I’m like most survivors; Tracy doesn’t go away.
In the unforgiving grip of Cyclone Tracy on Christmas morning in 1974, our Nightcliff unit transformed into a battleground. Huddled in the bathroom, knowing this wasn’t going away, we endured harrowing noises, with walls seemingly pulsating in and out, inflicting pain on our ears. I shielded our 3-week-old daughter with my hands over her ears, knowing the storm’s onslaught was far from over.
During the eye of the storm, there was a fleeting calm. We invited a new couple and their child from upstairs to join us, sharing a brief respite with a cup of tea, fully aware that the storm’s second act was imminent. It arrived with unforgiving force, bringing a state of destruction: toilets swirling, timbers and tin screeching as they were wrenched from the roof above, and water and sand invading beneath the bathroom door.
Emerging hours later, the devastation engulfed us in a surreal silence. Neighbours’ roofs littered the roads, trees were reduced to mere sticks, and power poles and wires were strewn like confetti. Our two-story block was now just one level, and our belongings were scattered in a pool of sandy water throughout the unit.
Amid the evacuation, hopes of emergency airlifts were slow to materialise for us, and with a newborn, we decided to drive out of Darwin. Bags packed and car ready, we confided in friends, leaving our upstairs neighbours in our unit. Upon returning, I discovered their child in an outfit I knew I hadn’t given her, but I chose not to say anything. We joined the procession of evacuees, escaping Darwin.
We were stopped at Pine Creek by the police. Browny, a policeman we knew from Gove, told us it wasn’t safe to be on the road. We took shelter in the local jail, with the two-way radio broadcasting reports of looters pillaging the ravaged city, but we were safe.
We were flown to Alice Springs, where we were greeted by the Salvation Army. They took my daughter and clothed her for the cool night. Flights to Melbourne via Adelaide followed, where the arms of my Aunt and Uncle were waiting. My tears flowed, releasing the emotions of the preceding days.
Only later, sorting through my belongings, did the stark reality emerge: our marriage and birth certificates, along with other items, had been taken by the very family we had aided. The trauma of the cyclone paled against the betrayal, a selfish act etched in my memory.
Returning to Darwin years later, the city’s resilience reflected our own.
As 2024 approaches, the remembrance and celebration beckon, a testament to our survival. I look forward to meeting with other Tracy survivors and sharing our stories.