Hurricanes shred lives and property

We did the stupid thing, and we survived.

We did not evacuate our home on a barrier island on the west coast of Florida when Hurricane Helene blasted through in the early-morning hours of Sept. 26.

The first alerts about Helene seemed exaggerated and alarmist: A disorganized low-pressure system, percolating quietly near the Yucatan Peninsula, would gather fearsome energy over the Gulf of Mexico and slam into Florida’s Gulf coast, as a Cat 4 or 5 killer. It was an unusual setup for hurricane in these parts. My part-time residence was long said to be safe by the indigenous people who lived here, protected geographically because of a twist in the coastline. Maybe the ancients are exacting revenge for our careless guardianship of their land.

We are on the eighth floor of a building on the beach, and we have metal wind shutters. So, considering the laborious process of gathering our belongings and food and driving to a safe haven, we decided to stay. Besides, once a storm is on its way, not much time remains before landfall, and it isn’t clear which way to run. Hurricanes often wobble or weaken or, in the case of Helene, turn left over Georgia and North Carolina, destroying everything in their path.

We had water for a week, and food that didn’t need to be refrigerated or heated. We had each other and Lillybee the dog, who had been skulking in our shadows for days. We also felt somewhat jaded by overhyped weather alarms in the past. Epic snowfalls, tornadoes sprouting everywhere, on-again-off-again water spout watches. We would probably be OK.

The dog needed to go out, so I grabbed a flashlight and walked down eight dark flights of stairs to get outside. Building generators malfunctioned. Then I walked up. Then I did the same walk, down and up eight flights, for five days, until power was restored. Both of our cars, parked “safely” in the garage, were engulfed by the tidal surge and totaled.
But we were lucky. We lived through the storm without a medical crisis and with replaceable losses.

We vowed never to stay when the authorities tell us to evacuate. What if one of us got sick during the hurricane? What if the windows blew in, even with the shutters?
Less than two weeks later, we had another shot at hurricane survival. Hurricane Milton developed on the east coast of Mexico, and got himself together in record speed, exploding from Category 1 to Category 5 in one day and taking direct aim at our island as he charged up the west coast of Florida.

This time we obeyed the evacuation orders and moved to a hotel on the mainland with Lillybee. One day later, the hotel was evacuated, sending us on a drive across the state, with thousands of other people. We took refuge with family on the East Coast. And we waited and waited for the hurricane to hit and do its work so we could begin to build back. Like waiting for surgery.

Milton made landfall on Oct. 9 on the tiny barrier island south of us, wiping it clean of all the charming old Florida cottages that have survived for so long on a spit of land. Cars floated out into the Gulf. A man was rescued clinging to a large cooler from his sunken boat. We came back to our condo four days later. The property was a mess, but we had power and internet. We were on a boil-water advisory, stores were closed, and piles of household belongings and soaked furnishings are piled up along the roads.

We love it here, but it’s crazy to build on barrier islands. Nature always reclaims her own. We were scared straight by the first hurricane, and will never try to ride one out again. We look around at neighbors who have lost everything they own. And we know we are part of a bigger, more frightening human-made disaster called climate change.

Who will gather the will and willingness to stop the rising tides and temperatures? Who will stop the awful gathering storm of wind, rain and fire that sweep across our nation in every season?

Copyright 2024 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.