Ghost Town
South Padre Island has changed since part of the Queen Isabella Causeway collapsed. The beach is deserted, hotels have shut down, and commuting is a pain.
The Queen Isabella Causeway.
Photograph by Bill Busa
Early on the morning of September 15, 2001, a barge hit the Queen Isabella Causeway causing a 160-foot section of the only bridge connecting South Padre Island to the mainland to collapse. Another section fell into the Laguna Madre some twelve hours later. Eight people died. Since September 15, island residents and visitors have been dealing with tragedy, commuting, and a sense of isolation. One hotel is still temporarily closed, fast-food chains like KFC and McDonald's have shut their doors, and the retail shops that are open are having big sales. The beaches are deserted. LaVina Tyrrell has been living in South Padre Island since 1992. She has been employed as a school librarian at the Los Fresnos Consolidated School District for ten years, and she owns her own beauty salon on the island. The following is her own account of life in South Padre since the causeway collapsed.
September 15, 2001
I wake up at five in the morning and learn from my boyfriend, Alex, that part of the bridge has collapsed and cars have driven off the bridge and are in the Laguna Madre. I cannot imagine it being very bad. In my semi-wakeful state I think, "I guess my first two clients this morning won't be coming until this afternoon when they fix whatever little thing is wrong and re-open the bridge."
Then I see the TV coverage and am totally shocked. A huge section of the bridge had disappeared, vanished. I thought I would see a live TV shot that showed jagged edges or pieces of concrete dangling from the bridge, but it was as if part of it had simply dissolved.
September 16, 2001
Alex and I attend a citizens' meeting at ten in the morning. The mayor, Ed Cyganiewicz, and other officials give information about services. The mayor assures us that our water supply is fine, electricity is fine, and the phone service should be restored within hours. He says that a car ferry has already arrived and that work will begin on building a dock so that cars can be transported off the island. He is able to speak for only about five minutes before angry tourists begin questioning him about when they can get their cars off the island. The meeting goes downhill from there. I whisper to the friend sitting next to me, "This is definitely not our finest hour."
My school district announces that it will send a bus to transport the teachers and the students who live on South Padre Island to Los Fresnos. This is welcome news because I was scrambling to think of whom I might ask to give me a ride. I call my Monday afternoon clients to tell them that I will let them know when I get back to the island and will be ready to do their nails. Everyone seems understanding, which I appreciate.
My mother calls to see how I'm doing. I tell her that I'm okay, but I already feel nervous about tomorrow.
September 17, 2001
I wake up at two in the morning and cannot get back to sleep. I usually wake up at two and then go right back to sleep, but not this time. I am nervous about the boat ride and about where to go after the ferry docks at Southpoint Marina to catch my ride to Los Fresnos.
Alex takes me to the Sea Ranch Marina at six o'clock. I board the ferry, and we leave at 6:20 a.m. for the watery commute across the bay. Everyone else on the boat looks like they have been awake since two also. The only exception is the captain and crew of our boat; they are joking, saying good morning, and generally doing all they can to make us feel better about our situation. As we head out, I think about the last time I boarded a boat at Sea Ranch at 6:15 a.m. I was going fishing in the Ladies Kingfishing Tournament in August. That day I was full of excitement, anticipating a day of catching big fish, spending time with friends, and enjoying the sun and the water. Now I am embarking on a boat because I have no other choice.
The ferry ride is comfortable and quick. We arrive at Southpoint at 6:45. I get off the boat, look up toward the parking lot, and see my superintendent there to meet me. I am touched that he would get up so early to meet us there. We cannot leave for school immediately because some of the other teachers rode a later ferry. After swatting mosquitoes for about thirty minutes, the rest of the Los Fresnos crew arrives and we leave for school. I can't remember the last time I rode a school bus. It is not luxurious, but I am happy to have a way to and from school.
Once at school, my colleagues and friends all come by the library and check on me, offer their concern about my well-being, and give me hugs. I cannot seem to control the number of times I cry. I remind myself of the Old Faithful Geyser at Yellowstone. I go off about once an hour. I cry for the victims who lost their lives because of the bridge collapse, for the loss of my freedom to jump in my car and whiz away whenever I want, for the loss of knowing exactly when I'll be back on the island to start taking care of my nail clients.
The ferry trip home in the afternoon is much more relaxed than this morning. I meet a woman named Denise. She and I laugh and look for dolphins. The Murphy boys, who are our captains, are cracking jokes. After the thirty-minute ride, we arrive at Sea Ranch at 5:15 p.m. I call my client to meet me at the salon in fifteen minutes. Alex is waiting for me at the dock with a bouquet of flowers. What a nice guy! Thank goodness he is calm during all this and even makes jokes about being the newest taxi driver on the island.
September 19, 2001
The ferries leave at a slightly different time each morning. Monday one left at 6:20, Tuesday at 6:10, and today one is pulling out as Alex drops me at the dock at six. I panic for a moment and then see that people are boarding another boat at the end of the marina. Alex helps me with my bags. I have noticed that almost all the women on the ferries now carry big purses or several bags. In addition to my appointment book, lunch, and school books, I now keep paper towels to dry the benches that are often wet, an umbrella, a hooded jacket, a rain pancho, a sun visor, mosquito repellent, and deck sandals with me at all times.
I board the boat and wait for it to fill with more people and take off. Someone has hung his or her business suit up inside the cabin. This morning my boat buddy is Betty, the mayor's wife. She teaches an early class in Port Isabel. I think she has as many bags as I do. We find a place on the benches outside the boat cabin, dry them off, and sit down. We enjoy each other's company on our uneventful trip across, comparing notes about what clothes and shoes we no longer wear to work because of our new mode of transportation. Silks are definitely out, as are heels and hose. Any kind of hairdo other than pulled up or back is also out of the question. I ask her to convey my thanks to Mayor Cyganiewicz for all his hard work and efforts to try and make our lives as normal as possible.
I take a ferry home that leaves Southpoint at around seven. The sunset is gorgeous. People visit with each other, or some just watch the water. As we cross the bay, I notice that it seems to get quiet when we get to the collapsed part of the bridge. People stare at the open span of evening sky between the east and west pillars of what was once our easy-access link to the rest of the world. Sometimes, I still cannot believe it. I went to sleep one night and the next morning my whole world had changed.
September 21, 2001
My Library
