Craig Reeves had been in Rockport, Texas, barely 48 hours when he ducked into the gloomy threshold of the condominium, which was darkened by blinds pulled before Hurricane Harvey and filled with a humid, mildewy funk.
Reeves, a catastrophe claims adjuster for State Farm, crunched over glass shards in his steel-toed boots, stepping over a wet towel, a bottle of Febreze and a copy of Henry David Thoreau's "Walden." He made his way past the kitchen, its cupboard doors curling, and into the living room with its soaked teddy bear, upended sewing machine, dog kennel and deck chairs. Reeves lifted the shades, letting in the sunlight that would help him take account of the destruction of Jeannie Jurischk's home.
Hurricane Harvey inflicted damage on 1.7 million homes that could top $11.5 billion in insured losses, according to CoreLogic Inc., and workers like Reeves are on the front lines. State Farm, the biggest private home and auto insurer in Texas, had 32,500 property claims to handle as of Monday. It deployed more than 1,000 adjusters to the Gulf Coast, and erected a disaster tent, portable toilets and a satellite-equipped recreational vehicle along the freeway in Corpus Christi, Texas, 30 miles from Rockport.
While the outside world sees storms as televised tableaux, adjusters like Reeves focus on the minutiae of destruction, from water stains and mold specks on a ceiling to a roof sheared off to a concrete pad where a single house once stood. Adjusters are often reconstruction's harbingers, and they witness communities reeling and people at their frailest.
"Everything that you're involved with is destruction and bad times," Reeves said. "There's no break from it."
Rockport, near where Harvey made landfall Aug. 25, is a fishing village that also attracts tourists and retirees, some who live in million-dollar homes along a pristine marina. This weekend, though, the town was without electricity and water, and many residents lacked any shelter. Jurischk's condominium unit was just the first of about 50 cases handed to Reeves after his 1,200-mile drive from Silvis, Ill. Nearly all of his cases involved homes rendered uninhabitable.
Evacuated to Houston
On Saturday, he met Jurischk for the first time outside, where concrete tiles, stucco siding and nails littered the lawn. The swimming pool was filled with brown water, and towering heaps of downed oaks had limbs snapped like toothpicks.
"Do you live here?" Reeves asked as the woman with cropped blond hair, black shorts and yellow flip-flops walked up.