Reasoning with Idalia

As Hurricane Idalia approaches, how do we accept the inevitabiltiy of these potentially devastating storms?

In Florida, late summer is synonymous with hurricanes and hunkering. We dread this annual ritual of battening down the hatches, halting work schedules, and crossing our fingers. Our collective bandwidth for dealing with yet another hurricane diminishes with each named storm.

Our favorite Parrothead Jimmy Buffet tried in 1974 to make sense out of the 6-month season.

And now I must confess
I could use some rest
I can't run at this pace very long
Yes, it's quite insane
Think I hurt my brain
But it cleans me out, then I can go on

That’s what we do. We nest like expectant parents. We fill bathtubs and water bottles. We clean. We do all the laundry. We cook nonperishable food.

Buffett’s “Trying to Reason with Hurricane Season,” still plays on the radio and at his concerts while Floridians accept that living in paradise means hurricanes – and hunkering.

Both words are like nails on a chalkboard, making me cringe every time they’re uttered. We joke about planning hurricane parties because we must drink all the good wine before the power goes out, but we’re too busy monitoring the storm, taking videos of our possessions, and hoping that once again we’ll be spared. We reassure family and friends who see more dramatic predictions on their local news that we’ll be fine.

In 2017, we braced for category 4 Irma to make landfall in St. Petersburg. My husband was St. Pete mayor at the time, which meant he would need to spend the duration of the hurricane with his team at the emergency operations center.

Rick may have had to work, but I was never alone. The kids helped me bring in lawn furniture and anything else that could blow through our windows. Luckily, we live in one of the last zones to evacuate, and our 15-year-old block home has hurricane impact windows.

My husband’s coworker dropped off her Golden Retriever Petey, and we took in a pup-in-training from Southeastern Guide Dogs after they had to clear the kennels. My mother-in-law checked in for a few days, arriving with her walker, oxygen tanks, and a bottle of vodka. Guest pups Petey and Wilder and our Labradors, Jake and Christie, were a formidable, yet fun, pack. Four dogs for four people meant everyone had their own pup to snuggle with.

I set up folding chairs and pillows in the safe room that was our walk-in closet, the only room without windows. I videotaped every room in case we needed to make a claim. I took photos and pictures off all the walls.

Then, we had our own hurricane happy hour with wine, cheese, crackers, and of course, Phyllis’ vodka. The power went out around 8 p.m. We stayed updated on the storm by listening to a battery-operated radio. All of us sprawled out on our sectional, dogs wedged between us.

I dreaded the next few hours as the wind whipped in the darkness. I tried to sleep, but worried I wouldn’t wake up in time to change Phyllis’ oxygen tank. Thankfully, Jordan got up around 1 a.m. with me to help. She held the flashlight while I tried to maneuver the tubes out of Phyllis’ nose without waking her. I hooked up the new tank, but it wasn’t working. As irreverent as this sounds, Jordan and I started giggling. The stress had to come out. We must’ve been a site, hovering over a 4’8” Phyllis, who slept like a log while I made sure her chest was still rising and falling.

Jordan and I kept shushing each other so as not to wake Phyllis. Then we remembered she’d removed her hearing aids, rendering her clueless about our ineptness.

Finally, she was hooked up, still sleeping like a baby. Lucky us! We weren’t the only ones, however. St. Pete and the Tampa Bay were once again spared from a devastating hurricane. It would be 4 days until our power was restored, but we were more fortunate than most.

Instead of trying to reason with the inevitability of hurricanes, we fight hurricane fatigue by staying vigilant and taking nothing for granted. Attitudes toward hurricanes have changed since the days of partying in hot tubs, drinks in hand, as the storm blows through. Hurricanes aren’t fun, and while we may enjoy an extra cocktail or two while we wait it out, it’s not a party.

Too many hurricanes have destroyed Floridians’ livelihoods. We grapple with survivor’s guilt, yet we wouldn’t trade places with others who no longer have homes.

We give thanks to the weather gods. We don’t question their existence. We know someone or something has been with us as we’ve avoided the deadliest storms.

Myth or truth, many on Florida’s west coast credit the blessing of the land by the Tocobaga Indians as the reason we’ve been spared. Not far from my home is the Sacred Lands, where the Tocobaga lived. Over a hundred years ago, they blessed the grounds against hurricanes. Preserved and protected, people go visit the site to meditate, chant, even get married.

Today, I went with Gigi, the puppy we’ve raised for the last year for Southeastern Guide Dogs. We needed fresh air, and I wanted to pay homage to the Native Americans who first called that site home in the 900s. I believe in the blessing that has kept our area on the west coast of Florida safe.

In gratitude to the Tocobaga, and all who are working hard to keep us safe – our first responders, weather personnel, and city and county employees – thank you. We may never be able to reason with this crazy season, but faith and resilience will see us through.