It’s Thursday afternoon, and I’m driving home from Co-Opportunity in Santa Monica, happy about my fresh organic groceries and my older sister’s upcoming visit in November.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I’ve spent the last four in Pittsburgh with my boyfriend, but this year I’ll be home. I’ve not seen Debbie in six years; I give her a call, but except for a brief commentary about the holiday guest list, we don’t talk about her trip.
Deb has left work early to try and register for a shelter for her and her dog. She lives in Oldsmar, near Tampa, Florida, and Hurricane Irma is scheduled to hit in three days. Although she is not required to evacuate, it is impossible to accurately predict the storm’s path, so while hoping for the best, she’s preparing for the worst. Driving up PCH, sun glistening off the water, I listen, but I’m distracted by a comment she made about the guest list.
On Friday morning, I send a text trying to clear up the misunderstanding and Deb replies with a tactful reference to my ignorance of her (and the entire State of Florida’s) dire situation. I acknowledge my poor timing and make a feeble offer of support from 3,000 miles away. Later, she sends a note letting me know she is awaiting confirmation from a shelter and that she cannot stop for calls. Debbie’s home is one block from the evacuation zone. My father’s place is within it. My younger sister, Georgia, also lives nearby, as does my Aunt Val. I am beginning to pay attention.
Saturday morning, I wake up and head off to Medicine Dance. Before going in, I Google “Hurrican Oldsmar.” Google corrects my typo and up pops an image of the predicted path, outer boundaries marked by a solid line with the center highlighted by red dashes. Like an editor’s casually deleting an extra adverb, the center line goes right through the word “Tampa.” I scroll down. Winds are predicted to be anywhere from 75 to 185 mph. “THREAT TO PROPERTY AND LIFE: EXTREME” (caps theirs). I am engaged.
I feel helpless. While online, I open Facebook and post a request for prayers. Then I walk into class, where, for the first time, I do not silence my phone.
After dance, I call Georgia and Dad. Georgia tells me she will evacuate with my father’s wife, but Dad is set on trying to protect his home, a structure she describes as “the stick house from ‘Three Little Pigs’.” She posts a photo with my father, who is wearing a yellow mac, hat and all, indoors, and I wonder if this is the last photo I will see of him.
I feel torn. Fifty percent of me is aware of fear mongering. The momentary glimpses I’ve taken at the news look more Hollywood than news: hyped, geared for catharsis. I prefer to view natural phenomena, like John Muir, whom I envy for once climbing a 100-foot pine during a hurricane to experience the drenching thrill of the dangerous dance.
My own story is mild: evacuating Monte Nido during the fire of ’93, my toddler strapped into the car seat of my Mustang convertible, me singing the ABC song as a lullaby while driving down Las Virgenes in the “wrong” direction: through the flames, toward PCH, watching the canyon burn. Once at the coast, I got out of the car and allowed the fire-fanned wind to brace my body against a concrete pole. I love the intensity of Earth’s emotions. The house might’ve burned, with all we’d left in it, but we were safe. So, when I realized the severity of Irma, I had one question, “Is your life in danger?”
“Nah,” my dad says. “I’ve still got things to do.”
Deb’s response: “Sage, if I thought it was, I wouldn’t be here.”
When I am calm, I trust my intuition. My sister is intelligent and my dad has sharp instincts. At 73, he’s still strong, only 5’8”, but wiry, like me. We’re built like cats. When it became apparent that Irma was headed toward his little house, my father posted some choice words directed at the storm. He also replaced the battery in his boat, just in case. He will not go down without a fight. It’s in our genes.
Dad recently sent a shot of himself sitting on his Harley Davidson with my grandma. The caption reads, “My 93yr young mom turning out to be a scooter tramp lol.” My daughter has these genes too. She’s running for King of LA and posts videos of herself addressing City Hall. We’re scrappy. I’d not thought of this before, but it’s true, and I like it.
Sunday morning, I learn that Dad has a neighbor with a “wolf-proof” house, and Deb and a couple of friends have taken over a large vacant warehouse. They’ll lose lights and power, but they prefer space to a crowded shelter. I know one of the friends, Corey, built like a small ox and aware that he’ll have to deal with my mom if anything happens to Deb.
Back in Topanga, I have my own storm to deal with this week, but I’ve told none of them. They have enough. Instead I swim daily, gliding through calm water, allowing the element to inform and soothe my emotional terrain. Sometimes I lose light and power, and I hear the wolf at my door. I may let him in. I may simply howl. Either way I will stand in the eye of the storm, stay alert, and welcome the dance.
Before turning in Sunday night, I text my dad. He’s turning in too. It is midnight in Tampa. Monday morning, I receive word from everyone. They are cleaning up. My dad sends a YouTube link of two trash cans racing down a flooded Miami street: “Illegal racing. Reporting live action!” The storm has passed. Back to the real work of daily life with humans.
Sage Knight is a local speaker, ghostwriter, editor. She and her Golden Retriever, Shiloh, live at Top o’ Topanga and welcome your visits to: www.SageKnight.com.
