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"I saw whitecaps breaking against my windows" By NEAL THOMPSON, Times staff writer ©St. Petersburg Times, published March 14, 1993 HERNANDO BEACH -- It's funny the things that become important to you when the raging waters of the Gulf of Mexico threaten to destroy everything you own. Photo albums. A guitar. Compact discs. A diary. A favorite sweater. Of all the stuff I've collected over the years, Saturday's flood held a gun to my head and said: "Choose." (See related story) So I stepped over the floating TV and VCR to get to stuff that mattered. Like many coastal residents, I watched the water inside my Hernando Beach home rise from ankles to knees to waist as I waded from room to room salvaging the very few dry belongings. It began at 6 a.m., when I awoke to the confusing sounds of roaring winds and babbling water. When my feet reached for carpet, they met 6 inches of water. And when I splashed out of my bedroom, I saw whitecaps breaking against my windows. For five minutes or more, with hands pressed tight against my head, I freaked. Expletives flowed freely, and I, in my initial tirade, literally thought my house and I were soon to be yanked from our foundation and swept away. The phone was dead, but a few lights were on. Lights? I realized that meant the electricity was still on, and I ran back to my bed, fearing electrocution. Crouched on the mattress as the water grew higher, I, for some reason, thought that unplugging appliances would prevent me from being fried. So I plunged back in and furiously yanked every plug from every outlet, expecting a "zap" any second. I ran back to the bedroom and pounced onto the bed just as the water started to lift it off the floor. Finally, a few minutes later, the electricity went out. As rationally as was feasible (although I was talking to myself the whole time), I began to search for things I would need on the roof. Surely that's where I was headed at the rate the water was pouring in. My mouth and lips were cotton, so I grabbed lip balm. So far, so good. Then, I found a few floating milk jugs, waiting to be recycled, and filled them with water. From high dresser drawers, I grabbed dry sweat shirts. A blanket with fish on it got stuffed into a bag. A fanny pack found floating I crammed with Swiss army knife, batteries, camera, wallet, cigarettes, matches, tomatoes, cheese and a handful of Werthers butterscotches. And just before it toppled into the water, I snatched a portable radio off a coffee table. All of that, I thought, would come in handy while I waited on my roof for the Coast Guard helicopters to come. I moved my survival stash to the highest window in the house, above the kitchen sink. I smashed out the window with a hammer, to be ready to climb onto the roof if the water got too high. With the radio blaring church music, I rambled back through the house to get a few of those important things up to high spots. Then, I sat in my broken window and waited. And smoked cigarettes. It was my first chance to actually think. And as I looked at my belongings floating in 4 feet of water, I shrugged and felt surprisingly lucky. A bit lonely, wondering if I was the only clown stuck out here, but lucky. I thought of my many elderly neighbors, too. If I was soaked, scared and exhausted, how were they holding up? I prayed a little. Finally, at about 10 a.m., after a few hours shivering in my kitchen window, I saw the water was actually receding. Another hour and it was ankle deep. I went outside and, a while later, saw firefighters wading up the street. "If you can walk, start walking toward the Pick Quik," one of them said, warning me that the water was expected to rise again later that afternoon. So I grabbed my stash, said goodbye to my house and car (with only two payments left) and in hip-deep water walked more than a mile to Pick Quik. It took an hour to reach it. About 1 p.m. -- seven hours after the gulf invaded my home -- I was at my office, drenched, hungry, tired, confused and curious about what life would be like in the coming weeks. But I had made it out. And I still felt lucky. © Copyright 1998 St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.