The Eye of the Storm

Growing up in Florida, storms have always been a presence in my life.  At the drop of a hat, a beautiful Miami day can transform from sunshine into a torrential thunderstorm.  Those of us who grew up in this area share the camaraderie of survivors.  Hurricanes were a real and present danger for six months each year.  In school, we learned latitude and longitude as much to track the storms bearing down on us as to locate world capitals across the globe.   We had quizzes on hurricane terminology and the warning flags of the Beaufort scale.   It was a particular thrill when the Miami Herald each year announced the alphabetical list of women’s names on the first day of hurricane season.  In those days, before political correctness reigned supreme, it was acceptable to name our killer storms after women.  The rationale went undisputed:  hurricanes were unpredictable.  The smart-asses among us took it a step further.  If you assigned them men’s names they would be “himacanes.”

Over the years we experienced our share of hurricanes.  As each storm approached we would leave the television on for updates; this was the best source of emergency information.   Frequently the eye of the storm would fix its sights on Miami’s shores only to turn out to sea at the last minute, leaving us with a wash of fringe storms and some heavy winds.  Being at sea level, the worst part of these storms was the flooding.  The rain would fall so fast that it could not recede for days.  I remember a time when the perimeter roads around my elementary school flooded to about 2 feet deep, making it appear as if the school was surrounded by a moat.    I was caught in a quandary when it came time to walk home.  I had no choice but to wade through the water as there was no way around it.  I reasoned—with my ten-year old logic—that it would be smart to leave my shoes on, since the water was murky and there was a risk that I could cut myself on a hidden object.  After all, we commonly wore sneakers when swimming at a rocky beach.  But when I returned home, my mother saw that my “school shoes” had been ruined.  I had made the wrong decision.

The hurricanes I remember the most vividly were Cleo in 1964 and Betsy in 1965—although the two have blended in my mind somewhat.  I remember how exciting and rare it was that my school closed due to weather, the tropical version of a ‘snow day.’  Hurricanes do not arrive unannounced; there is significant lead time to prepare.  The air was electric with a sense of urgency before a storm.  We would go to the supermarket to stock up on things like canned goods and candles.  People would fill their baskets until overflowing with emergency goods; the lines were endless.   Our family’s big preparation task was debriding the large ficus tree in our backyard, trimming away branches near the house and power lines, as well as cutting large holes into the thick foliage so that the winds could blow through without lifting the tree out of the ground.  As a kid, I was not allowed to climb the tree to help my father and uncles with this activity.  Nor was I allowed to use the cool cutting tool that my grandfather fashioned out of hedge clippers.  He mounted the blades on the end of a broomstick and tied a piece of rope around the trigger, allowing the lucky user to reach up and snip a branch six feet above.   I was relegated to dragging the spent branches to the big pile at the front of the house, making what seemed like hundreds of round trips from the back to the front of the house.

When the storms finally hit, the tone in our house turned from purposeful preoccupation to caution.  I could not have imagined how worried my parents were about the safety of our home.  My parents seemed unusually playful; only in retrospect do I realize that they were keeping bored children oblivious to the dangers and distracted with games.  When the power went out—which was inevitable—we lit yahrzeit candles.  With the drone of the television gone and daylight masked in cloud cover, the intensity of the winds and the rains was that much more menacing.  I watched the downpour penetrate the water that pooled on the patio and on the lawn, imagining what it would be like to have the house swallowed by the rising tides.  Was it possible?  Were the windows and doors strong enough to protect us? Did we have enough air in the house to sustain us?  My fears intensified until I was on pins and needles.  

Then my father conjured his hurricane magic:  a small alcohol stove.  With this contraption we were able to heat canned soup in order to enjoy a bowl of warmth with our sandwiches.  After dinner he broke out his ukulele.  We sang songs in the dark until we were drunk on music and hoarse with laughter.   With the aid of flashlights and candles we children were tucked into bed, a bit giddy to skip our baths on this “special occasion.”  But with the lack of electricity there was no white noise to facilitate slumber.  The powerless street lights seemed to cast a deeper darkness over the neighborhood.  And still the storm clouds continued to bombard us with their watery attack.

Petrified, I lay awake the whole night, listening to the rhythms of the rain.  I tried to visualize 100 mph winds as pieces of debris, racing us in our Buick on the highway.  I thought about the mocking birds that taunted us in our yard and wondered where they were hunkering down.  But most of all, I wondered how high that frightful water line had come as I gave thanks for my room at the top of our split-level ranch.  Could the storm surge reach us inland?  Would we awaken to find ocean fish swimming by as we watched from the living room window?  The images in my imagination became more fanciful until I could see myself in a Sorcerer’s hat, commanding magic buckets to evacuate the rising tides.  Finally, the morning light made its first appearance, piercing the elongated darkness with its long-awaited optimism.  I took a deep breath of relief as I realized I had survived the night!

Storms come and storms go.  But you never forget your first hurricane.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Path of the Storm