On Monday October 29th 2012,
Hurricane Sandy, or super-storm Sandy - whatever they want to call her, slowly
moved up the Atlantic, made a sharp left turn and roared ashore in New Jersey, swallowing
up the entire northeastern coastline. Call her what you will, one thing I am sure
of is that she was a bitch. The lights flickered on and off for a little while
and finally going out for good around 5 pm that afternoon. Little did I know
how fortunate I was to be still standing, only without power for six days
amidst all the devastation.
Through intermittent radio
reports and news via smart-phone, the magnitude of the devastation slowly began
to creep in, report-by-report, picture by heart-wrenching picture. Neighborhood
after neighborhood, town after town, up and down the Jersey shoreline were
leveled or rendered unrecognizable in a wave of non-stop surrealism. Many
places thought immune or safe from the deadly storm surge found themselves
inundated by the angry Atlantic Ocean. For us, this storm will not be measured
in monetary loss or property damage, but in heartache.
Some of the most heartbreaking images
came from a place that will always be special to me: Seaside Heights, New
Jersey. When I was a child, I fondly remember our parents taking us there every
summer from our home in Staten Island. My brother, sister, and I would count
the seconds after school was out. Starting as a young boy, I was jealous of
those brave enough to go one some of the bigger rides. I was terrified of
heights and wouldn’t ride anything more than ten feet off the ground. Year
after year I told myself one day I would ride that tall, fast, frightening
rollercoaster on the end of the pier. I think I was 13 years old when I finally
got up the nerve to ride (to say I was terrified would be a big understatement).
I took my seat, got strapped in, and the rest is history. I enjoyed the ride,
and was able to subsequently ride even taller, faster roller coasters for the
remainder of my younger years. That roller coaster was called the “Jet Star”,
and it now sits in the Atlantic Ocean. The pilings supporting the pier
underneath it were swept away and the roller coaster fell, almost intact, into
the sea, like the rug was pulled out from under it.
Throughout my high school, and college
years, everyone on the south shore of Staten Island knew what the “point” and
“the beach” were- The Point, referring to Gateway Park in Great Kills, and The
Beach, being the parking lot by the boardwalk in Midland Beach. I spent, (some
would say wasted) much of my young life there with some of the best friends I
have ever had, some even friends to this day. We would drink beer, listen to
the radio, and even fall in love once in awhile. Whatever the reason, whatever
the time, it was a large portion of my formative years; a place forever etched
in who I am. The beach and boardwalk along the eastern side of Staten Island
are no longer there. The parking lot I spent so much time in is now a dumping
area for the biggest pile of rubble I have seen since 9/11.
Naturally, it isn’t easy to see some
of the icons of your youth cease to exist. And it isn’t easy to be without
power for an hour, never mind six days. One thing I will remember for certain
about this tragedy is that there were several times when I found myself sitting
in the dark or in the cold, or both, and felt the beginnings of what I could
only classify as self-pity. I also noticed that on each and every one of those
occasions, I almost immediately remembered how fortunate I was. I looked around
and found all my family members alive and well. I looked at my four walls,
which creaked quite a bit, but held strong. Some families suffered the ultimate
loss, but I was merely inconvenienced. How dare I feel sorry for myself for
even a second? Never in my life have I been so close by when so many lost so
much.
In the aftermath, I am aware that this
storm is not a once in a lifetime event, but quite possibly a pre-cursor of
things to come. Climate change is real, what further proof do you need after
two hurricanes hit a hurricane free area in the span of just over a year? We
obviously need to rebuild, but we need to rebuild smartly. Honestly, I’m not
even sure what that means, but I know there are people much smarter than I
tackling this very problem as I write this. If we do this correctly, the next
time God is asleep at the wheel, and one of Sandy’s siblings roar up the coast,
we will be better prepared and hopefully avoid another calamity.
This storm has affected everyone in one-way
or another. I doubt there is anyone in this area that doesn’t know someone profoundly
impacted by the events of October 29th. I was lucky and most of the
people I know were lucky, but there are so many who were not. I have a big
mouth, I can be bombastic, and I can be brash - I am in the talk the talk hall
of fame. Now I feel its time to walk the walk as well. I am going to help in
whatever way I can, whether it’s some food or water, or socks, a few dollars
here and there, or lending a hand to a friend in need. It’s time everyone did a
little something to help those who lost so much. I’m sure most, if not all of
you have done something already. If you have not, it’s not too late, and I
suspect it may never be. Whatever you can do, no matter how insignificant you
think it may be, will help. I am ready to play a small part in something very
big. Won’t you join me?
Some helpful links:
Project Hospitality
Darren Pecoraro is a 46 year old retired stay-at-home dad from Englishtown NJ. He enjoys all sports, especially golf, music, and writing. His greatest love is his wife, Adele, and their two boys, Christian, and Andrew.
