Projected path of Hurricane Irma a few days before it hit my area.
At the end of August, my mother and I watched reports of Hurricane Harvey on the Weather Channel in her home on our family farm in Indiana. Seeing images of people who didn't heed evacuation orders sloshing through chest-high water, we shook our heads in disbelief. “What kind of idiot doesn't leave when there's a hurricane warning?” I marveled.
Two weeks later, I became that kind of idiot. And I'm glad I didn't leave.
As a native New Yorker, adopted Hoosier and newly minted Floridian, I had no experience with hurricanes. Nor'easters, blizzards, tornadoes, ice storms, floods—I had seen all of these many times over everywhere I'd lived. But when I left my mother's house in Indiana and drove back to Florida, I wondered if and how Hurricane Irma would affect our island, the house I shared with my new husband, his work at Cape Canaveral, our pets, our lives. I stopped to see my in-laws in Alabama and, in what I thought was a supreme act of hurricane preparation, bought a case of bottled water, then made my way home to Merritt Island, a tiny teapot-handle about halfway down the east coast of the state.
The forecast was already dire by the time I arrived home, and as I walked my dog every evening, I polled my neighbors on whether they were staying or leaving. Nearly all said they were staying, their reasons ranging from “It won't hit us here,” to “Even if it hits here, my house can handle it,” to “I've never left and I never will.” None of these made sense to me. We were being told that in less than a week, the sky was going to come down and try to kill us. Who would possibly want to stick around for that?
My husband, an 18-year resident of Florida, was more measured. He pointed out that the homes in our neighborhood are low, single-story boxes built of concrete blocks designed to withstand high winds. He reminded me that Hurricane Matthew had swept up the east coast with Category 3 winds, yet his house suffered no damage and he hadn't even boarded the windows. He also noted that if the hurricane made landfall anywhere along the southern tip of the state, it would lose enough energy by the time it reached us that it would be at least partially diminished in strength. These notions made me feel marginally better, but still didn't quell the churning in my stomach which was as relentless as Irma's march across the Atlantic.
Meanwhile, we prepared. We boarded windows and assessed our belongings for their value. We concluded that our priceless possessions consisted of our dog, our cat, and four boxes of irreplaceable photos and documents. If we had to leave in a hurry, these could easily fit in the car.
Reasoning that media outlets' primary source of information was the National Hurricane Center, we monitored its website exclusively and watched no television. Based on the storm's track, we knew that it wasn't going to make landfall close to us. The big question was, where was the eye going to turn northward? If it tracked along the west coast or even up the middle of the state we would be spared. If it tracked along the east coast we would be direct path. We decided that if we were in line to receive a Category 4 or 5 hit, we would leave.
When Gov. Rick Scott announced a mandatory evacuation for our area, our mothers in Alabama and Indiana were frantic: “You have to leave, it's mandatory!” However, the decision to leave seemed more complicated than merely obeying an announcement. Hundreds of thousands of people from southern Florida were heading north on the highways; those already fleeing certain destruction desperately needed slots on the escape path and rooms in available hotels. It seemed selfish for us to use those resources when others needed them more. Emotionally free from the dire images on the Weather Channel our mothers described of the havoc Irma had already wrought, we continued to study the NHC data, knowing that our plan of action hinged on Irma's turn. Most of the houses around the island were boarded up by now, some with defiant messages spray-painted on sheetsof plywood: “Go Home Jeanne (crossed out) Matthew (crossed out) Irma!” My husband continued to go to work. I continued to walk the dog surrounded by the neighborhood sounds of sawing, hammering and drilling interspersed with the occasional rock anthem or radio news program.
And we waited for the turn.
Friday Irma turned north on a projected path up the west coast of Florida. Even if the eye hedged east, our area would be as far as possible from the storm’s strongest winds. As my dog and I walked that evening the mood of the neighborhood was close to celebratory. People exchanged admonitions of “Stay safe!” with looks of relief instead of worry. My stomach now churned for those on the west coast. Sleep was still fleeting, if it came at all.
The fact that I had the time and resources to write this piece is a testament to the outcome we experienced. Our power was out for less than 24 hours. Our yard is full of palm fronds. And a large portion of our pool screen was damaged, which, considering that means we own a private expanse of water whose sole purpose is recreation, I figure puts us in about the top 0.0001 percent of the world. Sometimes fortune is a matter of perspective.
We made a rational decision to stay that was based not on emotions, but data. We took a calculated risk and won—this time. We are not guaranteed the same results in future hurricanes, but we feel comfortable that we made the appropriate choice for ourselves under the circumstances. And I have learned not to judge others for going through their own reasoning processes, making their own choices, and defending their own actions amidst the swirl of influences that buffet people of all walks of life who are united by the threat of a common catastrophe.
Read More
