A View From The Hurricane Mark Maller   © Copyright 2025 by Mark Maller

Photo by Wendelin Jacober at Pexels.

After searching online, I found a spacious furnished condo in a high-rise ten minutes from St. Pete’s Beach near St. Petersburg. After becoming officially approved, I was eager for six weeks vacation, my longest ever. Arriving at the international Tampa airport, I rented a car in the early evening, and crossed the long bay bridge that separates the city of Tampa from St. Petersburg—“the bridge over troubled waters”, as I call it. By now it was pitch black, and I was tired and stressed out, and could not find the condo complex twenty miles away. I wished for GPS, detailed maps or exact directions. Finally, I called the condo owner in Toronto Canada, who guided me through the streets to a maze of buildings where I found the condo over two hours later.

Assuming I had plenty of time ahead for touring, the first few days I bought groceries, enjoyed the pool and visited two museums. But ten days after I arrived, September 26 (2024), came hurricane warnings. Coming from Chicago, 1200 miles north, I had never experienced hurricanes, though we had plenty of heavy thunderstorms. I figured how much worse could it be? Chicago weather experts exaggerated their predictions and were often wrong. Listen: if they tell you a hurricane is approaching, believe them. I imagined rain crashing through the windows like a vicious tornado. Here I am—a stranger alone on a ground floor with no family or friends, and no one to turn to in Zone A, the dangerous spot.
Helene, landed late at night. Pounding hard rain and roaring 120 mph winds awoke me worried. Black scum covered the floors. In a few hours the lights were out. You would never guess that yesterday this was a beautiful condo. Television stations and the Internet shouted disaster, take cover, immediate evacuation to shelters for residents in Zone A. Water flooded in, and afraid of the worst, I called 911 and was told to wait for emergency vehicles because other people had more urgent needs.The storm slammed one unfortunate woman who was outside accidentally, and knocked her into a building, where she drowned. If this happened to her, why not me?

Four hours later, they came, two paramedics and a national guardsman who rushed me into a fire truck in pouring rain without a jacket or covering. But beds were filling up fast, the man said, and there were no guarantees, so I opted out and fled back to my soaked condo. In fact, there never were or could be enough shelter spaces for everyone. Luckily, I was unharmed, as I watched the high waves from my veranda window. The rooms flooded up to ten inches except in one bedroom. I opened the outside door and a wave poured in. The television and Internet went down, and the fridge and my new smartphone worked erratically. Somehow I got through to Deborah (not her real name), my condo owner in Canada, who gave me lots of helpful advice. I told her, " being a senior, I have much less patience for aggravation than I used to".

Still no electricity at all, but my miniature flashlight saved me. My neighbors consoled each other calmly, as if they had seen worse. All the ground floor residents near me were in a similar predicament, except they were prepared, having suffered through previous hurricanes. One neighbor “Captain Bob” asked about me. I said, “you were in the Army?” “No, I’m the captain of a fishing boat”, he said proudly. And I chuckled. My sedan was parked under an outside shelter, but it, too, was flooded inside and out and was dead.. It never started again. I would find out later that it was ruined beyond repair, wasted. Then I waited impatiently five days for a tow truck that finally hauled it back to the airport car rentals, where they gave me another Malibu. This is how I spent my days, waiting for the cleaning lady twice, cable man, refrigerator repair man and the condo inspectors. I saw no buses, taxis or Ubers. I ate at a tiny Chinese diner nearby or skipped meals. Our pool became murky and filthy, the condo offices flooded, and security were gone. Everyone either stayed inside or evacuated to dry areas.

Happily, the skies cleared, the rain evaporated, and ominously, the sun was shining, though puddles remained in the condo. I bought canned goods and things that need no refrigeration. Looking back, this was the famous calm before the Storm. My return flight was a month away, my rent was paid up and naively, I actually felt optimistic.

I waited a very long time for this trip, to swim in these beautiful beaches and see the sights, which I did for a few days, but not to my fullest desire. So many places I wanted to explore, like Honeymoon Island. Parking is a minute from St. Pete and Madeira beach, and some people live on the sand in condos. The 97 f.. humid heat broils you and only the cool water and a sun umbrella ( for rent) relieves the blazing sun. The calm bluish water relaxes, and dolphins were swimming 10 yards away. But that didn’t last long.

Back home my fridge was knocked out because of salty water permeating the circuits. The salt in the water does more damage than the water itself. All flights back to Chicago were sold, so I waited for a good price. Then the airport closed. I never heard of an airport closing up. No flights going out. Desperately I drove north up the Gulf Highway forty miles and was shocked at the total devastation. Entire living room and bedroom belongings and furniture were dumped on sidewalks, destroyed, unsalvageable. Mile after mile, after mile, an unforgettable awful sight. Streets were impassable, all stores and businesses closed, gas stations, too and I was low on fuel. Even a hospital closed its doors—no entrance permitted. I could not find one place to eat, not even Waffle House, a breakfast spot well- known for staying open. Fortunately, a major supermarket remained open and busy.

The man at the Ringling Museum said they would be open, so, I drove 35 miles south to Sarasota to see the famous circus museum to discover it closed. Nothing to see or do now. When I got back, the phone was ringing. Deborah. my condo owner was calling. “Mark, you must leave immediately. I booked a safe hotel for you in Tampa near the airport. It is on higher ground. Then go home!”

Milton, Category 5, was predicted to land close that night and more devastating than Helene. It turned on Sarasota, coincidentally and ended causing a record $60 billion in damages, and killed 25, one of the worst ever in Florida. Packing fast, I drove through heavy traffic over the bay bridge, checked in to Econolodge in Tampa ( I call Dampa) and mighty grateful for safety. Sure, the torrential storm and powerful winds blasted the windows but I was okay on the second floor. The surrounding area was relatively unscathed. Fortunately, my car started! The airport reopened in a couple days, and after much persistence, I got a seat on the first available flight and took a taxi home. Thank you, Southwest. In this way I planned my escape. I would never return. The Road not taken was—is- a rental. In total, Helene and Milton caused over 270 deaths, about 35 in Florida.

A month later I got a bill for $17,000+ for the ruined rental car. Deborah told me she had no hurricane insurance, so the refund of $1500 was impossible. Insurance men declared the condo inhabitable. The Gulf coast is definitely not where I want to live, I told myself. At least I am all right, shaken but not hurt. I’ll take Colorado, California or Tennessee. If you go, my advice is to avoid September through mid-November and probably not ground floors.

My admiration goes to the brave bay residents who live in precarious danger areas. They are braver than yours truly. Helene and Milton will not be popular baby names for a while. Funny, my only memento is the pen from the Tampa hotel that I used to write this story. And this is the abridged version.