewn along the sea wall.
"The owner called me to see if I can get them in my truck, but it's like a garage,” he said, gesturing to tools and other belongings in the cab that he had salvaged from his flooded home.
Dolphin Village, the main shopping center, was closed.
Feola's truck coasted over Gulf Way, transformed by the storm from asphalt into part of the beach.
"It's not the beach - this is a real road,” he said.
Earlier Saturday, Feola had driven the sand-covered road several miles north to check on the home of a friend near Madeira Beach who had evacuated.
"He went to the hospital because he's on oxygen, and when the power went, it kicked off,” Feola said. The man's girlfriend had stayed, and survived.
As he drove north through St. Pete Beach and Treasure Island, Feola said he understood why officials had initially tried to prevent residents from returning.
"It's sand dunes. That's why they haven't opened it,” he said of the road. On Saturday evening, those with proof of residency were allowed to drive in.
Feola had stayed during the storm, afraid he wouldn't be able to get back in to clean up afterward. His wife, he said, "panicked” and evacuated.
He stopped to talk to a neighbor, who was Facetiming with his wife, who had also evacuated to the mainland.
"There's another storm coming next week,” Feola said.
"What?” the man said, pressing Feola for details.
Feola knew experts had said this is shaping up to be the most active hurricane season on record. But other hurricanes this season had missed them. And the latest storm was still far out to sea.
"I'm not going to tell you,” Feola said. "It's too early.”
Cox, for her part, was undecided what she would do next time, even as future storms loomed.
"I'm an evacuator. All the people I know are evacuators,” she said - but not an early evacuator, and not for every hurricane.
"Because we live here, we don't have to decide right away. It's a calculated thing,” Cox said.
Not even Helene's mounting death toll influenced those calculations.
"It all depends on the storm,” she said.
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