Our Beach

Our Beach

I asked them to please take notes and document feelings as Hurricane Irma pushed her way through their little corner of Florida.

My blog is theirs today.

Thanks C & C

As Floridians, we pride ourselves on pushing the envelope with the weather.

We stay on the golf course until the clap of thunder and bolt of lightning are less than three seconds apart.  We continue the picnic until the rain has made the bread too wet to eat.  We refuse to cancel outdoor plans until we arrive to the exact location to determine if it is raining in the exact spot we are going to be outside.

We’ve seen the clips of Jim Cantore getting blown away on the beach, always somebody else’s beach.
Except this time it wasn’t.  It was our beach.  The weather curse himself, Jim Cantore, was standing on the same beach we spent the day at the weekend before, telling us that in all his years of being blown away on television by storms, he had never seen one like this.

The storm was bigger than the state of Ohio — it stretched from Jacksonville to Cuba — and packed more wind strength than the storms that left New Orleans and Houston under water.
The 24-hour national news cycle was all Irma, all the time.
Photos and videos of Caribbean island after island being destroyed with a new path of destruction being predicted what seemed like almost every hour.  The storm was so big it was almost impossible to evacuate.  There was nowhere to go to run from it and not enough gasoline left in the state to get you there.

We were lucky enough to make it two hours north to Lakeland, Florida by Wednesday night, but moving inland did not keep us from Irma’s path.  Once there, all we could do was watch news coverage until we couldn’t anymore, find a distraction, and then watch more coverage.
It was a sick cycle, with a weird energy looming in the air.  Every time we made our way back from the distraction the projected path had change.  The smartest people using the most advanced technology in the world had no idea where one of the largest hurricanes ever recorded was going.
All we could do was watch, wait, and stay hopeful.

Thursday and Friday passed; we all stayed as distracted as we could with the nephews and extended family time.  On Saturday, it was time to move to a safer home, built of cinder-block and able to handle a flood.  Six adults, two young children, and two cars packed full of supplies.

The kids went to bed around 8:00 pm on Sunday night, and things were still fairly normal.  By 10:00 pm, however, the sound of wind smacking the windows was becoming louder and louder — too loud to ignore.  The news coverage said the eye was heading directly for Lakeland, with the worst of the winds meeting us in the middle of the night.  Irma sounded as loud as a train, lights began flickering, and there was even an occasional “pop” of something possibly hitting the house or breaking outside.
Surreal almost; at one point, we even believed we may smell fire.  To go to sleep?  To stay awake?  We reminded ourselves that we are safe and stuff is stuff; all we can do is stay patient for it to pass and hold onto hope.

And pass it did.  It took a while, but by Monday night, the winds became comparable to that of a windy day.  Just as we hoped, everything was alright.  The kids slept through the night, minimal damage to our homes, yes, the unfortunate loss of power, but that was it.  We saw roads flooded, trees laying down on homes and debris like we had never seen – but we were alright.  It was as if Mother Nature or a higher power reminded us of what this world is capable of, and she came a bit close for comfort.

With hope and positivity, we survived and so did our beach.  Irma was as fierce as we thought she could be, but communities will reunite and rebuild – as we always do.  So many calls, texts, and emails from friends and family came through this past week — Irma was a gentle reminder of what is truly important and to hold each other close.
However, once we settle back in …… we are still hoping Jim Cantore won’t be back anytime soon.

🙂