Living through Hurricane Milton

I write to relax.

At this moment, October 9, 2024, 1:04 pm, near the Tampa Bay area, I’ve set my phone far from me to stop the obsessive compulsion to refresh my favorite five weather apps. I have 15 of those apps on my phone. I really should take my smart watch off as well. I’ve never had so many notifications from Ring, NextDoor, Facebook, NWS, FEMA, EBS, and even Alexa. The screeching emergency alerts from the NWS cause me to jump out of my skin in panic. This is a sampling of messages that have dinged on my phone, watch, iPad, and computer once every 30 seconds:

“What’s still open?”

“Where is there still gas?”

“Does anyone know where I can get a generator?”

“Where’s the nearest bakery?” (I guess that one desperately needed croissants.)

“I live in ______. Who’s staying?”

“Is the dump still open?”

“Should I board my windows?”

“The shelter doesn’t have beds or cots.”

“TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY. EVACUATE NOW!!!!”

And the one that shows major hutzpah: “There's never been [a hurricane] like this," (Tampa Mayor) Jane Castor said. "Helene was a wake-up call, this is literally catastrophic. And I can say without any dramatization whatsoever: If you choose to stay in one of those evacuation areas, you're gonna die.”

I am listening to the wind outside, from nothing to gusty. We have a lot of trees around us, and I can see the canopies swaying. The tight eye of Milton is set to cross into Florida south of Sarasota at Siesta Key, which was mostly wiped out during Hurricane Helene. ETA is in about 14 hours, approximately 2-3 in the morning.

We have prepped. We’re neither in a mandatory nor optional evacuation zone. We’ve brought in all chairs and decorations from outside. I've brought in all 18 of my wind chimes (I like them, what can I say?) We’ve set up sandbags. We have propane, a grill, gas, a generator, non-perishable food, and medical supplies. We have taken into consideration our refrigerated meds. We still have a working landline. We’ve contacted our street network of neighbors on who’s staying and who’s going. We’ve done what we can.

“We will need substitute teachers to ensure that students have the necessary support in the classroom next week.” (I’m a substitute.)

“The convention is cancelled.”

“Shelters are filling up.”

“I haven’t had an emergency alert since yesterday, does that mean we are good.”

“How do water restrictions work?”

“Are they shutting down our sewers too?” (two nearby counties have done this already)

“Lowes is open til 12.”

“Are there any places still filling sandbags?”

There will be little sleep tonight as we hear the wind howl and branches hitting the roof. We hope no more trees fall; the one from last week took us three days to clean up. We hope no trees fall on the power lines. We hope no trees fall on houses, cars, or people.

“Heartbreaking video: FHP rescues dog tied to pole along Florida highway amid Milton evacuations.”

“2 large rottweilers roaming on 1st ave one red and one blue collar.”

“Anyone available to take on a cat during the storm? I can’t take him to the shelter.”

“Picked up lost Older Pit on Flora.”

“Missing dog, very sweet, name JoJo.”

“Found an injured Mixed Breed, brown/white adult male, on Rusty Oak.”

We’ve made sure our dogs have their doggy tranqs now and around midnight tonight. I have my own. We have plenty of dog food, both kennels, dogs collared and chipped. We understand and forgive them if they go on the floor, carpet, or porch. We are cuddling with them and soothing them as they sooth us.

“What is your opinion about the hurricane moving south?”

“WAFFLE HOUSE IS CLOSED.”

“Jim Cantore is in TAMPA!”

“My area isn’t supposed to flood. Will it?”

“We outside of the cone!! Be safe.”

I am watching the wind bounce off our pool screen. The sound of things falling can be heard in each room of the house. The dusk-to-dawn light is still on because of the darkness of the approaching storm. It’s 1:48 pm. I look around and imagine what a flood in my house would do. What cherished items will I lose? What can we replace? How will we get out of the house if water reaches us, the pressure of the water keeping doors closed? What if a tornado spawned by the hurricane takes our roof off? Where will we stay?

“Charge old phones, they can be used for emergency calls or to entertain if power goes out (download games or movies now).”

“The way I am constantly checking Denis Phillips and Mike's Weather Page is probably getting a little unhealthy……..”

“Few days ago, we went to Ross. I was shocked that they had toilet paper during a hurricane or that they even sold toilet paper. Yet, here it is!”

“I would like to cancel my subscription to the Hurricane of the Month Club.”

“If you didn’t evacuate, put a hot dog in your pocket so the recovery dogs can find you.”

The wind is still moving, slamming screen doors outside, and whistling under the slider. The pool is level with the deck. I can still hear the crows and cardinals outside begging for their food because I put the bird feeders away. The pitch of the wind moves up and down. Shadows pass by the front door window, possibly cars driving by. The TV is on in the next room. I can hear the strain of the house as the wind tries to move it. Milton’s epicenter is still not on land.

“This is going to be a cat 6.” [There is nothing more catastrophic than catastrophic.]

“Tornado watch until 9 pm.”

“Does anyone know what’s open to get something quick to eat?”

“The Skyway Bridge is closed.”

“Is the red tide still out there?”

The pressure of the wind flowing over the house makes the front door and back door creak. We’ve been inundated with photos of the devastation from Helene last week; entire contents of houses outside, ready to be projectiles in this storm. Photos with captions that we are stupid if we didn’t evacuate. Photos with dire warnings to use a Sharpie to put our names, DOB, and SS number on our bodies to help identify us later. Photos of cars floating, boats on land, and even houses that floated away.

Another screeching alert just went off. “Milton is about to impact our county. You MUST leave now if you’re in zones A, B, or C. etc.” We’ve been getting these messages for the last three days. Family and friends from the north, the west, and other countries asking how we’re doing.

“!! Hurricane Warning until 10:15.”

“Storm surge warning has been extended until October 9, 10:15 pm.”

“Lightning strikes have been detected 13.9 miles from your location.”

“Images captured of Milton from the Space Station.”

[Phone call] “YOU MUST LEAVE NOW etc.”

“Expect rain in your area.”

This is not a normal storm; we truly understand that. We’ve enjoyed boat drinks during the last 30 years of hurricanes and tropical storms. The inundation of messages from every angle now makes the stress factor worse and brings out the best and worst in people. We’ve been watching the news endlessly. Our flashlights and candles are ready. We understand. Floridians understand. See you on the other side.

~

Postscript 1: The other side, Wednesday evening

I was at the slider looking out at the backyard when I witnessed two transformers explode in a buzz of blue sparks. Our power went out at 9:04 pm last night. I spent the evening sitting in the corner of my book room, listening to the wind and things thumping against the house. Over 127 tornadoes were recorded in the state. There were at least 172,531 people without power in my county. It was candlelight for the rest of the night. The wind was screaming at us, taunting us, daring us to come outside. Of course I did.

I opened the front door, where the wind was facing that direction, around midnight. I popped open my bright pink umbrella and snuck out. I ventured forth to check on the vehicles and to see if the road was flooded yet. The gusts of 80 mph reminded me why we sheltered IN our house. I dashed back in. The rain was cold and the wind fierce.

I came back in, sat in the easy chair, and my beagle curled up at my feet. My cell was plugged into a power bank. More alerts came in furiously, one after the other. Each alert more serious than the ones earlier in the day.

“The County Fire Rescue has suspended all emergency service response in our county.”

“NOW is the time to remain sheltered where you are.”

“FLASH FLOOD EMERGENCY is in effect until 4 am.”

“Do not attempt to travel unless you are fleeing.”

“According to the National Hurricane Center, Hurricane Milton made landfall near Siesta Key as a Category 3 storm with 120 mph sustained winds and higher gusts.”

I gave in to sleep around 1:00 am, the height of the storm.

Postscript 2: The morning after (written on a notepad)

Ooh, how dangerous it is to be alone with my thoughts. It’s the morning after our one-night stand with Milton. We still have no power, no internet, no phone, and the road is flooding. I pull out an old director-style chair and begin writing. I hear angry cicadas buzzing from one oak to another. Dogs are barking sporadically from different parts of the neighborhood. People are outside talking with each other with their neighbors.

To be fair, this is the first true fall day we’ve had. Low humidity, about 78 degrees, and a light, cool breeze. After eight months of 90s and 100s with nearly 80% humidity, this is a nice respite. I had attempted raking leaves earlier until it became an exercise in futility as the waters are rising. I scowl at the trucks speeding down the road, causing wake zones in our yards and driveways. I flip them off as well.

In my comfy chair, I’m just observing, experiencing. A red-shouldered hawk is heard in the distance. A mole cricket crawls out of the water and tries coming up the driveway, but I stop him. The traffic has slowed since the orange cones were put up. Men in yellow vests guard each end of the flooded area, which is expanding.

Dragonflies with blue bodies are in ecstasy flying over the water full of bugs, worms, and other creepy crawlies, like the bugs in The Oogie Boogie man. There are also snakes, bacteria, turtles, and who knows what else. I can hear cars and motorcycles on the main road, assuring me life is going on somewhere. Just not here.

“The Tropical Cyclone Statement has been extended until October 10, 4:15 pm.”

“How is everyone doing?”

“Hey all, it’s ur favorite 7-11 cashier. Power is out at the store so we’re not open.”

“Is there gas anywhere?”

“Has anyone had updates from Duke on power being restored?”

“The entire roof of Tropicana field is gone.”

There’s the flapping of my fall weather sock that I put back up with all my other front yard decorations. I haven’t approached the back yard for cleanup. Just a brief check at 8 am that the roof was ok and no trees had fallen. I take photos and video for my evacuated neighbors. What damage did their houses sustain? This is before the water comes up over both sides of the road. I hear the linemen in the easement behind our houses. Their lift trucks’ airbrakes hiss.

My neighbor offers me coffee this morning and I gladly accept. She made it over a charcoal grill. Helicopters fly overhead, surveying damage in the area. A drone flies by. Pine needles float over the road, and smaller oak branches roll in the water. A bicyclist braves his way through the dirty water but had to walk his bike through the deepest part. He must be sightseeing because I see him moments later on the return trip.

The water is brackish and is the overflow from a retention pond of a river in our area that leads to the Gulf. Storms like these push water up the river and into any tributaries or ponds that connect. It’s a murky brown, ripples from wind and bugs. On its surface I see the warping reflections of the houses and trees across the street.

“Does anyone know if Home Depot or Lowes is open?”

“At least 10 people have died from Hurricane Milton.”

“Any power around this area?”

“Found dog. White with brown spots. Some kind of pointer I guess.”

“Where can I get a coffee?”

The light clouds block the sunlight, making it more enjoyable for this Floridian. The oaks I still have provide lovely shade. Rumors are spreading on social media about Hurricane Nadine following the same track as Helene. I check my weather apps but see no area of low pressure. The cold front has pushed potential storms away for at least a day or two. The same graphic is shared over and over, rejected by those of us who know it’s fake news being perpetuated. Nadine had a very tiny baby history but dissipated quickly. Just enough news to make people more nervous.

The water is slowly rising in front of me. Using a stick as a measuring point, the stick now floats away. I use a palm frond and place it a foot away from the waterline up my driveway. Crows search the area for food. I’m sure they’ll spot the floating worms. Both cars are backed up against the garage door. In the distance I see a long-necked heron traverse the water. Our road is his territory now.

“STOP SHARING THE FAKE NADINE GRAPHIC!”

“Sewage water on the street.”

“Any places open for lunch?”

“Dead white cat found on Madison by the high school.”

“As if there wasn’t enough damage, let’s not drive through people’s front lawns.”

Across the road I see the power and cable box under water. That can’t be good. A desperate squirrel is checking me out, his little paws up, looking for food. The winds probably destroyed all the squirrel nests in the area. Up in the pine tree a red-headed woodpecker is hammering away for bugs. A family of deer appear between my house and the neighbors’ house, hemmed in by rising water.

Other machines are being fired up. Chainsaws and leaf blowers. The men in the yellow vests are telling impatient truck drivers they can’t go through the flooded street. I can’t tell if it’s the revving of a truck engine or a heavy-duty chainsaw. Emergency vehicles are heard coming and going on the far side of the road. We carefully watch for the linemen.

Rings and ripples of water appear on the surface of the water. Bugs and spiders are zipping across the top, a lizard splashing for his life. Is that a branch or a turtle? I can’t tell. Things float by, first by the wind, then by the slight undercurrents in the rising water. The orange flowers I had in the decorated cement planters by my mailbox have floated away, the white cement underwater, another measure of the water still rising.

Frog eggs laid after last week’s water-filled ditches are now tadpoles. I have fish in my driveway.

“7-11 is back in business.”

“A dog is swimming in the canal near Pine Boulevard.”

“Found 2 pit mixes young adult tan male, brown adult female.”

“Looking for propane.”

“Person unlocks my fence and goes into my yard.”

“Found kitten!! I was looking at the damages in backyard and found her.”

“Is any Spirit Halloween open??”

The water is still rising. The orange cones must have floated away. People are walking across yards, gawking and taking photos of the flood. A SUV is dead in the water, but trucks are still taking chances.

A wave pushes the water up my yard, drowning the last tree from my parents’ property, a magnolia I planted in the middle of the yard. Taking dogs for a walk is important, but not in the water. Kids are playing in the dirty water down at the far end. The smell of smoke and/or grills waft through the air. The cleanup process has begun. Things still float in front of me: a plastic bottle, a bottle cap, a chip bag, more leaves. The river crests tomorrow morning at 8 am. I am worried that our cars will be underwater. There’s water in the corner of our backyard that smells foul.

I take a short nap, and wake up to power restored, hope restored.

But the water still rises.