Translation: Zuzanna Czachowska
I was awakened by the loud roar of helicopters. Disoriented, I ran to the window. Through the slats of the blinds, I saw pale rays of sunlight emerging from behind the clouds.
I picked up the phone to call family and friends.
‘I’m alive, I’m alive,’ I joyfully repeated, spinning around the room in a dance.
Unfortunately, the phone had no signal, and there was no electricity. I realized the hurricane had cut us off from the world. I ran outside to see the neighborhood.
Luckily, the hurricane was moving over the Atlantic, bidding the city farewell with an angry rumble. However, it left behind a terrifying sight. National Coast Guard helicopters circled over the bay. Mournful sirens of ambulances and police patrols resonated around me. People from the neighborhood came out of their homes – tired like me, but happy. Despite the vast destruction, comforting each other, they repeated: ‘The most important thing is life.’
The shore of the bay, torn apart by powerful water vortices, still pulsed with incoming waves.
Coastal trees floated on the water’s surface, clinging tightly to sunken boats. Others lay toppled. They had surrendered to the force of the wind, reaching speeds of over two hundred kilometers per hour. From beneath their branches and roots, wild animals frozen in fear peeked out. How mistakenly they trusted their survival instincts, or perhaps they had nowhere else to hide? Even the houses were no longer believed to be safe havens for people. Crushed by trees, they looked mournfully through empty shutters with remnants of shattered glass.
A similar sight was presented by cars trapped under massive tree trunks. A heron stretched its neck toward me in search of food. It did not have to look long. Fish washed ashore stared with its huge eyes, as if wanting to hold on to the sight of the water that had been their home just a few hours earlier.
On the street, in front of one supermarket, vehicles formed kilometer-long lines. I was pleasantly surprised to see the store open, which just the day before had been boarded up with wooden planks and sandbags for the hurricane.
The sight of the long queue and the relentless wail of ambulances reminded me of a funeral procession. I was deeply moved. Drivers rolled down their windows and greeted me with friendly gestures. I returned their greetings with emotion. They too wiped away tears. I understood that only in such moments does one find closeness with another human being.
I walked forward, recalling the days before Hurricane Milton arrived. Just yesterday, the phone couldn’t keep up with dialing numbers.
The specter of the approaching storm reminded my family and friends of my existence in distant Florida. I felt more secure knowing that, even from afar, they were with me. On TV, the Hurricane Weather Center urged evacuation. Traffic jams on the evacuation route, with hours-long delays, were not encouraging. Those were the lucky ones who realized earlier that they had to flee to survive. For me, it was already too late. After the recent passage of Hurricane Helena, Florida was still struggling to repair damage, including catching up on delayed flights.
I didn’t think it would be so bad; after all, the media usually exaggerate, fueling fear. Yet this time, they weren’t looking for sensationalism.
I had no reserve of gasoline, and the tank of my fueled car wouldn’t have been enough to cover hundreds of miles on the congested road. Gas stations had become useless due to fuel shortages.
I clung to the thought that since I lived in a safe area and not everyone was leaving, it was probably possible to wait it out here. This thought comforted me only for a moment. Because if, as predicted, the water level rose several meters, I would be caught in the flood’s grip.
The hurricane that was about to arrive had reached category five status, so there was no illusion of survival. ‘If you stay, it will be like a coffin,’ the city mayor warned, emphasizing the threat to one’s life.
Despite everything, I decided to stay. If it was truly going to be that tragic, I preferred to spend my last moments in my own home rather than be swept away by the storm somewhere on an unknown road. Besides, I had no other option to escape this trap.
In the evening, the hurricane arrived almost on time at 8:30 p.m., as forecasted. It moved from the west across the Gulf of Mexico toward my city, which lies between two bays.
My son, living in another part of America, managed to comfort me with a breaking voice, saying that the cyclone’s eye had shifted slightly south and was weakening. Then he added, ‘Mom, people live there too.’
Suddenly, my son’s voice went silent, the connection was lost. The lights went out, and hell broke loose. I thought of those who were hit by the worst blow, perhaps saving my life, though I was not yet sure of that. Praying, I crouched in the place farthest from the windows. For a few minutes after the hurricane arrived, I saw the wind playing with tree branches like toys.
Transformers were burning over the neighborhood, and cables above the rooftops looked like fireworks. Outside the window was a wall of water that covered the nightmarish darkness. The moans of the enraged beast left no moment for a calmer breath; I was terrified. I heard the dull thuds of uprooted trees. The wind speed increased, and the windowpanes trembled, ready to suck me outside with the force of the storm. I didn’t know how much water was flowing from the bay; contact with the world was completely lost; I was alone. Dawn was coming, and I curled up on the couch and waited for the end of this terrible night.
I wanted to call my family as soon as possible, to comfort them that I was alive and relatively safe. I also thought of those who were fighting for survival that night until sleep overtook me.
After a week, I regained contact with the world.
Just a few miles away, where the cyclone’s eye had moved, people were fighting to survive. And unfortunately, not all of them won the battle against the deadly force.