Ike, II

A few days ago, I went to the coast for the second time in the four months since Hurricane Ike came ashore. Unlike my first trip, there were no police checkpoints or military personnel to greet me. My entrance this time was a bit more unassuming; just another pick-up truck in the few hundred square miles of Chamber's and Galveston counties.


My path went east around Trinity and Galveston Bays through Chambers County. Eventually, I found my way into Galveston County and met up with Highway 87. Following the coast, I went the length of the Bolivar Peninsula, through Crystal Beach and the worst storm damage, all the way to the ferry that crosses the channel to Galveston Island.

The biggest change I noticed was a shift from clean-up to repair. Debris sat roadside in piles placed at regular intervals while tarps hung from structures like giant, blue band-aids. The irregular percussion of hammers and nail guns mixed with indistinct Spanish chatter and followed my slow, deliberate steps around downtown Anahuac.


I couldn't help but feel a little like a gawking tourist as I idled through these storm-wrecked towns. On my last trip to the coast, right after the storm, Galveston Island was under pseudo-martial law and I was sharing the entire island with only law enforcement and government contractors. Now I was surrounded by people who called these places home.

What really separates a 'professional' photographer from a visiting tourist? The 20 miles of FM 1985 between Double Bayou and FM 124 gave me plenty of time to find my answer; not a lot.

These days the line between consumer and professional equipment is blurred beyond recognition, so that's no indicator. Those who claim photography as their profession often think quite highly of themselves and their skills, but I've met some tourists who are equally proud of their postcard return addresses, so that won't work either.

The biggest difference I could find is the mindset. For me , it revolves around trust. Trust is not a switch that can be turned on or off. It's a commodity, and from the moment someone see's me walking up with a camera over my shoulder, I've got to try and earn as much as I can. If a tourist is trying to snap their own postcard, whose trust do they need to earn?

Maybe I'm wrong to think their is a difference at all. Maybe as soon as we walk out the front-door, we are all tourists, everyone looking for the perfect way to say 'wish you were here'.


Maybe not.

Damage got more dramatic as I approached the coast. I hit FM 124 and had to leave the mellow-dramatic 'what is a photographer?' bullshit for some other stretch of asphalt. I took a right turn into a low-hanging, January sun and headed towards High Island and the ocean. The above image was taken along Highway 87 looking south-west. Without the added words I think that picture is one of my eerier shots, like something out of a Cormac McCarthy novel.


In between the clusters of houses being rebuilt, all that seemed to remain was what the wind could not carry. Rusted vehicles and concrete slabs were partially buried by four months of drifting sand. It looked to me like roughly half of the houses were completely gone, but that is just my estimate. I've heard stories that make my guess-work seem a bit conservative.


I never got my barrings right while I was on Bolivar Peninsula. I couldn't find any of the recognizable structures and landmarks that I associated with my many trips down over the last two decades. Some where gone, others obscured by the debris and clean-up. I looked for the old World War II embankments I climbed on as a kid and for the Court House I went to for my 'Minor in Possession of an Alcoholic Beverage' ticket. I didn't know my exact location until I reached the very end of the peninsula, waiting for the ferry to take me closer to home.

Next time I come back, whether it's in months or in years, I'll find those spots that are waiting patiently in the recesses of my head. And if I can't find them, I'll just work on some new memories. Maybe another ticket from the Galveston County Sheriff.

And perhaps someday I'll go to a beach that fits a more stereotypical image of ivory sands and sapphire water, but I'm not planning on finding one anytime soon. If I ever do make it out that way, I'll be sure to send you a postcard.