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Hurricane Milton became the second-most intense Atlantic hurricane ever recorded over the Gulf of Mexico earlier this month, just two weeks after Hurricane Helene unleashed its devastation onto Appalachia. Milton has killed at least 24 people and caused widespread flooding and power outages throughout Florida. Below, find a personal account of weathering the storm from Orlando-based writer Kristen Arnett, the author of novels Mostly Dead Things, With Teeth and the upcoming Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One.
As a third-generation Central Floridian, I’ve weathered my fair share of storms. Essential knowledge about hurricane preparation has been drilled into me since I was old enough to help sandbag a front door. I know to fill up a bathtub in case you need water for toilet tanks and washing dishes, to collect fresh batteries and portable chargers well ahead of the power going out, and know that I need to have all my important documents sealed in a water-proof container that’s stored high above any space that might flood. I ve attended more than one hurricane party; there’s power in community, in sharing a bottle of wine or a couple of cold beers while a storm tries to take away everything you hold dear.
Does understanding that Florida will be hit, again and again, ever lessen the impact? If anything, it’s made my concern grow proportionately with the obvious climate change factors that are exploding these storms into mega destroyers. This particular storm season has hit harder than anyone local can remember. I’ve sat petrified, holding hands with my wife, as we watch a meteorologist cry on National Television about the devastation that will soon be heading our way.
I might joke about a lot of things in my life, but Milton? This hurricane scared the hell out of me.
The week of the storm, we’d been planning to host a wedding reception for my sister. This was important to me for several reasons, the main one being that I am estranged from most of my family and my sister is my one relative with whom I still share a close connection. The event was going to take place in our backyard; a space that I’ve spent several years cultivating into a special Florida oasis. Large oak trees sway overhead, strands of lights mingled between the branches. Potted plants, outdoor furniture, even a gas grill for impromptu burgers. It was going to be a nice event. Before news of the storm hit, we were happy about the weather predictions. It was October and the weather had finally dipped below eighty-five degrees.
When I heard about a possible hurricane coming up from the Gulf side of the peninsula, my stomach churned. Warm water always make storms much more powerful, and Gulf storms are especially bad. The weather all summer in Florida had been unbearably hot; the kind of too-dry heat that made everyone worry that something especially nasty was headed our way. I’d been saying it for weeks to my wife. It’s too dry this summer, I told her. There hadn’t been enough afternoon thunderstorms. All kinds of pressure with no release.
Twenty years earlier, when Hurricane Charley hit the state, people lost power for weeks. Oak trees broke and splintered, blocking roads and trashing homes. After cleaning debris off his roof post-storm, my grandfather had a massive heart attack and died. We all have trauma from storms here. Some worse than others.
Anticipating something very bad, I canceled the wedding reception. We needed time to prepare.
During the Storm
Rain fell steadily through Tuesday and into Wednesday. We kept every device charged, sure we’d lose power at any moment. We cranked the air down as low as we could stand it—an old Floridian trick—so that when the power went out, there’d be some cool air in the midst of all the swampy Florida heat.
A friend I’d made recently in New Orleans messaged and offered up a hotel room she was no longer able to use because her travel plans through Orlando had been delayed. If our power went out, we could have the room Thursday night. The offer was so generous—from a new friend, no less—that I began to cry.
Darkness fell early; a dank gray that dimmed the natural light by 4 p.m. My wife and I huddled together on the couch with our pets. There isn’t a room in our house that doesn’t have windows. All day long the news had been warning of record tornado warnings. Every time the rain let up, I attempted to walk my elderly dog, who was miserable and wet, despite her yellow raincoat.
At 8 p.m, the power blitzed off and then immediately came back on. We froze and I began to really panic. Would we even have cell service? The coast was already being hammered. My eyes were dry from staring at the TV and my phone screen. I pulled out every towel from our linen closet and stuffed them below our sliding glass doors. When we finally went up to bed after midnight, I saw that the rain was coming sideways through our closed bedroom window. Water had puddled on our carpet; the floor was drenched. We used furniture blankets to mop up what we could, then listened helplessly as it continued to pour through a badly sealed crack in the pane. The wind howled ferociously. Before we’d turned off the news and headed upstairs, the meteorologists had predicted wind gusts up to 85 mph. Despite the fact that I’d tried clipping them ahead of time, branches kept crashing into the side of the house. One especially large one was dangling from a mess of vines. Loose, and very, very sharp from where it had broken free of the trunk. Every time the wind gusted, it came straight for the window.
At around 4 a.m, there was a terrific bang as something large fell directly outside our window. It was dark and windy and there was no way to see what had fallen or how much damage had occurred. We would have to wait until morning, until daylight, to see what had happened.
Miraculously, our power never fully went out. We looked at our text messages and saw that all of our friends had lost power, but there had been no major flooding in their homes. The quality of the light outside was strange. We got up out of bed, groggy and tired after almost no sleep, and went down to check the damage. Our backyard was piled high with oak branches and plenty of loose debris. Quite a few pieces of bamboo had broken off, leaning drunkenly over the side of the fence.
One of our trees had broken cleanly in half. It had fallen directly beside the house, narrowly missing our roof and our bedroom. It had caught on the basketball hoop in our backyard. The neighbor’s fence was wrecked and a large portion of their tent had fallen into their pool, which was stuffed with downed limbs. We went back inside and watched the news, texting friends. Some own generators so they were able to text us back. Many of the traffic lights were down around Orlando, and despite the fact that officials lowered many of the lakes by several feet, standing water still flooded many streets downtown.
This past week, as I caught up on things that fell by the wayside during the mess of hurricane preparation, I’ve had messages from people who offer their relief that we’re okay and that the storm has passed. Neighbors have removed debris from each other’s yards; friends have offered each other places to stay and opportunities to charge devices and hot showers for anyone without water. The community here cares about each other, and there is always someone willing to reach out a hand, to offer up help. But here’s the thing: There’s always another storm on the way, threatening our ability to care for ourselves and each other. Hurricane season doesn’t end this year until the end of November; over a full month from now.
Milton could have hit us a lot harder, but it s only one hurricane in a very long list of storms whose effects have been increasingly worsened by the reality of climate change; the proportion of major hurricanes in the Atlantic Ocean has doubled since 1980, and it s hard to make a life in Florida without wondering about the long-term effects of constantly preparing for the worst. What does it mean, after all, to love a place and know that it might not be standing after the next bad hit?
I choose to stay in Florida because it’s my home and it’s what I love. The people I love live here, too. I want to be here to protect those people; to defend a place so nakedly beautiful that it fills me with mingled awe and gratitude every time I see a sunset. And if we’re being honest, climate change is coming for all of us, not just Floridians. Even if I decided to leave, there’s no guarantee that anywhere else would be safe.