The Cyclone Logs: Part 1
One does not simply do things according to schedule in South-East Queensland
Welcome to this short blog outside of regularly scheduled programming. I’ll be blogging my way through Cyclone Alfred in real time. So, stay tuned for realtalk, sarcasm, and gaps between posts when the power drops out.
I hadn’t been paying attention to the news, so I found out via Facebook. Which is ironic, as I don’t tune into Facebook much, shitshow that it is, and unreliable ally that I am.
A tropical cyclone. Cat 2. Named Alfred. Bearing down on South-East Queensland. Which isn’t even in the tropics.
Alfred doesn’t strike me as an equal match for Queenslander nonchalance.
I didn’t quite believe it would actually play out – that we would have a cyclone make landfall in the state’s capital city, where I happen to live. For a start, cyclones don’t happen in capitals. And secondly, it doesn’t seem right to steal tropic thunder.
I lived in tropical Far North Queensland for a few years, where cyclones are just a seasonal expectation. I learned how to prep, and haven’t been able to shake that tendency since. I’m even trained in disaster mental health, and am part of a taskforce ready to be deployed in response to natural disasters – an initiative put in place after Cyclone Debbie kicked the crap out of Airlie Beach in 2017.
But we don’t get cyclones this far south. Well, not since 1954, anyways. This is like getting to see Halley’s comet: most people will see it once in a lifetime; a handful will get to see it twice (as an 80’s child, I’m in the lucky latter category).
If I sound a bit chipper about an impending natural disaster, please forgive me. We’ve had some time to prep, and we're braced for it. Right now, the consensus attitude seems to be “bring it; get it over with”.
And I feel like any lead time at all is a notch above the sudden evac order we got in 2022’s epic flood, six hours after we’d already evacuated. Being that there were no warnings of any kind in the run-up, the evac order would’ve come as a shock had the water level not already reached the two-metre mark.
Tuesday 4th March
Tuesday was my birthday, and I hadn’t planned any festivities. It kind of crept up on me, as birthdays do after a certain point. So, it was a relief, in a way, that all expectations were suspended in favour of cyclone prep.
Not that I had a lot of prep to do, to be honest. I already have a well-stocked pantry full of non-perishables and anything else you’d need to see you through a disaster and its aftermath.
Beyond my Far North training, I’m just wired this way: be prepared so you can get on with life. The future belongs to the adaptable.
We’re expecting power outages. Par for the course. Happens in regular storms, so to expect less of a cyclone is to disrespect the weather system who’s in charge for the next few days. Beyond that, it’s also worth prepping for the water to be cut off. If 2022 is anything to go by, flooding might mean water contamination. Communal faeces floating about in the tepid brown sludgewater. Clean water set aside could be a life-saver.
So, I just went out for a few nice-to-haves, did laundry I wouldn’t be able to do over the coming days, pulled a few loose items from the yard into the garage, and made a to-do-later list so I wouldn’t forget to fill the bathtub, seal the windows, and turn off the gas when the wind kicks up.
And I decided to make candles instead of buy them, ‘cos why not? I need to do something with my hands when I’m thrust into anticipation mode. My intellectual brain goes offline, usurped by my inner protector and provider who are primed for action and reaction.
Work is cancelled for the rest of the week anyway, though that’s moot to me as I’m juggling multiple disparate projects while living in post-PhD limbo.
Wednesday 5th March
On Wednesday we were expecting to start seeing signs of Alfred’s arrival, predicted for late Thursday night or early Friday morning. But we didn’t really get anything other than a bit of wind and drizzle. Nothing out of the ordinary for a South-East Queensland summer. If we hadn’t been told a cyclone was coming, we wouldn’t have suspected.
I went out for my usual sunset walk early in the afternoon, thinking it might be too windy later. I’m no good at sitting still, and I go stir-crazy if I haven’t had exercise, sunlight, and fresh air a couple of times a day.
There weren’t many people out, and there were a few signs of weather: branches down – mostly small ones, a few medium-sized ones. The looks and the feels were just like a regular storm brewing.
I noticed a lot of folks hadn’t prepped their yards yet. A charitable interpretation would be that they hadn’t had time yet, and were stuck at work, performing essential services. My inner judge, jury, and executioner saw it as a mix of complacency, naivete, and stupidity.
My memory floated back to the time I’d driven through a South Aussie sandstorm on my way from Adelaide to Alice Springs and parked up at the Glendambo motel for a sleepless night of watching rubbish bins fly around the carpark, frantically praying for an intact windscreen in the morning.
One household had prepped by lopping their hibiscus bushes. But they’d left the branches lying in two massive heaps. Worse than not trimming. That’s two giant piles of spiky missiles headed for people’s windows and windscreens.
A neighbour a few doors up the road had earthworks in progress. Big piles of dirt all over their block. That’s going to scatter to the wind. Wouldn’t want to be next door.
And the tent that’s been pitched in the park for the last few weeks was still there. Hard to believe anyone who knows a cyclone’s coming would choose to tough it out in a tent. Note to self: check with council whether the tent’s inhabitant is known to them and has been offered a safe haven.
When I got home, I got stuck into obsessing over Higgins Storm Chasing on Facebook. I find Jeff Higgins’ confident no-nonsense Aussie-bloke demeanour soothing, not least because I trust him and his crew to deliver news in a way the official authorities didn’t manage to do through the apocalyptic floods of February 2022 in which I lost my home.
The news tells me folks have been panic-buying meat and milk. I doubt they all have backup generators.
Stockpiles of rotting animal products are going to be just delightful in the post-cyclone humidity.
The news also tells me there’s government-issue sandbags for sale on Marketplace for $20 a pop. Opportunistic fuckers. May karma deliver them a lesson they get a chance to learn from.
We closed all the windows in the house before bed, expecting the wind to whip up through the night. I spared a thought for the possum whose nest has been perched in the bathroom window. Possum will need to hunker down somewhere more stable, more secure. I hope he’s alright.
Thursday 6th March
Woke up this morning to blue skies and still air.
This doesn’t seem right. Something’s off. The clichéd calm before the storm shouldn’t feel like a chirpy summer’s day.
I went for a walk instead of my usual run and was vindicated when it started to drizzle.
Alf has been shuffling his feet, moving much as an older gentleman does, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back as he ambles nowhere in particular on no one’s schedule.
Alf is late, which is the epitome of rude, considering he’s not even invited. The rest of us have things to do and places to be, and now our weekend plans are cancelled.
Turns out Alf is now expected to rock up on Saturday. While the Gold Coast is copping a battering, it’s been totes normals round our way in Brisbane, where Alf is predicted to make landfall.
The extra day or so lead time has chilled people out. A lot of folks are out running or dog-walking, making the most of the pre-cyclone conditions.
I decided to make a belated birthday cake, as my anticipation is in the way of my intellectual brain again. Who can concentrate on work when there’s weather afoot?
I went to the shops for ingredients, and the vibe was as different as it could be from the previous two days’ panic-buying. I think it was mostly folks like me who are already fully prepped, just popping in for nice-to-haves they didn’t think they’d be able to get.
But there was also a befuddled vibe emanating from some people. I think those are the ones who didn’t prep earlier, and are wandering about in a haze of confusion, not quite sure what’s happening or how to respond. These supermarket kamikazes don’t have a strategy, bumping from one side of the aisle to the other, confused grunts emanating from them in slo-mo. Their shopping baskets and trolleys are not full of cans, bottled water, or toilet paper. They’re scattered with chips and dips, and some freezer items that won’t make it through a power outage. These are the zombies of the apocalypse.
I made a cyclone cake in honour of Alf, and the top layer cracked down the middle both ways because my oven is a nuclear furnace and the cake rose too fast. My attempts to cover the cracks with icing resulted in a lot of slippage. I now understand the challenges that await the state. Cyclone, landslide, and roads falling off the sides of mountains. I hope this cakefail is not an omen.
It tasted good, though.
My sunset walk felt like Groundhog Day. The hibiscus household still hosts massive piles of loose branches. Their earthworking neighbour still hosts mounds of dirt awaiting diffuse redistribution. The tent in the park is still there.
The news tells me a lot of rough sleepers have refused shelter upon offer. Some because their pets aren’t allowed to join them. Some because they can’t bring their stuff with them and don’t want to lose it. Some with no reason given.
This evening has felt anticlimactic. I think we’re all over Alf before he’s arrived. And when he comes a-knocking, our response is not going to be “better late than never”.
Nothing about this cyclone is normal so far. Except that it’s clearly running on Queensland time.
