If you don't mind my getting a little extra-curricular, I'll tell you a bit about my meeting with Hurricane Charley this weekend.
Friday started off normally enough, with just a little rain, which is normal enough for Central Florida. My Fiancee, Ashley, was getting a little nervous -- or a little excited -- by the early afternoon. It was premature, though. The fun wouldn't start until evening.
When Charley made landfall in the southwest of Florida, the reality of the storm began to set in. The images of destruction being brought to us by the news networks were dramatic. Roofing was torn from structures, storm surges began flooding properties. My mother, in hard-hit Port Charlotte, was hiding in a bathroom with all her animals. It had begun.
As calm surrounded Orlando, the anticipation began to mount. I, the annoying film student I am, brought out the camera and stood by for the excitement. On the news, weather men were offering projected paths of the storm. Charley was coming right at me.
When the storm began, it didn't seem that much worse than your average Florida rain. Wind whipped the trees, ran slapped the windows. In the apartment building adjacent to my own, rambunxious college students were challenging the storm in vulgar terms.
Gradually, though, it became clear that this was no ordinary rain storm. Highway security camera footage depicted Interstate 4, usually packed with cars during early evening, nearly deserted. The trees began to dance a wild rhythm, much more perturbed than during previous weather disturbances.
Stepping outside, protected behind my poncho, I watched the drama with my video camera. In the distance, the sky lit up with green blooms. It was reminiscent of war movies where innocennt little towns were subjected to cruel and desctructive air raids.
On the news, I learned the blooms were not lightning. All around me, power distribution systems were self-destructing. Transformers, the ugly grey canisters often seen strapped to power lines, were arcing and exploding, taking with them the needed lifeblood of industrial society.
Lights began to dim. First far away, then closer. The revelling college students were suddenly silent as their building fell dark. My own building was next.
Cowering in a hallway, away from windows and doors, Ashley and I could hear the frame of the building creaking. Windows rattled and whistled. We gritted our teeth, hoping the protective constructions in our roof would hold. The rain continued to spatter.
Much more suddenly than it began, the rain and wind stopped. It was eery -- the famed "eye of the storm." Listening to the radio, the few callers still with phone service reported damage and described their own hurricane experiences.
With no warning at all, the abuse began anew. For an intdeterminable period, Charley finished ravaging my little suburb.
It's hard to say when the storm ended. There was a period when it was rockin' and then one where it wasn't.
Wandering outside, I met new neighbors out surveying the damage, drinking, and having a good time meeting people. Without television to keep them company, it seemed, people became a lot more friendly.
Against the advice of the news media, I went with my little lady for a car ride. Without electricity, driving through the populous Orlando was like crusing the desert. All around, darkness bathed the streets and businesses that usually lit the way in a cheerful tone of commerce.
On the way home, we passed a business in the process of being looted. Dark figures, sillhouted by headlights, broke plate glass windows trying with gusto to buglarize some poor independent business. Orange County, where I live, had imposed a curfew to prevent just such issues. Luckily, a Deputy Sheriff was driving by. I signalled him and sent him back toward the scene of the crime.
As we returned, the looting left a lasting impression. The figures outside my apartment, before friendly faces enjoying a brisk evening, became potential thieves or murderers. In a feeble attempt at reassuring my safety, I slipped a butcher's knife beneath my mattress. Just in case.
The next day, electricity continued to fail to flow. Water resumed, but no heat. There was plenty of heat outside, however. Without electricity to power our A/C, the Amish-style boredom was made painful by Florida humidity.
Over the course of the day, though, I realized life would continue. On the radio were reports of utility truck convoys, thirty vehicles long. Governor Bush assured us that utility support would continue to flow, with several southern states sending us help.
Our local Friday's was serving food and our local Wal-Mart, happily, was doing brisk, air-conditioned business. Reassured by the creeping return of civilization, I slept my second night without power without much fear.
My sincerest thanks to everyone involved in Florida's recovery effort, particularly the linemen and tree cutters sent to us by Georgia, South Carolina, et al.
Can't wait for power!
