Notes while waiting for a hurricane

(graphics from the National Hurricane Center)

It was deja vu all over again Monday as I sat in my so-called home-office, one eye on my news feeds and NOAA maps, one ear on the radio, waiting for a hurricane to hit New Orleans.

I did the same thing a few years ago when Hurricane Katrina rolled into the Crescent City. I watched the the first footage from the Weather Channel, which showed a casino riverboat thrown across a parking lot somewhere. I waited for the first word from New Orleans, knowing this was The Big One.

New Orleans was taking no chances with Gustav. Mayor Ray Nagin called it "the storm of the century" and told residents they "need to get your butts out of the city." A little heavy on the hyperbole, I thought, just a few years after Katrina.

I don't even live in New Orleans. I've never been there (though I wouldn't mind going sometime). I have no connection with the place. In fact, I've never seen a full-blown hurricane before.

Let me repeat that, especially in light of the fact I've lived in the South Carolina Lowcountry for 12 years. I've never seen a full-blown hurricane before.

Out west they don't have that kind of thing. They have earthquakes. They have Santa Ana winds, those hot dry blasts that gust at better than 70 mph. They have brush fires, which come in abundance after the Santa Ana winds dry everything worse than it already is. But no hurricanes.

Out here, they still talk about Hugo. It's been 19 years -- one of my co-workers told me today that she was born the same year as Hugo, which made me want to look in the mirror for wrinkles (that's another story). It wasn't until a few years ago that the rebuilding job was complete in Charleston. There are still reminders, such as that lifeboat on Folly Road as you enter Folly Beach. It's stayed there, and people paint new messages on it every day. Call it the Folly Beach Daily Tribune.

My first almost-hurricane was Earl, back in 1997. It hit Beaufort, corkscrewed back out, and hit the Atlantic over Charleston. By that time it was merely a tropical storm (sustained winds of less than 72 mph). I was in my taxi, driving over the old spaghetti-thin Grace Memorial Bridge when it blew overhead. My passengers were convinced they were going to die, and I was absolutely convinced I should gag said passengers. I watched the rain fall sideways, watched the bridge wobble back and forth in my rear view mirror, felt my bowels lock up. We did get where we were going, and my passengers were grateful to be alive. They were most generous in the tipping department.

I missed Gilbert, back in 1999. That one was more false alarm than anything. It buzzed the coast and spurred the most bollixed-up evacuation you'd ever want to see. OK, where was I? Living up in Johnson City, Tennessee. I worked for a cab company, and between calls watched the big-screen TV in the dispatch office. That's when I knew I belonged here; I referred to Charleston as "back home."

I almost caught Isabel. A few friends and I were playing at an outdoor hurricane party, and we took a hasty break to put plastic sheeting behind us on the gazebo so the keyboards wouldn't short out, and grabbed a bunch of extra towels. But Isabel kicked up some wind and waves here, but not much else.

I also missed Gaston, which assembled itself out of spare parts and slammed into Charleston. Wasn't even a hurricane; the only thing it had going for it was the element of surprise. But most hurricanes form deep in the Atlantic, and radar follows its path the whole way. Projections are made the whole route. A few had Charleston lined up in the ten-ring before taking a dogleg right and hitting Wilmington instead.

Now, I'm watching the NOAA website and tracking Hanna. As I write this, it's temporarily dwindled down to tropical storm status but is expected to perk back up. It's expected to make landfill around Friday, and the odds-on favorite target is ... Charleston.

We're talking about it at the train yard. If it hits Charleston we'll probably get an unscheduled day off. And that's the way it should be. We have all these shipping containers around. The ports usually close in a sotrm like that, and the containers are restacked (none of this seven-high stuff you see on normal days). Everything kind of shuts down.

Meanwhile, I watch. And wait. The NOAA map isn't carved in granite, or even in bologna. But one would be a fool to be unprepared.