A Big Swirly In My Life.

Many years ago, I finally earned the pirate name I still have – Hurricane. Though I had been called Bamm-Bamm for a time, I had to get rid of it because it was too closely associated with my then Texas psycho-girlfriend who was known as Pebbles.

I still don’t really remember how people came to call me Hurricane but I have a feeling it’s because I had a very blustery temperament back then. I could go from calm to a Cat 5 of emotional wreckage and human debris in seconds. And when in full force, I could let fly a whirlwind of words that leveled anyone who crossed my path.

I, of course, like to delude myself into believing that the nickname came from my obsession with studying and watching hurricanes form in the tropics. Every time a storm began to form, I would follow its progress in Seattle, predict its path and then, like a lot of other people, tune into the Weather Channel to see Jim Cantore show the horrific destruction in its aftermath.

When I first decided to move to Florida, which as we know turned out to be for all the wrong reasons, people in Seattle thought I was nuts. “You’re moving to hurricane country?” they said.

For me, it was certainly far better than living in earthquake country. I never liked the shaky-shake world of earthquakes. In fact, when I moved to Florida, it took me two years to rid myself of the feeling that the ground might start shaking any moment. This would seem to be over-reacting, but I feel them about 10 seconds before anyone else and feel ones no one else seems to notice. I guess I’m just naturally, and perhaps overly, sensitive to them.

Besides, I thought it far better to have five day’s warning to get out of the way of a  major storm than to be simply surprised when the ground started to shake and ducking under my desk, holding on for dear life. With Irene approaching I know exactly where it is and have a plan in place for nearly all eventualities.

When I arrived in Florida in 2004, I knew that I was now in the eye of the hurricane. I moved here in April. Hurricane season starts in June. And of course, my hurricane friends, Charley, Frances and Jeanne, came calling in August and September.

Charley was the first to arrive, a Cat 2 that came knocking on the night of Aug. 3. My son Parker was six and visiting me for the first time. It was his first hurricane, too. We braced ourselves for the impact in our apartment and laid in a supply of water, batteries, candles… the usual stuff you get for a big storm.

It was such a disappointment. I had always wanted to be in a hurricane. And here I was, smack dab in Charley. When people back in Seattle ask me what it is like to be in a minor hurricane (anything Cat 1 or Cat 2), I tell them it is just like any winter storm in Seattle, except the wind is brisker. There is a lot of rain, thunder, lightning, wine and stuff flying around. That’s about it.

Now, granted, I haven’t been in anything above a Cat 2, which tops out at 110 mph. And I don’t plan to be. That’s the beauty of a hurricane. You can get out of its way. If a big storm is coming to the coast, you go inland about 20 to 30 miles. Most of us go to Orlando and enjoy the theme parks for a day or two. While the coast can be a very dangerous place to be and the damage incredible, any storm loses a lot of its punch when it hits land. A Cat 4 rapidly drops to a manageable Cat 2 when it goes inland.

The worst thing that happend in Charley was that we lost power, which meant no air conditioning. And once a storm passes, it takes everything with it, i.e., the clouds and the breeze. So it is impossibly hot and muggy. The power was out for five days. Again, a Seattle storm.

I think Frances was far worse, however. By the time it reached us it was just a Cat 1, but it stayed in Orlando for three days, just hovering. I can safely say that there is nothing more boring than spending three days watching a hurricane go nowhere fast. We tried to stay entertained, but without power there was no TV. To pass the time we made score cards and played judges, rating each gust and lightning flash as if it were an ice skater in the Olympics. When that became boring, I suggested we go fly my kite outside. I can say that flying a kite in a hurricane was a bit of a challenge. But even that became a bore after a time.

Jeanne was far more exciting. It had top winds of 120 mph out on the coast but was down to about 90 mph by the time it got to us in Orlando. Since my ex-whatever was a pseudo-reporter (I don’t really count radio news as real journalism), I went along with her to do some “reporting.”

You’re not supposed to be driving in hurricanes. The police really frown on that. But when you’re a reporter, you can do stupid things in the name of news. So off we went down I-4, in horrific winds, the only car on the freeway.

We were looking for the eye wall of Jeanne. We found it finally, near Lakeland. It was hard to tell we were in Lakeland as all the freeway signs had long ago blown down. We could mostly tell by the wind direction. Once it switched sides of the car, you knew you were at the wall. Of course, the giant oak trees that had blown down in the middle of the road and the blown out windows in the businesses were also a good hint. I gingerly drove around the trees, over someone’s front door, and under a dangling traffic light so the ex could find someone to interview.

Now that I live on an island, I have no choice but to leave. It’s not the wind, it’s the tidal surge. Even in a Cat 1, the surge from the river will flood the parking lot, putting my car under water. That is just something I can’t allow to happen. You see, I haven’t washed my car in years. I’m not about to let someone else do it for me.

Out on the Treasure Coast, metal detector in hand, waiting for the first big blow to give up some doubloons,

– Robb