THE PRICE ONE PAYS FOR LIVING IN "PARADISE"
It's been almost 10 years since the last time I participated in my least-favorite Florida pastime -- "storm-tracking." Newcomers to the Sunshine State and almost everybody who's never set foot in Florida simply may not know what I'm talking about. We jaded veterans, however, know all too well.
"Storm-tracking" is a South Florida ritual that puts the region's estimated 7 million residents of Broward, Palm Beach, Miami-Dade and Monroe counties on notice that a potential natural disaster is heading their way. While much of the country enjoys the waning days of summer, our time is spent dreading "cones of uncertainty" and the wind storms they may or may not bring.
Right now, my house and most of the state for that matter, are under the cone, the forecasted path of Tropical Storm Erika. The storm is close to Puerto Rico as I write this. It's path is expected to either hit or miss Florida. State and local governments emergency teams are prepping for the worst. The weather has become the lead story on the local news as TV meteorologists get to earn their keep.
The gas lines haven't started forming yet, but I've noticed the store shelves at the local grocery stores are beginning to run low on water. The storm isn't expected to arrive on Monday, but right now the overriding message of getting ready for the possibility of bad weather is becoming more urgent.
Riding out a hurricane is no fun. There's putting up the shutters, stocking up on water and food supplies, power outages that can last for days -- and that's the no-drama part of it all. People have died from high winds, flooding, downed power lines, or doing something stupid. Stuff like that happens in Florida, and since the state hasn't had a hurricane since 2005, stuff can happen.
South Florida could catch a break. The course of storm might shift, or the storm itself could weaken to the point that it's no longer a threat. Or, it could re-group somewhere over the warm waters of the Caribbean, become a Category 1 hurricane and take a beeline straight for my crib, like that uninvited guest who wants to watch the big game on my big screen TV.
All that leaves us with a ritual that used to be a regular pastime in South Florida between August and October, the height of the storm season. Problem is we've had a decade-long layoff, and most of us are a little rusty. It's the price of living in paradise, but that doesn't mean we like it.
By Doug Lyons