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The afternoons are clear and perfect, the mosquitoes are gone and power is out for miles.
``At night, it's magnificent to watch the solar system,'' the retired engineer said around 11 p.m. Wednesday while sitting on his deck. ``There are good things about hurricanes and tropical
storms.''
But Hurricane Katrina brought so many bad things, too.
Meyer evacuated his home on the western edge of the island to a hotel in Mobile. He returned once Katrina passed, among the first after authorities repaired the road to the island.
``I figured that if the hotel didn't have power and water, it was better to stay home on the beach,'' said Meyer, 46.
Meyer's tiny Miata convertible barely made it past the blown-out road to the island. He parked it, then walked and hitchhiked five miles with people who had all-terrain vehicles that could
traverse the washed-out roads and dunes of puffy sand.
He walked past the remnants of million-dollar homes that had washed into the sea. Katrina sheared homes from their 12-foot pilings, leaving little more than a toilet or boat anchor as proof
that a home was ever there. Other homes leaned so far forward it looked as if a strong breath could send them crashing to the sand and water below.
Meyer's home was almost pristine. The storm washed away his stairs, so he found a ladder that could get him within a scary step from his deck.
``I wanted to spend a few nights, even if they will be the last,'' he said.
Last Man Standing
Meyer designed the home himself, the culmination of a lifetime of daydreaming about a perfect little home by the sea. He built the one-bedroom home by hand, board by board, in a year. He says
it's perhaps the most perfect thing he ever has done.
``It was just dumb luck that it survived,'' he said.
Meyer returned to his home in part to ward off looters, but mainly for the peace, quiet and perhaps a few starry nights alone. He was believed to be the only one staying on the western edge of
the island, the only resident for miles.
Meyer is a restless soul and deep-down loner. He never married, hasn't seen his family in years and doesn't like music. He is always searching for somewhere new, some place that might meet his
expectations.
His life has mostly been a series of disappointments that began when he graduated college in Fargo, N.D.
His job was almost entirely soul-crushing until the final few years when he worked to create an air lock for the space station. His career took him to well-liked areas that never met his
expectations, such as Seattle, Eugene, Ore., and finally Huntsville, Ala.
He had grand visions of retiring to a remote town in Alaska, only to return after four grim months.
``It was too tough for me,'' he said.
Then Dauphin Island captured his soul.
``I guess I am the loner, engineer, weirdo type,'' he said while watching a distant home close to falling down. ``If you like being alone, this is the place to be.''
Being a loner comes with a price after a hurricane. The island is not a priority for relief workers.
There were no immediate water or food stations, certainly none close to Meyer's home. Someone offered him a bag of ice.
``What good is a bag of ice after a hurricane?'' he asked.
Vanishing Homes
The island is peppered with rental properties and seasonal homes for the rich.
Brad and Beth Cox manage about 90 properties on the island. They estimated that Katrina erased 30 of them.
``The homes have just vanished,'' said Brad Cox, a volunteer firefighter who helps publish an Internet newspaper called the ``Island Mullet Wrapper.''
Dauphin Island had become a vacation refuge for residents of nearby New Orleans.
Residents described the island as an affordable alternative to the high-rise-packed communities of Florida. In past years, landowners struggled to get $180,000 for a seaside lot.
``It's Mayberry by the sea,'' Cox said. ``There's no stoplight, two police officers and no crime, no grime.''
But it also is easily roughed up by weather, even moderate tropical storms.
``Everyone knows to evacuate, except a few toothless wonders who think they can break into the Circle K and steal beer,'' Cox said.
Nobody is certain about the future of Dauphin Island.
At the very least, ``It will be a big, yearlong pause,'' Cox said.
Meyer and others believe government officials will evict residents from the easily-battered western half of the island.
That ribbon of land is essentially a giant sandbar that shifts dramatically with each storm. Meyer's home was on the sea before Katrina, but now sits about 100 yards from water.
Now Meyer's dreamy image of Dauphin Island is changing.
``I think people like the idea of beach living until they actually do it,'' he said. ``There's a lot of sand and other aggravation.''
Meyer is running out of retirement savings. He planned to sell before Katrina wiped out dreams of big returns on his tiny home.
Sitting on his deck surveying the wreckage, Meyer devised a new plan - move north, away from all the new people. The remote Arrowhead region of northern Minnesota looks promising.
``I hear it is real pretty up there,'' he said. ``I have visions of living on Lake Superior. Maybe that's the place for me.''