This Tampa neighborhood didn’t flood. Then came Hurricane Helene.

TAMPA — From a distance, it looked for a moment like another community yard sale was unfolding Monday morning in the tight-knit neighborhood of Culbreath Bayou. Couches and tables were stacked curbside, alongside paintings and toys.

Draw closer and the abstract gave way to reality: Hurricane Helene’s surge swallowed this pocket of South Tampa, ushering in what longtime residents described as “never-before-seen flooding.” Now, they were filling their driveways with waterlogged heirlooms and carting away storm-ruined furniture.

Culbreath Bayou sits squarely in evacuation Zone A, near Sunset Park, Beach Park and other enclaves becoming increasingly vulnerable to flooding. Still, residents of the neighborhood, sandwiched between West Shore Boulevard and Manhattan Avenue, say Helene dealt an unexpected blow.

Judy Whitson has lived in her home for 26 years and never flooded.

Now, the contaminated contents of her garage and first floor were stacked in her yard, including the little bicycles her grandchildren rode down the street. Her front door was inoperable, warped by water. The power was out. The pool was filled with lime-green sludge. Crews were on their way to rip out her floors and drywall.

“I just didn’t think damage like this was possible here,” said Whitson, 60. In her cul-de-sac, three out of four homes flooded.

Down the street, Bonnie and Josh Saterbo paused from their cleanup mission. They moved into the neighborhood about five years ago and renovated their “dream home” during the pandemic. Work finished in January.

“Now we have to start all over again,” said Bonnie Saterbo, 36.

Helene churned for hours off Tampa Bay, destroying thousands of homes, businesses and boats along Florida’s Gulf Coast. At least 11 people in the area died. More than 1,000 had to be rescued.

Here, in this community without a single sidewalk, known for its Easter egg hunts and Halloween decorations, residents knew they were fortunate. The households could generally afford renovations and furniture replacements.

Still, the mucky aftermath had stirred so many questions: Renovate? Raise the house higher above ground? Move?

“We are so lucky. But you have to wonder: Is this the 100-year-flood? Or is this the new normal?” Bonnie Saterbo said.

Few answers were immediately apparent but at least, they said, neighbors were locking arms and moving forward together. Those with power were washing clothes for those without. One house hosted coffee and donuts. Local businesses were handing out kids clothes and food bags.

“That’s why we don’t want to leave,” said Josh, 36. “This is our community.”

On Monday, the smell of mildew drifted through tree-lined streets. Trucks and utilities vehicles grumbled by, dodging oak tree limbs and palm fronds outside waiting for pick up. Piles of muddied mattresses and cabinetry, books and treadmills, too.

Paula Hall, 69, stood outside her home of more than two decades and sighed. While some Culbreath Bayou residents heeded evacuation orders, she did not.

“This was the first time I didn’t feel the need to leave,” she said, adding that she checked the forecasts and didn’t think the winds looked too bad. Plus, her home had never flooded.

From her second story window, she watched her street fill with water late Thursday night.

“It happened so fast,” she said. “It only took about 15 minutes.”

Soon it was coming up her driveway. Then, into her home.

“Just think, it wasn’t even a direct hit,” she said, shouting over the loud clinking of crews ripping up her ruined cypress wood floors, original from the 1960s. She lost brand new appliances and heirloom rugs. Her daughter, four blocks away, lost everything, too.

Across the street, Allen Banks was discarding a soggy box of family photos.

“I’ve never been through anything like this,” he said.

With that, he disappeared into his home to gather more storm-swamped belongings to set by the curb.

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