“I will happily trade Florida’s hurricanes for Michigan’s blizzards,” muttered our son Benjamin as he spent his birthday bolting metal hurricane shutters over the windows of his St. Petersburg townhouse, anticipating a second major hurricane in two weeks.
Meanwhile, Tampa mayor Jane Castor was on TV repeating, “If you live in zones A, B, C, D, or in mobile homes, you must evacuate. Otherwise, you will die!” Ben’s home is in Zone B.
He has a history with hurricanes. We were living in Pinellas County and I was eight months pregnant with Ben when my ob-gyn ordered us to evacuate as Hurricane Elena approached. “The drop in air pressure induces labor,” he warned us. We spent a miserable four days in a fleabag hotel in central Florida, returning to an intact home, a yard full of debris, and news that twenty-seven women in my doctor’s practice had given birth prematurely.
When Ben was in sixth grade, we moved to Ann Arbor, where he remained through his U-M graduation. As the years passed, we forgot the hurricane terrors. But Milton came calling, reminding us of Nature’s ferocity—and why we live in Michigan.
My husband, daughter, and I were in Florida for four short—we thought—days to celebrate Ben’s birthday. Our route from the airport snaked through neighborhoods ravaged by Hurricane Helene two weeks earlier. Halfway through our stay, weather forecasters warned we might share that fate.
Frantic phone calls insisted “Get in the car and drive as far and fast as you can!” But Ben has a sports car with two cramped back seats, three house guests, and a 120-pound Great Dane. Anxious calls to hotels, car rentals, and airlines were in vain. As Ben conferred with friends, we located one open gas station and grocery store, then lugged everything portable from Ben’s first floor to the second.
“Grab food and what you need,” Ben said abruptly. “We’ll take everyone and everything in two loads.”
“Where?” my husband asked.
“Downtown St. Pete.”
“St. Pete??” I gasped.
“Doug is offering us his condo. It’s on the fourth floor of a new building in a non-evac zone.” Ben ushered Agatha and her massive container of dog food into the car and reached for our suitcases.
“Downtown St. Pete?”
From the moment we made the move, we counted our blessings. Through wind-lashed, water-splashed windows overlooking Tropicana Field, we witnessed Milton’s arrival, devastation, and departure in safety. Searchlights illuminated the stadium’s roof as we watched winds rip it to shreds. Central St. became a raging river as 101-mile-per-hour winds pummeled us with eighteen inches of rain, toppling palm trees and ancient oaks.
Even when the hurricane moved on, we stayed put so power-line crews and emergency teams could work. By Friday, thousands of Floridians remained in shelters, hundreds of others still needed rescuing, countless homes were destroyed, and sirens wailed constantly. But the airport opened.
We flew home Saturday, shaken, grateful to be alive, but heartbroken about the countless tragedies still unfolding. Florida’s enormous physical and economic damage can’t yet be determined, but the emotional damage will be greater.
As our flight landed, I murmured, “I think I’ll kiss the ground in Michigan.”
Related: Fallen Beauty