Looking forward to seeing you down there. Hope you’re ready to rumble.
With you? Always.
The drive to Miami to cover Hurricane Claudia is lonely. There are stretches of time when I’m the only car heading south, the opposite side of the interstate full of vehicles evacuating north to Central Florida like they were instructed to do.
My GPS gives me an approaching exit to take. I flick on my blinker and merge over, eyes briefly bouncing to my phone.
My stomach swoops low when I stare at my screen. The teeniest, tiniest part of me wonders if I should send Sebastian another message. If I should ask where he’s going to ride out the storm and if he has all the supplies he’ll need, but he’s a big boy.
He’s been at this as long as I have, and I’m sure he’s fine.
We might approach meteorology differently, but that doesn’t mean he’s not good at what he does. Sometimes I think he’s the only one who understands storms like I do. He has intuitiveness people in the industry crave. An eye for movement and the ability to read weather patterns I haven’t seen from anyone else despite his carefree attitude.
Beneath the surface of the staged photos of his Jeep and flowery social media captions talking about cotton candy skies and the fragrance in the air after it rains, he’s not stupid.
He’s incredibly smart, and that irritates me beyond belief.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, shoving thoughts of him away. Excitement balloons behind my ribs with every swipe of the windshield wipers. It always happens when a storm is close. My soul is at peace with the sight of expansive gray and quick moving clouds. The uncertainty hanging in the air, a charged atmosphere up ahead.
There are people in the field who look forward to natural disasters because of the damage they cause. They’re excited for thedestruction. They seek out photos of towns leveled by a tornado, the ones that get the most social media engagement and monetary kickback.
It’s never been that way for me, and it never will be.
I don’t want anyone to get hurt.
I don’t want people to lose their property in exchange for fame.
I don’t want the notoriety or financial benefits.
A million career choices in the world, I’d choose meteorology every time.
It’s hard to describe the pull I feel to nature. The sense of grounding being around weather brings me. There were days when I was younger, tired from another argument with my parents about what I wanted to do with my future where we’d go back and forth, the same fight again and again. Both tenured professors at University of Central Florida, they were determined to get me to follow in their footsteps.
Deep down, I think they resent me a little bit because I stayed far away from their plans for me.
In those moments of frustration when I felt lost, when I knew I didn’t belong in a classroom for the next forty years, I’d step outside. I’d take a deep breath, letting my lungs fill with fresh air. I’d feel the wind in my hair. The sensation of something so muchbiggerthan me out there, and it brought a thrill. A high I haven’t been able to find from doing anything else, and it’s what got me out of bed this morning. It’s what makes my smile uncontrollable, my giddiness nearly bursting at the seams when I pull into a parking lot packed with cars near a marina.
The first tropical system to hit the state always brings a lot of fanfare. The hobby meteorologists—the ones without degrees who do this because they think it’s fun, not because they understand science—like to show up in large groups, and this morning is no different.
I give a quick check of the men assembled in a semicircle, categorizing who’s here today. Barry Teague, a guy known to overhype storms for clicks and views, going as far as exaggerating death tolls and widening areas of potential impact to harbor fear among his viewers, leans against a car.
Next to him is Dave Cornwall and his thick-framed glasses. Notorious for getting every weather prediction he’s ever made wrong then blaming other people for his mistakes, accurate reporting is the last thing on his mind. He went viral last year after posting a ten-minute video claiming the head of the National Hurricane Center was turning the organization into a beauty pageant with their recent hirings of more women than men.
Assholes.
Only 20 percent of meteorologists are women. Instead of welcoming more diversity to a historically white male-dominated industry, these local guys raise hell over the injusticestheyface every day, like their boys’ club is a prestigious honor rather than a cesspool of loser dudes.
I take a deep breath, reaching for the patience I have to use so often with this job. Spending the day with them will be like chasing a tornado. Grueling in the beginning, but worth it in the end when magic happens.
I hope.
I climb out of my car, the sky thick with heavy clouds. Rough, dark waves in the marina slap against the concrete walls designed to protect the streets from flooding, and I zip my jacket up to my chin.
Across the road, people are setting out last-minute sandbags in front of the doors to their businesses. There are planks of plywood over windows. Patio furniture is being pulled inside as the palm trees sway, a frond from one up ahead falling onto the sidewalk. I tug on a hat with my show’s name stitched across the front, a tinymicrophone right near the bill. Grabbing my tripod from the trunk, I walk toward the group.
“There’s Quincy,” someone calls out. “We were wondering if you would show up.”
“Here I am.” I set my tripod down and put a hand on my hip. “Surprised to see so many of y’all out here too.”
