Perpetual Storm
If you ask any Floridian, they will tell you that a category three hurricane is no big deal. Most of them will just load up on beer and snacks. Usually, we consume it all before the hurricane hits. We make jokes about hurricane parties, getting a free day off of work, and going fishing. It’s no big deal to us.
Hurricane Laura was supposed to be no different. It was scheduled to move up the western coast of Florida, with the eye of the storm a few miles offshore. I remember leaving work on Friday, joking with my friends about how hungover I would be on Monday morning. Two women in the back of the elevator whispered excitedly about taking Monday off.
That was thirty-six days ago. The hurricane inexplicably stopped off the coast of Tampa. The rain and the winds have not let up, in fact, they grew stronger. We were without power for thirty-three of those days.
Most of our food rotted, it left a horrific stench that was overpowered only by the gut-wrenching smell that came from the bathroom. We finally ran out of drinkable water and finally accepted the fact that nobody was coming to rescue us. We decided it was time to go outside.
My dad’s four-wheel-drive truck was the obvious choice. Last we had heard, the hurricane wasn’t that big. We should have been out of danger after about fifty miles.
