Surviving Hurricane Helene

Around 10:00 p.m. last night, when catfish started swimming inside my garage, I knew we were in trouble. And now, in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene's rage and fury, we're digging ourselves out of the rubble. 

It looks like our losses were considerable: Three totaled cars (!!!), our home half-submerged, and my entire collection of priceless Picassos—all destroyed. (Fortunately, I still have that orphanage in Fiji. Comes in handy during tax season.) This was, by a very wide margin, the worst flooding in 20 years of Florida living. 

According to local legend, a Native American mystic cast a spell over Tampa Bay, protecting us from being directly smashed by storms. Sure, we might get sideswiped (repeatedly), but it's been about 100 years since Tampa was directly hit. It's funny: After you cheat death a few times, you rarely look back and consider how lucky you were. Instead, your brain heads in the opposite direction, and you start to suspect that you just might be immortal. "Hurricanes? That doesn't happen to me. That's for everyone else to worry about." 

But these kinds of tragedies—death, natural disasters, the loss of loved ones—are inherently democratic. If you stick around long enough, eventually, it'll happen to you, especially in Florida. Life in the Sunshine State is like gambling in a casino: The longer you're here, the worse your odds. Hurricanes don't recognize seniority; they're indifferent to loyalty programs. 

This morning, our air conditioning is totally kaput. Fridge isn't working. Yard still submerged. No internet—I'm writing this gem with my smartphone and pointer finger (you're welcome). And for the third time in, like, the last six years, a hurricane hit Tampa during a Cowboys vs. Giants game. Destroying my house is one thing; interfering with my football watching/snacking/drinking is a bridge too far. Of course, the nearby bridges are all flooded. 

The neighborhood gossips are claiming this is, by far, the worst Tampa Bay's been hit since 1943. An 80-year storm. But that's okay; we'll clean up and recover. It's what we do. With no a/c, it's "hotter than a Junebug in late July!" (as that waitress in the diner likes to say). Still, no worries: It's a guy's prerogative to strip down to his (clean) undies. And it's nearly 10:00 a.m. now: Perfect time for a nice cold beer. Ah! If you're innovative (and/or immoral), there are plenty of ways to beat the heat. 

That doesn't mean this experience wasn't painful. It was. But maybe pain is the admission price for paradise: It's a pay-to-play world. In the meantime, the Pinsker clan will be partying. Got some fresh catfish to grill, we're safe, we're healthy, and we're together. Really, that's all I care about right now. But if you see any waterlogged Picasso's floating by, please be a dear and return 'em (insurance purposes).