Hurricane Milton is set to pass directly right over my house. I’m ready.
Hurricanes are an unfortunate lifestyle that Floridians have embraced.
Sean Kernan – October 7, 2024
I was a young boy, living with my grandparents in a brick, sturdy home, that my grandfather built by hand. The morning before the storm came in, I helped him board up our windows.
I leaned into his ladder with all of my weight, keeping it sturdy as he stood at the top, swinging his hammer to bolt on another board.
“Do these boards even help?” I asked, adding to my endless list of questions.
“Yes, dang it. Now hold that ladder,” he said, getting frustrated with a loose board.
“It’s going to be a strong storm,” he growled. “You need to toughen up and be prepared to help me when it hits. Anything can happen.”
Grandpa was born in the Great Depression, and had this gruff way about him, that wasn’t always pleasant, but was underscored by caring and love, no matter how harsh he seemed.
“But it rains here all the time Grandpa. We got a big storm before, and – “
“Not like this one,” he said, interrupting me before I could finish.
Hurricane Andrew hit us directly that night. People forget how apocalyptic the storm was, with winds stronger than that of Hurricane Katrina. It certainly lived up to its reputation with us.
The wind picked up in the wee hours that night, with thin drops pelting our house sideways like pellets. I stared out the window intermittently that night, noticing the branches and leaves moving side to side, then up and down. Sometimes, they’d bend far to one side in the wind, stuck in that position like the tree was stretching its limbs before a workout.
I slept for one hour before I heard a huge explosion outside. A transformer had blown as a power line came down. The house heated up within minutes, sending an intrusive thick blanket of humidity crawling into the house, reminding us that the storm wasn’t our only problem. Losing your power in August in Florida could feel like a death sentence. Unfortunately, it was, for some. Our power wouldn’t return for two days.
The wind grew and grew. The sound of rain hitting the house also grew louder, as the droplets began sounding like bullets hitting the brick walls. Our roof creaked in agony, like a giant ship at sea, struggling to stay afloat during a storm.
Eventually, the wind was so strong that the seams on our windows, and other small cracks in our structure, started to whistle and scream like a banshee haunting the building. That part scared me more than anything else. Not even the vibrating brick walls terrified me as much as that howling. I can still hear it.
At 4 AM, I heard my grandmother calling out to me, “Sean. Help me.” Feeling panicked, I rushed out into the dining room, which was pitch black. Shuffling my feet, attempting to remember every minor obstacle, I inched forward and saw a figure on the floor, her form crumpled on the ground. Terror set upon me and, for a moment, I thought my grandmother was dead. She’d clearly fallen.
“Help me get up, Sean,” she said, meekly from the floor.
My towering grandfather suddenly loomed in the kitchen, his dark form behind me. Inexplicably, he seemed angry at grandma, saying, “What are you doing down there Vivian! Get up!”
“She fell grandpa!” I said, pleadingly.
Grandma shouted up, “What do you think I’m doing? Looking for pennies? You fool!”
The stress of the situation had gotten to everyone. I was unsettled that night, though not terrified. An hour later, I heard the sound of groaning wood from my bedroom, which grew progressively louder until I heard a large collapsing sound. Peeking through my blinds, I saw a huge tree in our backyard, with a five foot wide trunk that had been pulled sideways.
The storm wasn’t the first or last I’d experience, but was certainly the strongest.
The morning came, and I stepped outside to see a different neighborhood. Across the street, one neighbor’s entire roof was peeled off, like a giant had come and lifted it, while looking for people to snack on.
The street was littered with shingles and branches. Small pieces of debris that had once been part of our homes blew in the wind. The air was eery and still — a striking contrast to the night before.
A neighbors car was impaled with a large branch, right through the front of the driver’s side window. It brought home how dangerous these storms could be.
The streets weren’t even flooded either. Only a few puddles here and there. If you live in Florida long enough, you learn that every hurricane is its own monster, a howling feral beast with invisible hands. Some unleash torrents of rain, turning streets into rivers. Others, like Andrew, wielded the wind like a weapon, ripping through everything in sight with brutal force.
I walked through our circular neighborhood, eventually bumping into other boys I knew. Our childlike capacity for play kicked in, and we spent hours climbing over uprooted trees, walking on branches that were once far too high for our reach.
In an instant, we forgot the chaos and devastation, and started having fun in that moment, as only a child can.
There was an enormous live oak, which was more than a hundred years old, and had been turned horizontal. I got up on it, and began working my way to what was formerly the top branch, which stood nearly 40 meters.
As I balance beamed my way over a high branch, I heard a deep voice, “Hey you! Kid! Get down from there!”
A fireman, in full attire, was standing below the knocked down tree, holding an axe. Behind him, was a huge black truck, that was quickly filling with branches. These rescue crews were working their way through the neighborhood, checking homes and clearing roads.
And so ended our day of play in the apocalyptic landscape around us. Sadly, many families lost so much that day, including loved ones who were ripped from their lives. Perhaps it was a blessing that I was young, and not capable of comprehending the loss so many were experiencing. It’s hard to even conceive of that pain as I look back now upon our neighborhood.
A reflection on the current threat
I was born in Florida and have lived here most of my adult life. There’s a silent pact you make when moving here. You know what it entails, and that storms are an inevitability.
Recently, I’ve been getting many heartfelt messages. I live in Tampa, where a storm is barreling down upon us. As of my writing this, the storms path is aimed directly over my house, only a few days from now.
The worst part of moments like this isn’t fear per se, but more the uncertainty. You just want to know one way or the other if it is going to hit. You also get into this weird mindset where you are watching the radar, wishing to move the storm north or south, which would inevitably hit another city instead. It isn’t a conscious wish for the demise of another, but an odd though many peers and I experience.
If it does hit, this would be the fifth direct hit hurricane I’ve experienced, on top of the many others that have grazed us. My mindset as a boy was more that of fear of my physical health. Today, I tend to worry more about damage to my property, and the health of those around me. I know that my home is sturdy and strong, but many homes are not. They stand to lose much. Because property insurance has become so extraordinarily expensive, many can’t afford it. I’m currently in evacuation Zone C, and waiting to see what the updates entail.
Another hurricane is upon us. These storms become a sort of lifestyle choice for us Floridians. Even when hurricanes aren’t hitting, we get massive storms slamming into us on the regular.
Alas, we move here knowing what to expect. We leave a few chips on the poker table. The comforting smell of salty air carries the subtle promise of chaos, the grim possibility that mother nature shall return to remind us who is queen.
To those of you in the path, please be safe. Listen to your evacuation orders. Your life is more important than your home.
I’m a former financial analyst turned writer out of sunny Tampa, Florida. I began writing eight years ago on the side and fell in love with the craft. My goal is to provide non-fiction story-driven content to help us live better and maximize our potential.
