to port a., with love

I feel myself being sucked into the Hurricane Harvey media hole, the black funk where we all look at our tiny phones at even tinier pictures of huge devastation. We search hashtags, google locations that are dear to us, scan Facebook pages. I follow a dizzying maze to get to a random twitter photo, a drone vid, a wobbly go-pro cam shot of the streets of Port Aransas.

I do the thing with my fingers to try to size a picture up, as I hone in on an image of the Sandpiper condos in Port A.  My family has vacationed here on and off for 30 years. I am looking at a murky photo, like I'm underwater looking through sand. Their Facebook page isn't saying much as I'm sure they are being wise and waiting for answers before they give them out themselves.

I just want to lay down on the ground.

We are rooting for you, Port A.

I want David Muir to tell me it's going to be all right. I have really come to need him and that hair of his to get me through much of the news he is dosing out.

We want to know that this town will come back stronger than ever.  Steve and I have plans to go with friends in November....we are wondering now if we can go and help during that time. Grieve with those who need to grieve. Do tequila shots with those who need to do tequila shots, let's face it.

I have not known the kind of loss these hurricane survivors have. I don't know what it feels like to drive away from your home, hoping and praying it will be there when you get back. These people are coming back to a landscape that looks like fury unearthed. The images from Port Aransas should bring us all to our knees.

It's not a Houston, or a Rockport, but this small town holds a lot of love for a lot of Texans. This is where we go to buy our shark-toothed necklaces, eat the candy from the candy store that every child has touched (we see you). We buy our surf clothes from your surf shops that prove that yes, we are indeed surfers. No one's fooled. It's the little piece of the gulf we swim in, fish in, camp alongside.  We take Insta-pics of seagulls in the sunrise, remember old loves while the surf covers our toes, sneak whiskey and fireworks to places where they don't belong. We eat our share of oyster po'boys at the Seafood and Spaghetti Works, never once blinking at the name of the dome-shaped restaurant everyone loves.

Our family was just there just weeks ago, greeted by the owner as he made his rounds through the packed tables.  This is the first (and last) place I had pizza with shrimp on it.  We all go a little crazy at the beach.  This guy is all smiles, loves his customers, loves his town. Today when I see a random video shot of his restaurant and hear the commentator say "it looks like the Spaghetti Works is untouched," I give a little cry of victory.

Thirty years of memories equals crazy love. Sending you all of my love with so many others, Port A.  A hurricane may have screwed you over, but it's nothing in comparison to the tidal wave of love that is coming your way.  Count on it.