Why coastal residents appear to shrug off ‘unprecedented’ storm warnings

“Don’t try and force the door. We are nailing you in. The storm is coming.”

Hurricane Georges raked St. Thomas, part of the U.S. Virgin Islands, for much of the rest of the day. The landlord let me out late that afternoon, and after telling him I’d be moving out as soon as I could find another place, I got my first look at what powerful storms can do.

Utility poles lay across the roads. Many trees were toppled, and those still standing were stripped of foliage. Paths cut by tornadoes streaked the landscape. Sailboats stood in parking lots, swept ashore by the storm surge.

But the most memorable part of the experience, at least to this transplanted Midwesterner, happened before the strike. Georges was a major storm in 1998, a Category 2 with sustained winds of 100 mph, that was forecast to pass directly over the island.

Yet the locals showed no panic, only preparation. They purchased gas for generators, nonperishable food for sustenance, candles and flashlight batteries for light and liquor — lots and lots of liquor. Locals joked the main use of the generators was to run blenders and keep the daiquiris and margaritas flowing.

There’s no evacuating when you live on an island a thousand miles from the mainland, and the threat of hurricanes is just another down-island inconvenience. Georges hit St. Thomas just three years after Hurricane Marilyn ravaged the island, peeling the roof off every structure on the island and leaving many residents without power for months.

The locals’ lack of concern about Georges is why I was able to sleep so well as the storm approached. After seeing the damage the next day — and how everyone pulled together to do the cleanup — I came to understand and embrace the mentality.

Respect the storm but don’t fear the storm. Because hurricanes don’t have a soul. They are just wind and rain, and they go wherever water and atmospheric conditions steer them.

It’s a realization that has served me well since settling on the Georgia coast in 1999. When a storm threatens, such as Tropical Storm Debby this week, my thought process — and that of many other local storm veterans — begins with gathering more information. As advanced as weather forecasting is today, predicting what to expect from a cyclone remains an inexact science, particularly when a storm’s arrival is still days away.

That’s why few coastal residents flinched when officials used words like “unprecedented” and “catastrophic” ahead of Debby. At the time, the storm was still in the Gulf of Mexico, with hundreds of miles of hurricane-weakening land and dozens of course-altering hours between Debby’s winds and rains and the coast.

Yet we made preparations. Those in flood-prone areas filled and placed sandbags. We topped off vehicle gas tanks, stocked up on water and batteries and checked that generators were operational.

And we monitored Debby’s progress, through National Hurricane Center updates and other sources, such as a storm blog published by Savannah-based hazards researcher Chuck Watson. Known locally as the “storm whisperer,” he is the go-to resource each hurricane season because of his pragmatic, science-based approach to assessing storm threats.

In the end, Debby didn’t drown us. The storm weakened and its path veered south through a less densely populated area of the coast. Then it moved farther out to sea than initially thought, dumping its heaviest rains on South Carolina.

If nothing else, though, Debby was a good reminder that hurricane season is underway, and the most threatening period historically — September through early October — is ahead.

Debby also brought to mind the many storm threats that have come before. My first brush with a hurricane threat in Savannah came just two weeks after moving here from St. Thomas. Hurricane Floyd was a Category 4 storm with 155 mph winds, prompting most area residents to do what we couldn’t do down island — evacuate inland.

Floyd stayed offshore of Georgia, delivering little more than a few hours of tropical storm force winds and minor flooding. We’ve had several other closer calls since, including a brush with Hurricane Matthew in 2016. The Category 1 storm passed just 20 miles off the beaches of Tybee Island and turned Savannah’s heavily treed neighborhoods into a chain saw retailer’s dream.

Credit: AP

Credit: AP

Then came Irma, a Category 5 storm projected to barrel up the East Coast and devastate Savannah. Irma’s threat led to my first-ever hurricane evacuation. Irma didn’t make the forecasted right turn as it reached Florida, though, continuing into the Gulf before heading north to make landfall.

Irma came ashore in the Florida panhandle and petered out as it continued inland, eventually passing over Birmingham, Alabama — where I’d evacuated to.

We coastal residents know our seeming nonchalance toward approaching hurricanes drives many outside observers batty. My family members in Ohio have often expressed frustration with my stoicism and gallows humor when storm coverage takes over the TV networks or the Weather Channel’s Jim Cantore reports from River Street or the Tybee Pier.

But don’t mistake lack of panic for lack of recognition. There are plenty of coastal residents who don’t respect storm threats, which is why officials use their fearmongering adjectives in news conferences as hurricanes approach.

But for the most part, we’re all doing what musician Jimmy Buffett described in his ballad, “Trying to reason with the hurricane season.” The song starts like this: “Squall’s out on the Gulf Stream, big storm’s comin’ soon. I passed out in my hammock, God I slept ‘till way past noon. Stood up and tried to focus, I hoped I wouldn’t have to look far. I knew I could use a Bloody Mary, so I stumbled next door to the bar.”

Unless, of course, you are nailed inside your apartment.