It Wasn’t Coming Here

Florida meteorologists have one season where their predictions matter. Hurricane season. For the rest of the year, the weather in the southwest region includes warm temperatures and blue skies, with the occasional shower that douses an area. During this time, Normann, my husband, and I monitor reports for disturbances from as far away as the coast of Africa. We pray storms spin into oblivion in the vast ocean.

For the bulk of the 2022 season, Saharan dust spread across the Atlantic, zapped moisture from the air, and tamped down major activity. Hurricanes are named starting with the letter A. And this year, the storms before the letter I had a minor impact on the United States.

When Marina, our daughter, started college in 2015, Normann and I explored the idea of moving from the Midwest and retiring in Florida. We would trade nine months of Midwest cold for nine months of sunshine, and during the humid summers, we would travel the country in the forty-foot RV we bought in 2006.

The housing market started to rebound after the 2008 recession, and we felt it was the right time to buy. We searched for a house on the water to enjoy boating in our golden years. For two months, we traveled in our camper searching the Atlantic coastline, the Keys, and the Gulf for a bargain. In South Fort Myers, we found a tiny three-bedroom ranch house with an in-ground pool surrounded by a mangrove preserve. Mangrove trees live in coastal brackish water and filter the water for aquatic wildlife. They separate our neighborhood from the Gulf.

The house’s higher elevation and five steps leading into the house minimized our risk for flooding. More garage than house, it had a two-car garage and a huge RV garage with a nine-foot high, shelved loft in the back for extra storage. The house felt spacious after spending time confined in our mobile home. Once we closed on the sale and put beds and nightstands in the bedrooms, there wasn’t much room for other furniture. Our bonus−the cozy home had plenty of patio space extending to a narrow canal.

So, after the peak hurricane season, we held our breath at the end of September 2022 hoping Hurricane Ian would not enter the Gulf of Mexico. Since Irma hit five years ago, we didn’t expect another hurricane so soon. The path changed numerous times. When it became an almost certainty it would enter the Gulf, we stowed away patio furniture and outdoor decorations. As Ian neared, forecasters routed its destination to Tampa, more than a hundred miles away. We anticipated high winds and heavy rain.

We made preparations. We planned for power outages and wind damage in Fort Myers. We checked our stock of canned goods and bottled water. We moved our grills and kayaks into the RV garage. We filled gas cans for the generator and water jugs.

In our forty-foot RV, securely nestled in our large garage, we filled water tanks to accommodate showers and diesel tanks to run air conditioning for sleeping in the aftermath. It would be our living quarters if we lost power or water in the house. Normann vertically braced the fourteen-foot overhead door with a heavy metal rod.

In 2017, Marina had transferred to a university in Miami to finish her bachelor degree. And five years ago in September, Hurricane Irma, dubbed the storm of the century, headed to both Miami and Fort Myers. Forecasters had predicted a twenty-foot surge. Our first hurricane, we begged Marina to drive to Fort Myers, and five days before the storm, we skedaddled in the RV. Massive in size, the storm covered the entire state.

Since this hurricane wasn’t coming here, we prepared to hunker down while the storm whirled its way to Tampa. Five months before, Marina, now twenty-five, had purchased her first home a half-mile from us. She had renovated and decorated it. Outside her back door, various palm trees and towering Florida pines provided her with a private tropical paradise. Marina wanted to kick back with a glass of wine and watch the storm from her lanai.

The day before the storm, we worked on securing last-minute items. Unbeknownst to us, news channels broadcasted an evacuation notice.

Because of our hard work preparing for the storm, we rewarded ourselves with dinner outdoors at Bahama Breeze with Marina, ordering crunchy coconut shrimp and tangy citrus-mustard dipping sauce. After dinner, Marina came home with us and we relaxed on the couch and tuned into the news.

The weather forecasters projected an eight-foot surge with projected landfall north of Fort Myers. It was not supposed to come here. We jumped up and voiced a few choice words. Do we stay or do we go? Had we had more warning, we would have left.

After Hurricane Irma, we replaced the roof. Two years ago, we installed hurricane impact windows. We went outside and measured our elevation. The winds had picked up. Although the two attached garages were elevated from street level, we projected water would enter them, but not our house, which was an additional four feet above the garages.

We felt confident we would be safe. In the garages, we scurried from shelving unit to shelving unit, shifting low items higher up. Normann flung the super pack of toilet paper and paper towels on top of the Christmas decoration bins stored on the highest shelf.

Marina’s house elevation was twelve feet, higher than the projected surge. Yet Norm and I insisted we weather the storm together.

At six the next morning, our neighbors across the street informed us they were leaving. Across the canal, they told us they were leaving too. The three of us turned on the news. They were urging people to evacuate immediately. Hurricane Ian would make landfall closer to Fort Myers. In a huddle, Marina, Normann, and I leaned forward as we discussed our options.

Still dark, the wind gusting, and rain falling, it was too dangerous to drive the RV. Even if we took the chance, it would be an hour before the RV was ready for travel and the RV garage door was re-secured. Or we could drive only the car to Miami and look for lodgings once we get there. We voted to stay, as did the majority of the neighborhood. We invited other neighbors to stay with us.

With nonstop coverage, meteorologists upped the storm surge projections to fifteen feet on the barrier islands. We were nervous, but Fort Myers Beach, Lovers Key, and miles of mangroves lay between us and the initial surge.

The winds whipped and the house shook as the news played on the TV in the background. Gallons of drinking water sat on the shelves to hold us over for the next few weeks. Candles, with the lighter close by, covered the table. Flashlights with fresh batteries sat on the counter. The generator and gallons and gallons of fuel waited on standby to power the refrigerator, cell phones, and a few lights after we lost power. Frozen water containers waited in the freezer, just in case. One grill stood in an enclosed area on the raised pool deck to cook food after the storm passed.

Silence. The TV screen went blank. No power.

Out the window, the tall trees in the mangrove preserve whipped violently in the wind. Across our narrow canal at the end of the mile-long road, the only road in, four cars were parked at the tee. Our neighborhood is surrounded by miles of mangroves stretching out to the bay. Three canal branches connect to the main canal leading to the Gulf of Mexico. Marina and Normann joined me as we watched for a half an hour trying to figure out what was happening.

One by one, the cars backed up and turned around. An electric pole had fallen with sparking wires dancing across the only road out. We were all trapped. I turned on the battery-operated radio for constant news updates.

Normann touched base with friends who stayed and reminded them to come over if they felt threatened. Marina and I moved water and food onto the nine-foot loft in the RV garage in case the surge intruded into the house. With nothing more to do, we played Rummikub as we waited for the storm to pass. We abandoned our game as the rise in water stunned us into silence.

Sheets of water flowed sideways from the sky. Constant wind heaved forceful gusts that shook the house. The surge came fast and fierce. Water overflowed the banks of the canal. It

seemed like we turned away and then looked back to see it flowing into the neighbor’s pool.

Next, it was at their door.

We still had two feet before it entered our garage.

Shingles and soffits sliced through the air. The attic gasped for air, inhaling again and again, pushing on the living room and bedroom ceilings. Lines of drywall screws appeared on the ceilings as the attic exhaled and the ceiling rested in place. Until it did it again.

Five years ago for Hurricane Irma, we were in Georgia, oblivious to the pounding our house took then but keenly aware of the carnage afterward. We convinced ourselves our home had survived many hurricanes before, but as we witnessed this assault, we questioned whether our house would stay intact.

We were not prepared for this.

Across our canal, a roof folded over onto itself. Would our roof stay on top of our house?

The water seeped into the streets.

At our neighbor’s house it was at window level.

Our area was a large bowl being filled to the brim.

The salty water continued to rise. The water raced up our lawn. Normann and Marina, dodging flying debris, dragged the generator from outside the garage, around the house, to our higher pool deck.

A neighbor wearing a life jacket tied himself to a tree as he held onto his girlfriend. Normann waved and screamed over the din. They fought the force of the water to make it to our house.

Boats lifted off their trailers and floated away. One boat headed toward our front window. “Dad. Dad. Dad!” Marina said. Our bodies tensed as we held our breaths. The wind shifted west from the south forcing the boat into the bushes. It remained trapped until another shift and the gusts came from the south. The boat, dragging its trailer, glided in between the houses and eventually down the canal.

Cars, hot tubs, kayaks, sheds, and other debris floated by in the rapids. We prayed for the safety of our other neighbors as all contact had ceased.

The water rose onto our raised patio and pool deck. Normann went to move the generator indoors and saw a flat boat race down the only road in and turn at the end. “What the…” Normann, Marina, and our neighbor watched for another sighting. Through the hazy blur, they saw the boat, crowded with people, zoom back down the mile-long road away from the floodwaters.

Our boat, secured at the highest point in its lift, went under water. The fierce pull of the water forced the pylons out of the canal floor and twisted the lift and splintered the dock boards.

The horns from the cars outside blared as saltwater drowned the batteries.

The water kept coming. We donned our life jackets and retreated to the loft area in the RV garage, nine feet above the garage floor. The four-feet of seawater felt strangely warm as I waded through. I climbed the ladder holding one cat, its claws scratching me. Next came Marina holding the other cat, then our two neighbors, with their kitten in a carrier. Normann hefted the radio over his head and brought it to the loft.

Marina and I released the cats as they sought a nook to hide. In his scramble to find a place, one cat fell into the water. Marina coaxed it back to the ladder and fished it out of the water.

I embraced Marina, grateful she was next to me. I regretted that we didn't leave.

“Anyone want some crackers? Pretzels? Water?” Nobody had an appetite. Normann cracked open a beer. It reminded me of the sign in the garage:

Hurricane Evacuation Plan: 1. Grab Beer 2. Run

He followed the first rule. We should have heeded the second.

The RV horn blasted below us and its headlights glowed under the water as the batteries shorted out. The fourteen-foot garage door, braced with a vertical metal bar in the middle, rattled and shook as the wind pressed and heaved against it. The tall RV garage sat higher than the area houses and took the brunt of the wind. Ceiling drywall plopped into the water. The garage refrigerator floated on its back, along with patio furniture cushions, aerosol cans, and miscellaneous items that once nested on shelves. Surrounded by shelves on the loft, it was tight quarters for us, as five wet, sticky bodies pressed against each other. Marina was next to me, safe. We held hands.

It was too crowded and the two men returned to the house to give us room. Marina climbed down the ladder and swam to the floating fridge to get a Truly and joined the men in the house.

I sent a group text to my family in Chicago telling them we were safe.

The battery-operated radio broadcasted the progression of the storm. The newscaster droned on, “Folks, this storm isn’t moving. Stay where you are and find higher ground. It’s high tide and the winds are pushing the surge higher.”

The water rose another foot.

At six o’clock, the water started to recede. I climbed down from the loft.

Although our house elevation is eleven feet above sea level, we had eight inches of water in the house and over five feet in the garages. I stood on the front porch surveying the damage and other rooftops visible on houses under six to eight feet of water, depending on their elevation. Palm fronds bent eastward, if they existed at all. Cars floated, their horns silenced hours ago. Although the wind was fierce at times, it was warm against my skin in contrast to my cold wet shirt and shorts.

An explosion sounded. Smaller explosions followed before an orange glow and smoke appeared. Down the block, a house had caught fire. It was our friends’ house, but we didn’t recall whether they evacuated.

“How can a fire start with five feet of water?” I asked in disbelief. It burned all night.

The receding water left a slimy muck on the floor. Normann slipped, fell, and cracked his tooth. I opened the inside door to the car garage. The water heater twisted on its side. The red convertible and our other refrigerator floated. Marina’s SUV and Normann’s car floated in the driveway. When the streets cleared of water, we would be trapped with no transportation. Down the steps, I grabbed the floating mop and bucket, and sopped up the mucky puddles.

I rinsed the floor with the outside water. The one thing I could control. Back and forth, I concentrated on mopping one tile at a time. I lugged a bucket of water into the bathroom to flush the toilets for when the septic field drained in a day or two.

Normann had moved the generator several times to protect it and it still got wet. The intruding water submerged the generator motor several inches. Normann worked on getting the generator to run. With his tools destroyed in the garage, he used what he could salvage.

Success. We charged our phones.

Of our fifty-gallon reserve of gas, only one can remained untainted by the flood water. Emergency gas available in the tanks of the cars and boat was contaminated.

Four refrigerators in the house, two floated on their sides in the garages, one in the RV, and for one we still had hope. Normann concentrated on the kitchen fridge. We moved the kitchen refrigerator from its nook and plugged it into the generator. No luck. The water destroyed the controller on the bottom of the fridge.

At ten o’clock at night, the winds calmed with three feet of water in the streets. I pulled out sheets to put on the couch. I reminded our neighbors to blow out the candles.

Normann and Marina waded waist deep in search of our other neighbors.

“Bring them back safe.” I waited on the front porch for their return. Outside in the black, no street or landscape lights glowed, except for the fire four houses down. The eerie quiet echoed all that was lost.

While they searched, I received a call from a friend’s sister. Many of our friends down the block were rescued by another neighbor. Their boat had picked up twenty people and brought them back to their house.

Marina rushed in teary-eyed. “I kicked in the doors and crawled through windows, and I couldn’t find anyone!”

I held her in my arms and told her about the phone call. Behind her, Normann nodded. Normann and I went into our bedroom to crash. We didn’t shower, brush teeth, or change clothes. The mass of metal in the garage would not be providing showers, toilets, or air conditioning. Out our bedroom window across the canal, three surviving solar lights dimly flickered underwater like the fading sun. I slid my skanky body between clean sheets, freshly laundered before the storm.

When I woke up, the sun was bright, the temperature ideal, and the water had receded from the streets. But we still had no power or water. In comparison, we had missed the immediate aftermath of Irma when we returned two weeks later, after power and water was restored. People who stayed then had cleared the streets of trees. The predicted storm surge never materialized.

I walked through the slippery muck on the pool deck. Most homes in Florida have a screened room around the pool and deck to keep out mosquitoes and other bugs. At least we didn’t have to rebuild the pool cage. During Irma, it had collapsed into the pool.

One large planter sat near the house wall, the flowers still vibrant with color. I puzzled over where the other three were. Our screens were still intact. I kicked aside shoes that had floated onto the deck from the house. One running shoe floated in the pool. In the green, scuzzy water, tiny minnows darted around the three missing planters in our new aquarium.

Near the dock, someone’s recliner and locked shed, fully intact, sat at the water’s edge in the yard. The dock from across the canal lay perpendicular, inviting me to cross and visit neighbors who were not there and wouldn’t be for some time.

Marina and I walked to the end of the cul-de-sac to the other elevated house to check on our friends. Of the fifty houses on our street that run along the canals, only five elevated houses were habitable. Drowned houses had broken windows and smashed garage doors.

A scene from the apocalypse, smoke from the still smoldering flames drifted from the charred ruins of the house down the street. People think the battery from their golf cart made contact with the salt water and exploded, which in turn, ignited the propane tanks for their grill. The small pops may have been exploding aerosol cans.

Large palm trees lay strewn across the street and lawns. We passed boats on top of cars, boats in bushes, and camping trailers tipped over on front lawns. Hatchbacks had opened, trunk lids ajar, driver-side windows down.

At the end of the cul-de-sac, we climbed the stairs to see our dazed friends. Twenty people had taken refuge in that house. We hugged, so happy they survived. They told us their tales of standing on furniture or crouching in the attic. One couple floated on a swim mat. Another couple spent the night in their boat.

Anxious to see her home, Marina and I walked the other way, to the street that crossed the canal along the mangroves. As the surge had rushed back into the ocean, it had trapped jet skis, boats, hot tubs, docks, roofs. Her housing development still had standing water. The winds had strewn trees, three feet in diameter, onto houses and into the streets. We turned the corner onto her street. I could see a tree covering a garage. As we neared, she broke into a run, screaming, “No. No.”

Branches covered her entire garage. The heavy foliage prevented her from inspecting the west side of the house. We maneuvered through the limbs to get to the front door. The flood line was an inch below her threshold but had damaged her subfloor.

Marina opened the door. Her white tile floors showed no signs of muck. We walked through the house. A massive tree protruded through the living room ceiling with puddles of clear water on her floor. Her furniture and TV were soaked.

She collapsed on the floor, sobbing. All her savings had gone into this place. Destroyed.

Out her back door, we spotted three large trees laying against her house. She could have been sitting there when the tree came down. Thank God, she stayed with us during the storm.

I reminded myself, material things could be replaced. I grabbed her and held her tight.

“We’re alive. That’s all that matters. This can be fixed. We’re alive.”