Please, please, don’t let a hurricane hit while we are in South Florida, I prayed as I headed to the Sunshine State in September 2005 to take care of my elderly father. Unfortunately, my prayer wasn’t answered, and the memories are again flooding back (sorry for the metaphor) as Floridians now deal with the aftermath of Hurricane Milton’s devastation.
There was no negotiating whether my husband, Joe, and I would go to Florida, even though it was hurricane season; my dad needed an operation that couldn’t be postponed. In his post-surgery instructions, the doctor was adamant: My father was absolutely forbidden to travel for at least a month after the procedure. So my husband and I nursed him amid a hurricane season famous for Katrina, which only weeks earlier had wrought horrifying damage to Mississippi and Louisiana.
Then the news came in October: A hurricane system was developing and would be heading to South Florida. This one was named Hurricane Wilma.
The destruction of Hurricane Wilma
Unable to evacuate, panic quickly set in. I stocked up on sardines and other non-perishables. Lots of water… anything liquid… batteries for the radio, flashlights, and candles. People were grabbing whatever they could at the supermarket. Everyone was hoarding gas, and I waited in an enormous line at the gas station to fill the car.
I had never paid much attention to the weather, but I was glued to the local TV station tracking the storm. This massive system – another Category 5 hurricane – was in the Gulf of Mexico and set to hit Florida’s west coast and move across the state, the eye of the storm headed smack where we were in Delray Beach.
It was about an hour just before daybreak. My husband and my father were fast asleep.
The newscaster announced that Wilma had made landfall and was quickly moving eastward. Within minutes, it started pouring outside. Then came the massive winds – biblical in their ferocity, the sound haunting. The electricity cut out. The house began to shake. It felt like being in the spin cycle of a washing machine.
Dad and Joe continued to slumber.
AT DAWN, I quickly woke them so we could all get to a more secure part of the house. Things were crashing outside. Shingles flew off roofs, including ours, like a deck of cards flung into the air. Garbage cans that hadn’t been secured before the storm bobbed down the street as if competing in a race. Trees dislodged from their roots and spun for a few seconds before hitting the ground, luckily just missing a neighbor’s house. Fences twirled down the block.
Joe, fascinated by it all, took a seat in front of the kitchen window to watch. My father joined him as I pleaded with them to move away. I plastered myself against the inside wall of the dining room, far away from any glass, and started to pray. Fervently. After all, it was Simchat Torah day. I have never said Hallel (celebratory psalms) with the same devotion.
By midday, the eye of the storm was overhead. Eerily, a calm set in. No rain, no wind. But this, the radio announcer was warning, was an extremely dangerous point in the hurricane. The winds could whip up in a flash as the back end – the second part of the storm – moved in. And soon enough, it did. Ferociously.
We were back in the spin cycle.
By evening, Wilma had moved on. The night was pitch-black, with the moon and stars providing the only light. We could tell things were bad, but a full inspection would have to wait until morning. I took a sleep aid and finally was able to rest. It had been quite a day.
AT DAYBREAK, everyone was out, checking on neighbors and surveying the damage. Most of our roof shingles had come off, exposing the wooden layer beneath. Fortunately, we didn’t have any leaks, but I knew something had to be done before another Florida storm arrived.
After a few days, an itinerant repairman wandered the streets, offering to nail down plastic sheeting to protect the damaged roofs from future storms. It was a gamble but after conferring with our neighbors, we all hired him. What choice did we have until things settled down and we could replace the entire roof?
The main streets look apocalyptic. Electric polls were down, and wires snaked along the roads. One traffic light dangled dangerously overhead by a wisp of a wire. Children’s crossing signs were sideways. Houses were visibly damaged; debris was everywhere. Nothing looked like it did before. Life itself seemed upside-down.
Our phone, miraculously, was working and was our only connection to the outside world. At one point, it rang and an automated voice announced that we shouldn’t drink the water, since the water system was contaminated. One more thing to worry about – but at least we could flush the toilet.
We ate whatever was still edible, but soon we had to resort to canned food. To this day, I refuse to eat sardines – what I call “hurricane food.” (Joe, by the way, loves them and stocked up on 90 cans when we thought we would have to spend an extended time in our Jerusalem bomb shelter during this year’s Iranian attacks.)
After a few days, our water and soda supply had dwindled to a few bottles. Another rush of anxiety came over me. Dread, to be precise.
EVERYONE ON our street kept saying that FEMA would be on the way with supplies to our area. But as each day passed, there was no sign of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, even though a state of emergency had been declared for Florida.
People had begun venturing out in their cars, despite the warning not to because of the downed electrical wires; some could still have a charge, so it was dangerous. But we were three people, and I was desperate. So, like my neighbors, I drove over to the local supermarket that was operating on a generator and stocked up on more soda, the only liquid they had.
After two weeks, we still had no electricity, but finally my father could travel. The airport was open, so we high-tailed it out of Florida. I swore – bli neder (noncommittally) – that I would never go to Florida during hurricane season again. Nineteen years later, I am still keeping that promise.
On the flight back to Israel, the stewardess offered me a cup of tea, the first hot substance I consumed since the hurricane hit. It never tasted so good – and I’m sure a tear or two slipped into the cup.
A few years ago, a colleague who was spending a year in the US said she was considering heading to a state where a hurricane was brewing, to see what it would be like. I strenuously dissuaded her, saying no one should be in the path of a natural disaster, having experienced it firsthand.
For the last 19 years, every time hurricane season arrives in the US, I track each storm’s intensity and watch the news intently to see where it is headed. Hurricane Milton, and Helene just before it, gave me a particular jolt, and I commiserate on a deep, personal level with what people there have to contend with before, during, and after these ferocious weather events.
Unfortunately, as climate change continues on its own dangerous path, we should be prepared for more natural disasters at unprecedented levels. It may have become calm again now, but this might just be the eye of the new seasonal storm. ■
The writer is a member of The Jerusalem Post editorial staff.
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