Appointment With a Cyclone
Waiting for Alfred
I’ve packed my bags countless times - holidays, city breaks, overnighters - all the fun stuff. Then there’s the house moves, which were stressful but ultimately rewarding. But nothing quite compares to packing for an emergency evacuation in the days before ‘Uncle’ Alfred arrives. That’s a whole different ball game.
If you live in southeast Queensland, you’re all too familiar with the destruction left in the wake of the recent cyclone. Sure, we had plenty of warning, but when it showed up late and hovered off the Gold Coast, like a stubborn drunk refusing to call it a night, many of us hoped it would just fizzle out. Seems that cyclones don’t work that way.
For those unfamiliar with the intensity of an Aussie weather event, let me share with you my diary from the days before and after this unwelcome visitor left us with an almighty mess to clean up…
Monday 3rd March
The cyclone’s been mentioned in forecasts for the past week, but now, the news reports confirm it’s coming. I turn to my husband and suggest we fill up our jerry cans with fuel for the generator. Living in a semi-rural mountain community, you expect trees to fall, power lines to go down, and poles to topple - just as they did during the tornado of 2023.
Husband grumbles, tells me I’m overreacting, but reluctantly agrees to join me in “embarrassing ourselves” at the local gas station - where we find a line of cars filled with ‘I told you so’ women giving their menfolk the side-eye. Drive 25 minutes off the mountain to the next one.
Husband is still grumbling. I remind him of his oft-used phrase, that I’m usually right “80% of the time.”
Tuesday 4th March
Checking the community Facebook page is both informative and horrifying. The one supermarket on a mountain with approx. 9,000 residents is already under siege from panic buyers, stripping the shelves of bottled water and toilet paper. I’m not entirely sure why people expect to lose control of their bowels in the coming days, but maybe they know something I don’t.
Pretend I’m not affected by the frenzy as I nonchalantly debate what to buy for dinner. We’re advised to use up our freezer food before a power outage, so tonight and tomorrow, we’re having chicken nuggets, burgers, and chips. Suits me fine. I like to think of myself as a well-travelled, sophisticated woman, but truthfully, I love the brown stuff.
Later, the kitchen resembles a MasterChef quarter-final - the stage where they stop pretending it’s all about participation and start secretly hoping their rivals’ soufflés collapse. I whip up sausage pasta, chilli con carne, bake banana bread, grill burgers, cook salmon, toss a salad, while not forgetting to stockpile beer and medical supplies. For a moment, I feel like I’m absolutely nailing this ‘woman ahead of the cyclone’ business.
The chicken enclosure is rock solid and still dry underfoot, but we dig a trench in anticipation of biblical rain. Husband is suspiciously quiet and compliant as he checks the generator and puts away outdoor furniture. When he agrees - without hesitation - that we should make space for the chooks in the laundry room for Thursday night, alarm bells ring.
I prefer to believe it’s all a storm in a teacup. That it’s just me, overthinking things. But as a volunteer with the State Emergency Service, my husband has access to reliable information on the matter. When he tells me to get an evacuation bag together, I laugh - until realising he’s serious.
What do you pack when faced with the very real possibility of losing your home and everything in it?
Passports, socks, underwear, a change of clothes, electronic devices, toiletries - all the practical stuff. But what about the paintings of our beloved dogs, long gone? The birthday and Christmas cards collected over the years? The keepsakes, the memories?
We’re not particularly attached to possessions, but suddenly, I find myself frantically searching for the thumb-drive with our wedding photos, hoping the evacuation bag is just a precaution - just as it was during bushfire season.
Later, we board up the bedroom windows where the worst of the impact is expected.
“If it comes to it, we bunker down in the bathroom - that’s the safest spot,” my husband declares. “And the chickens can sit in the sink.”
Wednesday 5th March
Alfred is running a day late. No apologies, no remorse - just the cold, hard fact that it’s having too much fun bouncing between islands off the Gold Coast, like a malevolent pinball wizard.
I decide to attend my usual aqua class, knowing the pool will likely be closed from Friday onward. Am surprised to see only five of us there, when normally there’d be twenty. We talk about our preparations. Aussie women are tough - they’ve weathered many a storm. I’m heartened when one lady admits she’s already moved her chickens indoors.
Living where we do, where rainwater is collected from the roof and stored in a tank, we rely on electricity to pump it through the house. Without power, there’s no running water. We’re advised to fill bathtubs and buckets so we can still wash and flush toilets.
My 18-year-old stepson, Johnny, is in his first week of work. He’s been told it’s not safe to drive, so his girlfriend, Ava, arrives to bunker down with us.
Brown stuff and chips for dinner.
Thursday 6th March
Oh the waiting…
Johnny and Ava revert to childhood, doing puzzles and colouring in at the dining table. I gently remind them to make the most of the internet while we still have power, but they sweetly insist on pretending we’re Amish.
At 10:30 a.m. the power goes out. Neighbours yell, “Not yet!” in unison. Thankfully it returns at 4:30 p.m. Small mercy, but a taste of what’s to come.
Husband heads out for a few hours to help fill sandbags - the most sought-after commodity for those in low-lying homes at risk of flooding. I check on elderly neighbours. Some are being taken to a safer spot off the mountain.
Wonder if it’s too early to have a drink. Answer my own question and pour a glass of wine. Reassure family and friends back in England that we’re prepared and that “it’s bound to come to nothing.”
In all the great disaster movies, anticipation is everything. Once The Poseidon rolls over or The Towering Inferno reveals the full scale of the fire, there’s an almost perverse sense of relief. The worst has happened; the monster at the door has barged its way in.
JUST COME IF YOU’RE COMING!
To take our minds off our own impending doom, my husband suggests a movie. His choice? The Day After Tomorrow - a 2004 film about a sudden climate catastrophe that triggers a new ice age. Brilliant.
Eat the last of the brown stuff for dinner.
That night, as we lie in bed, the wind outside is fierce. A prelude to the cyclone. Branches snap from trees and crash onto the tin roof. Husband and I hold each other tight.
Friday 7th March
Wake to find a tree has fallen onto the back of the house. Fortunately, there’s little damage, but it’s a stark reminder of what to expect when the cyclone hits us later. We all spring into action. Johnny climbs onto the roof, my husband pulls a rope attached to the tree, while his girlfriend, Ava, and I hold the ladders and document our efficiency as makeshift tree-loppers by taking numerous photos for social media.
The chickens are in their temporary home - the laundry room. After months of hovering outside the back door, they finally get to see inside. They don’t seem too impressed.
It’s now too late for us to evacuate. We’ve been warned to stay off the roads. If things get bad overnight, we’ll bunker down in the bathroom.
Dinner is sausage pasta bake - because we’ve all had enough of the brown stuff.
I take a sleeping tablet, but the cyclone wails outside, banging and crashing, demanding to be let in. It’s terrifying. At one point, I swear the roof is ripping off. My husband has a brief romantic notion that we’ll die "like the old couple who stay put in bed as the Titanic sinks." I tell him I’d prefer not to go that way.
The winds are ferocious, but we wait it out. Plus, the bathroom floor is really cold. The overhead fan cuts out.
Saturday 8th March - Day 1 Without Power
The morning after. We start up the generator.
After the 2023 tornado, most residents here invested in one. For the uninitiated, generators come in various models and capacities. They’re not cheap, but they’re invaluable in situations like this. They run on petrol or diesel, but unless you’re Rockefeller or Jeff Bezos and can afford one powerful enough to run an entire house, most can only handle a limited number of appliances at a time.
For example, the generator runs all day to keep the fridge and freezer going, but other power usage must be carefully rationed. My husband’s computer, essential for his work, takes precedence over charging phones or using lights. The water pump consumes a lot of power, so we limit its use, along with various kitchen appliances. The kettle and microwave are off-limits - they draw too much electricity and could overload the system. The oven is hardwired, making it unusable. Laundry will have to wait. Instead, we rely on a small camp burner for tea, and a gas bottle for the BBQ.
Unsurprisingly, the Telstra internet tower is down - we’re unable to reassure family and friends that we’re safe. I’d warned them this might happen, but it’s still frustrating. I grumble to anyone who’ll listen that we were far better off with landline phones - before everything relied on the internet. They roll their eyes in an ‘OK, Grandma’ fashion.
We don’t appear to have sustained damage to the house. The cyclone itself may be heading for the exit, but it’s a slow, drawn-out farewell. Winds are still over 100 km/h, flattening tree branches, and the sheet rain is relentless.
My husband’s itching to help clear roads, but the SES warn it’s too soon to drive anywhere, as fallen trees have pulled live power lines down. So instead, we don our wellies and go door-knocking, checking on the vulnerable and nearby friends, who excitedly tell us there’s a pub in the area with a generator. One elderly neighbour doesn’t answer. She lives two houses up. There’s no sign of damage, but I make a note to try her later.
The rest of the day, we’re forced to sit tight. Our home, surrounded by trees, is naturally dark, but without artificial light, 1pm feels like 5pm. I go to the bathroom, feeling my way, wash my face, and put a bit of slap on - because standards must be maintained.
The chickens, watching us come and go, soon get vocal. Mary mutters something along the lines of, "It’s nothing like it looks in the photos," while Daphne urges her to leave a review on TripAdvisor. Their enclosure is dry and protected by tarp, so we pop them back in their coop.
All that’s left is to sit and watch the movie, Everybody Hates Johan, on terrestrial TV. The reception is bad, so it keeps cutting out - but it’s oddly entertaining, and not something we’d have gone for, given the choice. Treat ourselves to a glass of wine and eat the last of the crisps.
Dinner is chilli con carne.
Sunday 9th March - Day 2 without power.
Restless night. The banshee winds howl, and the gods continue to throw buckets of water down on us from their cloudy balconies. More debris on the roads. Emergency services can go out but the rest of us are advised to stay indoors. Fortunately or unfortunately, lots of people now have a mobile signal and are sharing their stories and pictures online, but mostly asking if the supermarket is open (no).
Without power, the petrol station is unable to pump fuel. We are all running low, but the Police have warned that the three routes off the mountain are precarious.
I head down to see the chooks and notice immediately that it’s flooded by a few millimetres overnight. The girls, instead of going into their dry coop, are teetering together on a plant pot. I scoop them up and bring them back to the big house. Mary audibly groans. Johnny gets to work on the trench, in an effort to divert the floodwater.
Am alarmed to feel a leech on my eyelid. For those unacquainted with these ‘charming’ creatures, leeches love damp weather - they feed by attaching to your skin and sucking blood. To add insult to injury, they secrete an anticoagulant to keep the blood flowing - so your floors will often resemble a scene from Psycho. I naturally panic, try to pull the leech off, but to no avail. My husband sees and acts quickly to remove it. I want to scream with relief.
Johnny and Ava continue to amuse themselves with the board game, Monopoly, while I play my accordion (not a euphemism - regular readers will know that I’m learning the instrument.) Struggle to concentrate. Have a headache from caffeine withdrawal.
Try texting and calling that missing neighbour. No answer. A stroke of luck when the police stop by – they are door knocking in the area, checking on residents. I ask them to see if she’s okay. They return twenty minutes later to say she is without generator, has no charge on her phone, and has asked for help.
Husband collects her on the way back from SES duties. We make her a hot flask of coffee and charge her phone, but she faces a struggle if she can’t connect to a regularly charged power bank. I send a message out to the community, who are as amazing as ever in their response.
Boil ravioli in camp stove for dinner.
Unusually late to bed.
Monday 10th March - Day 3 without power.
My stepson is unable to get to work, so instead, he drives us a short distance off the mountain via the only safe route, in order to buy more petrol and provisions. The supermarkets are low on fresh produce, and we have to queue for a fresh loaf of bread. Momentarily feel like I’m in the Soviet Union. Pick up a ready-cooked pork roast for dinner. No luck in finding a new gas canister for the camping stove.
Weather conditions are much better ‘down the hill’ - but a number of roads are blocked due to floodwater. Returning home, as soon as we start the ascent, we are enveloped by a wet white cloud. Check my face in the wing mirror - notice a monobrow forming. Hair could do with a wash. I look wild.
Laundry is piling up, so I take my husband’s SES uniform and Johnny’s work gear into the shower with me. The water runs cold. I wash my hair fast while liberally sprinkling powder onto the clothes. Do a crap job of rinsing, and struggle to wring them out. Start the log fire, as it’s still too damp to dry clothes outside. Watch clothes drip onto the floor. Open and drink a bottle of beer in under 30 seconds.
Ava’s 18th birthday today. What a damp squib. She and Johnny have dinner at hers. The rain has finally eased, so chickens happily return to their coop.
Pork, baked beans, and bread for dinner. Am desperate to watch the new episode of White Lotus. Still seething about the change in theme tune. Bed early.
Tuesday 11th March - Day 4 without power.
Really missing a hot cup of tea first thing in the morning. Too much faff to boil a saucepan of water on the BBQ. Also, I smell of petrol pretty much all the time, even after washing. Nearby shops are still closed, although the gas station is now open, with Police in attendance to ensure there’s no trouble.
Johnny is back to work and glad of the distraction. My husband is helping to clear roads and properties of fallen trees. Internet remains intermittent. I go to attend a community meeting organised by the Disaster & Management Committee. En-route, I drop off some milk to a friend who has run out - her reaction is akin to me gifting her my estate.
Several people in authority speak. Locals shake their pitchforks - many aren’t happy about the length of time it’s taking to get the power restored. There’s very much a feeling that a place like ours, with no mains water, should have priority over the Gold Coast and city suburbs.
Spend the rest of the afternoon parked next to the NBN satellite van, to make calls and answer emails.
Internet resumes later that evening. Look on the community Facebook site and see a woman who has been evacuated from her home, asking for help with her two dogs, while she waits for her place to be made safe. Consider it for a nanosecond, ignoring the fact that it’s a stress I could do without, and offer up my help. Husband reminds me that every time I petsit, I cry when handing the animal back to its owner.
Dinner is sausages, salad, and buttered bread.
Wednesday 12th March - Day 5 without power.
Wake up and wonder if anyone - aside from the chickens - would really notice if I just stayed in bed.
When the cyclone first plunged us into darkness and we were told to stay put, plenty of people suggested embracing the enforced downtime: stay in pyjamas, eat crisps, drink beer, play games, read. Sounds blissful, right? But in practice, forced relaxation is oddly unsettling.
The absence of background noise, of emails, of the predictable hum of modern life, leaves space for something else to creep in - an uneasy restlessness. My appetite for life is dulled. Meals feel like just another chore, and I find myself eating less.
My stepdaughter, Libby visits from a place unaffected by the floods. I tell her to get out while she still can. SAVE YOURSELF!
Fiona, the lady with the dogs, calls. We arrange a visit so she can introduce me to Hamish, a sweet, doe-eyed whippet who is a certified cuddle monster. I ask about the other pup, Dougal. Fiona hesitates, wanting to give me the option to refuse, given that we’re still without power and he’s a two-year-old Borzoi (Russian Wolfhound). But I don’t like the idea of separating them, even for five days, so she goes to collect him.
Upon returning, I’m stunned to see the lankiest, longest, loveliest creature gingerly climbing our stairs. Dougal is clearly thrilled to see Hamish - they play together immediately. Fiona explains that both dogs understand sign language, so I learn a few phrases, including finish your food and bye-bye, back soon.
Fortunately, they settle in quickly, and when we take them for an afternoon walk, Dougal bounds up the path like a stilt walker on steroids. They attract plenty of attention - just as our dogs once did.
Dinner is Dominos pizza, collected by Johnny on his way home from work.
The night proves challenging, as the pups adjust to their new surroundings. In the end, I give up and sleep in the spare room with them. Dougal decides he’s happiest lying horizontally across my feet, while Hamish buries himself under my duvet. Unable to sleep, I listen to podcasts and catch up on my Substack reading.
Thursday, 13th March – Day 6 Without Power
Take the dogs for an early walk, grab a coffee, come home, and glance in the mirror. A wild-looking woman stares back. Briefly wonder when Channel 5 will send Ben Fogle to document my new off-grid lifestyle. Put off washing my hair. Fortunately, my mad Irish mane is thick enough that it doesn’t require daily maintenance.
Dougal follows me everywhere - I must resemble Princess Margaret wandering the grounds of Sandringham with a shetland pony. If the chickens had eyebrows, they’d be arched.
Meanwhile, my husband and our neighbour tackle the rest of our precarious tree. I’m dizzy with tiredness but heartened to hear that power has been restored to some homes on the mountain. Praying it’s our turn next.
Dinner: Ravioli and leftover pizza.
Friday, 14th March – Day 7…
Wake to find Hamish the whippet spooning me. Husband mutters, “So you’re not too hot when he does it.”
After a good night’s sleep, everyone feels refreshed. Walk the dogs, return, clean the house, then brace myself for a cold shower. Finally wash my hair and immediately feel more human. Consider dinner options. Am not a big meat eater usually, but choices are limited. Grateful for generous friends offering hot showers and washing machines.
Try encouraging Dougal to finish his food using the appropriate sign language. His puzzled expression suggests I may have accidentally asked for directions to Leicester Square.
And then - at 1pm - while I’m on the phone, I spot our bedroom fan whirring. It’s the most beautiful sight.
Still mid-conversation, I choose to alert my husband by flicking the lights on and off, like an annoying child repeatedly ringing the bus bell.
Suddenly, the sky looks bluer, the grass greener, and - best of all - the kettle is calling me…
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Oh good lord. Sharon, you all deserve medals. The lack of coffee alone would have had me lying on the floor face down, crying. Thank goodness you're all ok. You must have been overjoyed when that power came back on. I hope the clean up doesn't take too long and that this never happens again! 💛
I’m glad you’re ok. Truly terrifying. It just goes to show how easily we can be knocked off keel. As Jules says I hope it doesn’t happen again.