While the Mangroves Wailed and Moaned…

On the morning of September 5th, 24 hrs after Felix struck, our intrepid crew made it to Bluefields and found a willing ship topped off with fresh water. However, the Captain was waiting for a bank wire to buy fuel. The wire might come within 48 hrs. Our boys went about raising money and relief supplies in town and were able to sail that evening, a truly Herculean feat.

On the morning of September 5th, 24 hrs after Felix struck, perhaps 100 survivors of the storm’s surge were clinging to saltwater mangroves scattered throughout the Miskito Cayes, small islets of vegetation 22-29 miles offshore from Big Sandy Bay. These mosquito infested islets ranged in diameter from a few yards to a couple miles. All the fishing camps that surrounded the Mangroves were built on reefs with stilt construction. Of course they were completely erased from the sea. Only the mangroves survived, but no man can live inside the mangroves; only snakes, fish, crabs and big, black saltwater mosquitoes.

On the morning of September 5th, 24 hrs after Felix struck, I was trying to raise fuel money over the phone. I called a successful church and explained this urgent life and death drama to a secretary. In truth, this could have been almost any church, the Red Cross, the Administration at Virginia Tech or a City Council. The Pastor was in meetings and could not be disturbed. Could I leave a number and someone would get back to me? I protested that I needed a decision maker right now, but that was impossible. I called back, to no avail. The top man was insulated from outside interruptions and had not quantified it with his gate-keepers: there was only one rule to be applied in all circumstances. They did have a lady call in the afternoon, but it was too late…

On the other hand, I called Pastor John Raymond (from Survivor) and he immediately pulled out a few hundred from his cookie jar. A nice lady met me at Western Union with cash and I threw in a few hundred and suddenly there was enough to run with.

The trouble here was the trouble there: No one is allowed to make a bold decision on their own.
There is an army of bureaucrats who spend their lives protecting their position by never acting on thir own. Success is not rewarded and failure is punished.

On the morning of September 5th, 24 hrs after Felix struck, injured, dying men clung to the edge of the mangroves throughout the Miskito Cayes. The cursed mosquitoes had survived and tormented the men’s faces as they squatted in the salt shallows, moving limply with the sea. The day was warming up. These exhausted men needed water and a miracle. There were dead bodies in the Mangroves and floating on the sea. Sometimes they would twitch as if with life, but it was fish biting at them. The larger spasms would startle the birds to flight: sharks. There was an erie sound like a fog snaking through the mangroves, the guttural low sound of man’s pain and despair that precedes death; a wail and moan in the mangroves.

Our ship was too late to rescue these fishermen, who died of thirst and exposure. In fact, the odds of anyone being alive the following day were so bad that the boys reluctantly skipped the Cayes and addressed the emergencies on the mainland. We are waiting for word from Big Sandy Bay...

IZ