I think I started at least ten different lighthearted blogs for my post today. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to hit the right note.
Most of you know I live in Florida and that I write about the tropics. For a good part of the 1980s, I lived in the Caribbean, traveled frequently to the Bahamas, and most of my series books have at least one hurricane event – informed by hard experience. The first hurricane that I remember was Donna, and the last was Irma. In all of those, I have only evacuated once. For Irma.
Over this Labor Day holiday, and for much of the week before, we’ve watched Hurricane Dorian develop, slam into the U.S.V.I., and head for the Bahamas. As Dorian grew from a category 1 to 5 we’ve been preparing for the possibility of facing him ourselves. My part of Florida is currently out of the “cone.” This massive, slow-moving storm, after devastating the Abacos, is stalled over Grand Bahama Island.
I’ve sat in my house and listened to the freight train roar of Andrew, Jeanne, Katrina, Rita, Wilma. I’ve battened down the hatches for those that came, and those that were projected to visit. I understand that a minute in a hurricane feels like an hour, and an hour feels like a month.
Right now, the Abacos have emerged after twelve hours of Dorian, and Grand Bahama, is entering the eighteenth hour with no relief in sight. The hurricane is stalled. As someone who has listened to the unearthly howl of the wind and the sound of unknown objects bashing your shelter, I can only say that it is impossible to imagine enduring that terror for that length of time.
Instead of comments, or questions to wrap up this blog, I’d like to ask all of you who read it to spare a good thought for those who have and are enduring this awful miscarriage of mother nature, and for those who will face Dorian until he dissipates.
May all stay safe in the storm. May God bless those who perished.