"The Hurricane House Hustle"
A special kind of optimism grips a person right before they buy a fixer-upper. Some call it madness. I call it “HGTV Syndrome.” That’s precisely what I had when I signed the dotted line for a house in coastal North Carolina with “a little water damage,” according to the listing.
The house had been through Hurricane Helena, and based on the smell coming from the crawlspace, she had left behind more than just memories. But there I was, armed with a toolbox, a half-used Home Depot gift card, and delusions of grandeur. I would renovate this disaster zone and sell it for a fat profit. Or so I thought.
DAY 1: DISCOVERY
The first sign of trouble came when I tried to open the front door, and it didn’t budge. It was not stuck—it was swollen. Wood expands when it’s soaked in three feet of hurricane rain for 72 hours. Who knew? I climbed through a broken side window, which greeted me with a chorus of squeaking floorboards and the distinct aroma of moldy regret.
Inside, it looked like the storm had thrown a frat party: cabinets hanging by one hinge, a refrigerator that had evolved into a new ecosystem, and a ceiling fan dangling like it had seen some things and didn’t want to discuss it.
But I was undeterred. “This is fine,” I said aloud, probably to reassure myself more than anyone else. “Nothing a little elbow grease and about $40,000 won’t fix.”
DAY 2: DEMO DAY (AKA HOUSE VS. MAN)
I invited my buddy Kyle to help with the demo. Kyle is one of those guys who thinks a sledgehammer can solve anything, including emotional trauma, so I figured that energy would come in handy.
We started in the kitchen, tearing out cabinets, counters, and the sink. That’s when Kyle accidentally busted a pipe, and water began gushing like we’d struck oil. Except it wasn’t oil. It was brown. And it smelled like something that had marinated in despair since the storm.
“Shut off the water!” I yelled.
Kyle spun around like a wet golden retriever. “Where’s the valve?!”
“In the crawlspace!” I replied.
He stared at me, blinked twice, and said, “I’m not going in there. I heard something growl.”
Fair enough.
I wore my bravery pants (cargo shorts) and crawled into the abyss. Fifteen minutes, one raccoon encounter, and a minor panic attack later, the valve was shut off. Victory. Sort of. We were now soaked, stinky, and behind schedule.
WEEK 1: HIRED HELP (KIND OF)
After the incident, Kyle called “The Raccoon Negotiation.” I decided to bring in professionals. That’s when I met Reggie, a general contractor who showed up wearing a Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops, and a smile that said, "I’ve seen worse."
He looked at the house and said, “You’ll need permits, new joists, and probably a priest.”
Reggie’s crew was efficient, loud, and smelled faintly of beef jerky. They went to work on everything: leveling the foundation, redoing the electrical, and pulling out half the insulation, which had turned into something resembling cheese.
At one point, Reggie found a possum skeleton in the attic. “Good luck charm,” he said, and left it by the door. I still don’t know if he was serious.
WEEK 3: THE INSPECTION
With most of the big stuff done, I called in the inspector. His name was Don, and he had the deadpan demeanor of someone who’s seen one too many jerry-rigged water heaters.
Don poked around, jotted some notes, then said, “You’re not grounded.”
“Emotionally or electrically?” I asked.
He didn’t laugh.
Nothing in the house met code, not even the house numbers. Don gave me a list of violations that could have been a novella.
WEEK 4: MENTAL BREAKDOWN & THE HOA
Around this time, I learned the home was under an HOA. They hadn’t contacted me until I replaced the front door with one from Lowe’s that was “not in harmony with the community’s aesthetic.”
Their exact words.
I invited the HOA president, Marlene, over. She looked at the door, pursed her lips, and said, “It’s just… too enthusiastic.”
I had no idea doors could be emotionally overwhelming.
I replaced it with a “subtler” beige model that looked like it had given up on life. HOA approved.
WEEK 5: A MIRACLE (ALMOST)
Somewhere around week five, the house actually started looking livable. It had new floors, working appliances, and freshly painted walls (neutral gray, because Zillow says it’s sexy). I even staged it with furniture from Facebook Marketplace that didn’t smell like feet.
The listing went up on a Friday.
By Sunday, I had an offer.
By Monday, the HVAC unit exploded.
Not metaphorically. Smoke. Sparks. A neighbor was filming it like it was the 4th of July.
Reggie shrugged. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a meth lab.”
Thanks, Reggie.
WEEK 6: THE CLOSING
I replaced the HVAC. Again. Repainted the trim because a bird pooped artistically across it. And I finally sold the house for a modest profit. Like, barely enough to pay for therapy and a sandwich.
At the closing, the buyer said, “I just love the character of this home. It has stories, you know?”
I nodded slowly. “Oh, it has stories.”
EPILOGUE: NEVER AGAIN (PROBABLY)
Back home, I swore I’d never do this again. Renovating a hurricane-damaged fixer-upper had aged me ten years and ruined three pairs of shoes.
Then Kyle texted.
“Found a great deal on a duplex. Needs a little work. You in?”
I stared at the phone for a long time.
Then I responded:
“Only if it doesn’t have a crawlspace.”
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