A Different Hurricane

When I was thirteen years old, a pair of hurricanes struck my hometown merely two months apart. 

The first, a relatively weak Category 2 storm, hit in such a way that I was able to stand on the front porch with my dad and uncle (my mom, brother, and sister were out of town at the time) as the winds and rain came over from the back of the house.  We ate snacks as we watched the iridescent glow of electrical bursts coming from the transformer station just beyond the reaches of our neighborhood.  We comically ruminated on the pronunciation of "debris" while branches fell from nearby trees.  I lamented all of the yard-cleaning work that lay before me in the coming days. 

With all due respect to the dangerous situation that a hurricane can be, as well as an understanding that this was not truly an event to celebrate, I do remember feeling rather excited about the opportunity to witness such a storm up close.  If you're in a safe place when nature flexes some muscle, it's hard not to appreciate the awe-inspiring power on display. 

Besides, Dad was not worried, and when I was thirteen years old, Dad was the smartest person I knew.  So if he was not worried, I was not worried.

Two months later, as the second storm approached, we nailed sheets of plywood to the exterior framing of the windows which would meet the heaving winds head-on.  We inventoried what we already had on-hand -- batteries, candles, Starbursts -- and purchased the usual emergency provisions -- bottled water, non-perishables, more Starbursts.  The entire family was home for this one, and my uncle would again come over from his apartment to ride out the storm in the relative safety of our brick home.  The storm would rage, we would gawk, we may even cower in the hallway at the center of the house, but we would ultimately be okay. 

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In the living room, only a few hours before the storm would make landfall, I sat in the rocking chair across from my dad as he mulled over a tracking map. Naively emboldened by my experience with the previous storm, I expressed my relief in being granted a few extra days to finish my homework.   On the television, the Weather Channel offered gloomy prognostications of our impending demise.  Lips curving into a smirk, my youthful invincibility mocked their fear-mongering tones.  "More debris," I said, jokingly enunciating the would-be-silent "s," just as we had during the prior hurricane.

Dad either didn't hear me, or didn't find my cavalier attitude amusing.  Eyes searching nervously, he raised his head from the map.  For a second he looked at me, for a second he looked at the sleeve-rolled meteorologist on the screen, for a second he glanced back at the map. He ultimately settled into a blank stare, his gaze falling somewhere between the map and his heretofore-undaunted 13-year-old son, nonchalantly rocking away in the old wooden chair across the room.

This hurricane had been gaining strength.  This was not the previous storm, where wind speeds maxed out somewhere on the lower spectrum of a Category 2.  We were up against something more powerful this time, something likely to become a Category 5.  But seeing as how the prior storm had done little more than entertain, I had continued to shrug off the inevitable.  At the time, Dad was the smartest person I knew.  He had been so comfortable, so confident during the first storm.  Though I am certain he was closely -- and likely nervously -- watching the storm grow as it approached, I was too young and naive to recognize any of that in his eyes.  Dad, as far as I knew, was not worried.  The smartest person I knew was not worried.  So I was not worried.

"I'm beginning to regret not evacuating."

I was wrong.  The smartest person I knew was, in fact, very much worried. 

And, for the first time, I was worried, too.

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Waking up this morning to check the pulse of my extended social circle, I find that the smartest people I know are worried.  It feels familiar – except, this time, I was already worried to begin with.