Trying to Reason with the Hurricane Season

The season used to last mid-June to the beginning of November. But the last few years, the experts stretched hurricane season an extra six weeks, like an anxiety-inducing taffy pull, from June 1^st through November 30^th. As I write this post, we sit at the midpoint of what started as a “slightly below average” season, thanks to El Niño conditions, that upticked on August 10^th into a “very active, above average” season, as El Niño seems to have called out from work. And this week, I’m staring at our first potential cyclonic event.

Let’s go to the map

Hurricane Franklin is due to fatten into a Major Hurricane (winds over 110 mph) over the Atlantic, but its current course swerves northeastward away from the coastal US, skirting around Bermuda, heading back into the vast Atlantic Ocean. Thankfully in the opposite direction from me and Christopher on Aquatania here in Brunswick, Georgia.

Tropical Storm Idalia, however, just finished her makeup and slipped on her dancing shoes. She’s ready to party. She’s sashaying across the warm Gulf of Mexico staring at that cute guy across the Florida panhandle and western coast where she’ll likely land at hurricane force sometime on Wednesday, August 30^th. Depending on how much she has to drink along the way, she’ll either barrel up to that cute guy at the bar in Georgia as a hurricane or, hopefully, trip in a drunken stupor and fall into Georgia’s arms back down to her current tropical storm strength.

To be fair, this summer—our first here in southeastern Georgia—has seen some thunderstorms produce short gusts of gale-force winds. Since our arrival, we’ve witnessed squalls blow through at 50 knots/58 mph. (As a reminder, tropical storms are defined by sustained winds of 39 – 73 mph; hurricane Cat 1 at 74 – 110 mph, in case anyone is counting.) So far, we’ve been fine. Sitting pretty at the dock, tied securely with hatches battened-ish.

Even that one crazy electrical storm a few weeks ago, with lightning cracking directly above us, spared us despite sparking straight down the mast of a boat on the end of our dock. While utterly scream-worthy (it was involuntary, I swear!), the loud lightshow didn’t throw me back into PTSD symptoms of sleeplessness or constant dread. I’d say that’s fine progress from four years ago, if I do say so myself.

But how to keep my cool in the face of the oncoming?

How to combat hurricane fear and anxiety

I’ve found what works best for me is preparation. If I learned anything from surviving Hurricane Dorian, it’s that it’s folly to hope or believe I have any control over the elements. Mother Nature, she’s a feisty wench—opinionated, outspoken, a wild stallion refusing to be tamed. If stallions were female (because, yeah, Mother Gaia and all that—I do believe in Mother Nature. All hail the matriarchy).

But I can do my best to prepare, which gives me purpose, focuses my energy (and brain, lest it go willy-nilly on its own into the dark crevasses of “what if…?”), and provides opportunity to check in on my neighbors. If I learned anything else from Dorian, it’s that we are communal creatures and aren’t meant to face crises alone.

This weekend I’ve noticed fellow boaters removing headsails, adding extra dock lines, etc. in preparation for what may come. Even if Idalia changes course, as tropical cyclones are wont to do, the season’s only half over. There may—likely will—be more storms en route. Clever are the boaters who take all the preparations; lucky are those who “wasted their time and efforts” if a storm doesn’t come their way. In my mind, it’s never a waste.

Removing our canvas/Strataglass cockpit enclosure is tedious, but that beats having it ripped to shreds in relentless gusts. Topping up the inflatable fenders with our small hand pump may be a little taxing, but I count it as my arm workout for the week. (Sad, but true.) Double-checking the lines and chafe gear, so that the ropes don’t rub themselves weak and ineffectual during cresting waves from wind-driven storm surge, isn’t nearly as big a deal as drifting through the marina on a runaway Aquatania.

In all, I’d rather know we’ve done all we can to combat the forces we may face. Realistically, isn’t that what we’ve always been told? You can only do your best, nothing more. After that, what happens happens. Que sera, sera. (Cue the Doris Day tune!)

A cautionary tale

I can only hope that anyone and everyone that stands in the path of this, or any other, storm will undertake their best precautions, too. My biggest fear is that so many folks these days are living in history, not comprehending the ways in which climate change is affecting these storms. What decades ago maybe started and ended as a tropical storm may now blow up into a catastrophic beast in less than a day. Ask me how I know.

I don’t want to become an alarmist, but lived experience forces me to re-evaluate my priorities as well as my abilities. And if there’s even the slightest chance I might face anything like I faced in 2019, I sure as hell am going into that tempest armed to the teeth and guns a-blazing. Preparation is key.

So, all you coastal dwellers, store your water. Put your passport, drivers license, and important papers into Ziploc bags and keep them on you. Stockpile foods; buy the batteries, and solar chargers, and satellite text/phones, and do all the things you’re supposed to do. And don’t wait ‘til the day before landfall. Have a plan. Tell someone far away your plan. And check on your neighbors. Because survival isn’t a spectator sport; it’s a community event.