This Harvey wasn’t something you pour into a highball glass—though he left one hell of a hangover. This was Hurricane Harvey, relentlessly pounding the Houston area for days.

As I watched Harvey form and heard he would stall over Houston, Corpus Christi, and the surrounding areas, I wrestled with the decision to go help. After a full day of debating—mostly with myself—I knew the answer. Ellen and I talked about it that Monday at the office. She knew. I knew. I needed to go.

I left Tuesday mid-morning, drove to Dallas, caught a few hours of sleep at my friends Rich and Monica’s place, then hit the road again around 1 a.m. That put me in Houston around 5 a.m. The only question left was: where exactly should I go?

I’ve learned that when I do this kind of work, I’m usually pointed in the right direction—call it God, fate, the universe, or dumb luck. About two hours outside Houston, I tuned into the North Houston rescue channel on Zello. I heard Port Arthur and Beaumont were getting hammered, with water rising fast. I punched Port Arthur into the GPS and headed east.

An hour outside Beaumont, I spotted two trucks hauling flat-bottom boats. Something told me to follow them. They pulled into a gas station for diesel, and I introduced myself. The older man was Jimmie. He ran a pizza oven cleaning business in Houston, and the younger driver was his son-in-law. They were headed to Port Arthur. I asked if I could tag along and help. It was 5 a.m., and we needed to move fast.

Two routes were flooded out completely. The third got us there—pushing through nearly two feet of water. Zello helped us navigate, and we launched from a Walmart parking lot.

Port Arthur Rescues

As Jimmie prepped the boats, I grabbed my medical bag and rope. We launched, and I took on the job of comms—listening for the highest-priority calls. Our first rescue was a family floating in an inflatable swimming pool, two men pulling it through floodwater. We loaded the entire family—pool included—into the boats and got them to safety.

“Where to next?” Jimmie asked.

I scanned addresses and routed us toward multiple high-water calls. Along the way, we ran into the Coast Guard trying to access a senior housing complex called Legacy Senior Housing. Water there was waist- to chest-deep. The concern was immediate: elderly residents, some possibly fallen or wheelchair-bound.

Jimmie and I started door to door, wading through the water, knocking and calling out. At one unit, the door was open but the screen locked. As we were about to force entry, an elderly man emerged. Across the way, I noticed a flicker of light behind blinds in another unit.

I crossed the flooded “parking lot” and knocked. I heard a faint sound. The door was unlocked.

Inside sat an elderly woman in a battery-powered wheelchair, stranded in the middle of the room. She had been there for about 13 hours. If the water had risen another foot, she wouldn’t have survived.

I yelled for Jimmie. We’d need help. Within minutes, three Coast Guard members arrived. Together, we lifted this woman—carefully—into a 14-foot flat-bottom boat. She insisted we take her wheelchair too. I argued—it was another 100 pounds—but she wouldn’t leave without it. So we loaded it.

I took lookout at the bow. As I tried to see past her, I barely caught a submerged brick mailbox dead ahead. I yelled and reached out—but we hit it just off center. The boat lifted, twisted, and I lunged forward, grabbing the woman and throwing my weight over the side to counterbalance.

I remember thinking, If we flip, I’m not letting her drown.

The motor shut down. We slid off the mailbox and leveled out.

“Well,” I said, breathing hard, “that was close.”

Jimmie shrugged—no words needed. We got everyone safely to dry land.

Nursing Home Evacuation

On another run to Legacy, we were asked to transport a woman and a sheriff to Cypress Glen Nursing Home. Management initially refused to evacuate residents—likely due to liability. That changed when the sheriff arrived.

The place smelled of urine and feces. There were 50–100 residents. Some could move with assistance; others were bedridden and had to be evacuated on mattresses into larger boats and fan boats.

As Jimmie ferried residents out, I stayed behind—lifting, assisting, and marking cleared rooms with white medical tape. And yes, we rechecked them. Again and again.

By dusk, we were done. Exhausted. Hungry. We loaded the boats, said our goodbyes, and I finally ate a peanut butter sandwich next to my truck.

Beaumont and Beyond

I headed to Beaumont to drop supplies at a church, ate dinner, and tried to push farther out—but flooded roads stopped me. I slept in my truck at Triumph Church.

At dawn, water had risen again. Zello chatter pointed to Vidor, Texas. I headed there—nearly drowning my truck in the process. Every open gas station or dollar store meant more diapers, formula, and dog food. I spent nearly $2,000—offset by $1,520 raised by friends and family.

Most of the day was spent ferrying people across flooded streets and helping smaller vehicles reach Highway 10. When my truck took water up to the headlights, I knew they wouldn’t make it without help.

That night, I parked at an LDS church and tried to sleep. Around 1 a.m., I got texts from a contractor—one of my guys had been stealing. From him. From me. From a tenant. That was it.

I knew I’d be back to Houston. But I also knew I had to deal with this immediately.

So I headed for Kansas City. Twelve hours on the road. I rolled in around 3 p.m.

There was more work to do. There always is.

Thanks for reading—and always meet new strangers… unless their name is Harvey.