I love Florida. Wanted to live here, even as a kid. Didn’t make it.
While serving in the World’s Largest & Cleanest Nuclear Navy, my parents moved to “The Sunshine State.” Visited them in 1971, when my four-year tour was up. Never left.
Happy ending?
Mostly. Except for the hurricanes …
But I’m not complaining. We typically get several days notice before a storm hits — sometimes more. Take Tropical Storm Hermine, for example. We’ve had a fair to middlin’ idea of what to expect. Right now she’s zippin’ along about 10 miles per hour with winds around 60 mph. If she hits 75, Hermine graduates to Hurricane, Category One — or “Cat One” as we smuggy-muggy transplants from points north like to say.
Several times during my career as a journalist, I had the good fortune to help coordinate storm coverage. The one I remember most? Elena.
Here’s what the St. Pete Times said about that storm:
“For three days over the 1985 Labor Day weekend, Hurricane Elena stalled off the coast of West Central Florida and held it a virtual hostage. More than 300,000 residents fled their homes, the largest peace-time evacuation in U.S. history.” (©Copyright 1999, St. Petersburg Times)
Back then I worked for The Tampa Tribune. The Times was our main competition. Mother Trib — as we love-hate called it — went under earlier this year. Sad, sad, sad.
But back to my story.
Things looked to be quiet that holiday weekend in ’85. My boss, Lynne Perri — who later went on to do great things at USA TODAY — left me in charge.
Easy-peasy.
Except it wasn’t — thanks to Elena, an erratic Cat Three whose ferocious winds eventually caused more than a billion dollars in damage and left nine dead.
Though much of that Labor Day weekend is a blur, I’ll share a few moments that stand out amidst the mist. For one thing, I had to evacuate my family. No choice. TPD cruisers drove through our neighborhood with flashing lights and bull-horns, tellin’ us we had to leave. Took my wife and kids somewhere in Brandon, as I recall.
Problem solved.
Except I had to sneak back into Tampa — past a number of roadblocks — to get to the newsroom, where I slept that night. On the floor. No blanket. Nothing.
Did I mention The Trib was built on prime waterfront property?
Yup.
Next morning I looked out a second-story window in the Editorial Department — what a sight: The Hillsborough River had overflowed its banks and turned our parking lot into a lovely little lake, with cars popping up here and there, like metallic lily pads.
Somehow a skeleton crew of reporters, editors, photographers and artists managed to cover that unpredictable storm; a stout squad of typesetters and pressmen got the paper published, and the carriers — possibly facing the toughest job of all — maneuvered flooded streets and stalled cars to deliver the news.
I’m getting’ a rush just thinkin’ ‘bout it.
And Hermine?
My church canceled its Wednesday night services, which is a pretty big deal. My county is expecting heavy rains and winds with the potential for flooding. Our governor has declared a state of emergency for 42 counties. (Florida has 67.) And I’m guessing some schools will close — not sure which ones or how many.
Me?
I’m OK. Got a bunch of bottled water. Maybe a week’s worth of food. Stuff for Stormy (the cat) and Mercedes (the dog) as well.
If anything big happens, I’ll let you know.
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