There are many unique things about the American south, especially the southeast.
Food. Culture. Florida.
But today I’m thinking mostly about hurricanes. And it’s the southern, often southeastern, states in the U.S. that generally handle them. When it comes to hurricanes, we’re your huckleberry, if I may paraphrase. And as I write, hurricane Isaias has made landfall on the gulf coast.
As a lifelong resident of gulf coast states here in the U.S., hurricane day is a familiar feeling.
More than familiar. It’s also a fascinating process to watch.
Don’t get me wrong. We do take it seriously. Most of us. We take precautions, we stay informed and we pray for safekeeping. But the hours leading into and through the storm are a fascinating experience.
At least to me. Maybe I’m just weird. But think about it.
A lightning strike occurs in an instant. A sudden torrential downpour may happen unexpectedly (that’s my Florida experience talking). Even something as major as an earthquake can happen relatively without warning. And you folks in California are welcome to handle those for the rest of us. But there’s just something about how a hurricane announces it’s on the way.
It has its own life cycle, from discussion of a possible pregnancy to ultrasounds as it develops, on through the naming, birth and then straight to the destruction caused by an uncontrollable giant whirling toddler, wobbling up the coast leaving everything in its path at least wet, if not broken.
We watch it and talk about it as it approaches, with constant reminders of how to prepare, and when we should just get out of the way.
From my childhood days in Florida I remember preparation including a full bathtub of water, just in case. I remember the power outages. I remember the overcast skies and early, gentle rains as a storm got closer. As Hurricane Andrew approached Miami, I remember watching the water in a bay on the gulf coast of Florida drop to a point that you could have just walked out into the bay on the mud.
I remember the names. Hurricane David seemed like a good name to me, for no apparent reason. Not sure about Hurricane Isaias, but it is fun to watch all the weather people confidently pronounce it slightly differently from one another.
An irony of growing up in Florida was that we never actually had hurricane damage. Until I moved to Alabama. Roughly four times further from salt water than it was even possible to get in Florida, Hurricane Opal brought the longest power outage of our lives and the first time I can remember there being rationed drinking water made available locally after a storm. We also had a tree from our yard topple into a neighbor’s yard, which is always a great way to get to know someone.
That homeowner, I might mention, was an athlete of some renown in powerlifting and strength competition circles. Secretly, I might’ve been a little disappointed that he didn’t just show up and move the tree himself.
Later, Hurricane Ivan was also more impactful locally than I had experienced in Florida, but didn’t affect me outside of a partial day off and an hours-long power outage. I remember spending a good bit of that day reading by window light in that special flavor of quiet that’s not possible when the AC is spun up or the TV is on. It’s a good memory.
In more recent years, technology allows you to monitor a storm system as frequently, even continuously, as you want. Phone apps and multi-hour livestreams supplement or replace traditional media storm coverage. And never mind the brave souls subjecting themselves to the wind and rain for an on the scene report. Now we can just watch the storm roll in on beachfront webcams.
But it’s still the same ritual. The same wait. Watching the inevitable rolling in, however impactful (or not) it may become on the way.
There are many different flavors to southern hurricane culture, where waiting for the storm is a relatively frequent affair. There are the folks that refuse to evacuate against all odds and wisdom. There are the folks who have hurricane parties, whether to celebrate, commiserate or just help clear the fridge. There are storm chasers hoping to see the best of the worst, and illicit surfers rooting for those storm surge waves.
Some shelter in place, perhaps even reasonably. Some of those decide they won’t be doing that again (I have those friends). Others just get quietly nervous about the whole affair.
And some have seen the worst, or at least close to it. My own mother, with a very young child (my sister), once had to get in a boat from a second-floor window to evacuate during Hurricane Betsy, only to spend time on top of a school waiting for the national guard to save their group.
But I think they’re still as fascinated with the process of watching and anticipating as I am.
So maybe it’s a personality thing. A curiosity thing. But hurricane day in the south is definitely a unique thing.
And as I post this it’s a tonight thing, with plenty of southerners still in for a night of wind and rain at best and hundreds of thousands without power over several states. God bless and stay safe out there.