Shared experiences help ease fears while we wait

Time is the blessing, and the curse, of living in the path of hurricanes.

Unlike an earthquake or tornado, we get plenty of warning when a hurricane is on the way.

The slow wind-up gives us days to buy food, hunt for gas, put up storm shutters, flee to a shelter or even leave town.

But days of waiting for impending doom can also become unbearable. We find ourselves growing anxious, sometimes irritable, as we check the forecast for updates on Hurricane Irma’s direction, knowing even an incremental wobble can bring us hope or add to our despair.

As scary as the waiting can be, there is some comfort in knowing that as a community, we are facing this demon together. And as we help each other put up storm shutters or shelter pets, we draw comfort in our shared experiences.

Here’s how members of the Sun Sentinel Editorial Board have so far experienced the wait for Hurricane Irma:

Rosemary O’Hara

Maybe it’ll be nothing, you want to tell yourself. Maybe Hurricane Irma will blow on by like Hurricane Matthew did last year.

Deep down, you know you’re kidding yourself. You’d have to be in deep denial to look at the red monster on the radar screen and not see the gut punch headed our way.

It’s 400 miles wide — a little less than from Fort Lauderdale to Tallahassee. Its hurricane-force winds extend 100 miles, as far as from Fort Lauderdale to Naples. The map shows all of South Florida in the “catastrophic” zone. Irma is the big one. Yet for all its magnitude, I found myself puzzling over little details Thursday as my husband attended to our plan to hunker down and ride it out. We live in Victoria Park — just inside the mandatory evacuation zone, though just a block east of the U.S. 1 boundary.

Were it not for my job, we’d probably have hit the road. But no matter what President Trump says, members of the media are dedicated to telling you what’s going on, as best we can. We also want to engage you in the conversation of our community, which is why we’re inviting you to share your stories of Irma, as we are today.

After deciding not to evacuate, I took to social media on Thursday to ask crazy questions like:

How do you keep the water from seeping out of your bathtub? Caulk the drain or buy a plastic liner for the tub, I was told.

What food would you buy if you expected to be without power for a week or more? Tuna fish, peanut butter and crackers are not enough, and Spam and Vienna sausages won’t do. My friends’ advice: food bars, apples and bananas, Ensure, packaged foods, canned ham, cheese, dried fruit, nuts, cereal and shelf-stable milk (sold near the coffee,) and threebean salad.

We missed out on sandbags. What should we do? Use bags of mulch or top soil. Put towels below doors and windows. Use plastic liners and duct tape to seal the gaps.

Where should we park our second car? On the lee side of a building, close up. Oh, and know how to manually open the garage door.

Good advice, all. Thank heavens for friends. And thank heavens for my husband, who spent much of Thursday on multiple missions for caulk, a battery-powered fan and extra batteries. By evening, he reported a “calm before the storm” at stores and gas stations. And on hearing about the addition of three-bean salad, he said if the hurricane doesn’t get him, the preparation will.

Elana Simms

Breathe in, breathe out. I’ve been reminding myself to do that a lot lately. In the newsroom, on the brink of a storm, we’re flooded with data, even as we disseminate helpful information to you, our readers. Emails, tweets, pings, posts, wire alerts — it’s a lot to absorb while endeavoring to keep myself — and worried out-of-state loved ones — calm. In times of impending trouble, I rely on faith and good old-fashioned common sense (i.e. planning) to get through. But a Category 4 or 5 hurricane is enough to rattle even the most formidable of us.

Just look at the pictures coming out of St. Martin and Barbuda, which is now barely habitable. Nearly all buildings were damaged. Winds snapped a cell tower in two. The island is “rubble,” Prime Minister Gaston Browne of Antigua and Barbuda said. It makes one think: As prepared as I am, is there really any security in a hurricane this massive? I wasn’t in Florida for Hurricane Andrew, but the storm’s lore is suspended in the air around these parts, especially during hurricane season.

So what do we do with the ghost of storms past and a deluge of information? We implement lessons, heed warnings and prepare. Schools are closing and shelters are opening. South Floridians are listening to evacuation orders and leaving by the droves, thank goodness. As Gov. Rick Scott put it, “We can rebuild your home, but we cannot rebuild your life.”

“Be anxious for nothing.” Focus on what you can control. After a 30-minute wait at the gas station, my car’s tank is full. I have food and water. I have candles, a flashlight, batteries. The hurricane shutters are up. There’s ice in the fridge (though I’ll probably make a

run for a couple more bags). Checking off the to-list is what eases the mind as we settle in for what’s to come, and wait for the sunshine on the other side. Andy Reid

For me, annoyance turns to fear when an approaching storm gets compared to Hurricane Andrew.

The prospect of another Andrew, or something even close, ends any debate over whether to take on the hassle of shuttering windows and actually trying to fit two cars into a two-car garage.

I can’t shake images of Hurricane Andrew in 1992 wiping out Miami-Dade neighborhoods.

I was safe in Tallahassee during the storm. But the family that would later become my in-laws had their home come crashing down around them as Andrew churned across South Florida.

Their experience surviving the storm and then having the courage to rebuild and carry on in the path of its destruction serves as both inspiration and warning.

Somehow they let an Andrew marry into their family. Now I’m responsible for making sure my branch of the family makes it through the storms to come.

That means putting up shutters, overloading on bottled water and buying canned soups that we hopefully won’t have to eat.

This time, with a storm that is a little too Andrewish for comfort, it means my wife and kids are riding out the storm on safer ground.

It’s comforting to know they will be far from the trouble this latest storm will bring — and to know they will return to help me take down all those shutters.

Deborah Ramirez

Over the past three decades, I’ve become a hurricane veteran. More storms than I care to remember: Hugo, Andrew, Ivan, Wilma. By now, I know the drill. But this wasn’t always the case.

My first experience waiting for a monster storm to strike was Hurricane Hugo in September 1989. At the time, I was living and working as a journalist in San Juan, Puerto Rico. Hugo, a Category 5, was coming at us.

My generation knew nothing about hurricanes. Puerto Rico had not seen a major storm since Betsy in 1956. Hurricanes back then were named after saints in Puerto Rico, and we knew Betsy as Santa Clara. I wasn’t around for the holy hurricane.

As Hugo approached, my friends and I were excited, almost in party mode. I remember getting into my condo elevator the night before Hugo’s arrival. There, I was confronted by the worried faces of several older people on their way home. I could see the memories of past hurricanes in their expressions. It became clear we weren’t in for a party.

As another monster storm approaches, I’m preparing for the worst and hoping for the best. One of my greatest satisfactions as a journalist is to help provide vital, even life-saving information.

I’m not in party mode, but I do celebrate this mission.