Storms, and the Floridians who love them.

I’m a Florida man. A 5th generation Florida man, which makes me as rare as hen’s teeth. It is as rare as a guy fleeing his exploded meth lab, running down the center of a highway wearing nothing but a speedo, a trucker hat, and a tan, being chased by his parole officer, who also happens to be his common-law wife and first cousin.

Well, actually, that might be more statistically probable than a 5th generation living in this place, but one thing Florida Men (and Women) know is that there’s absolutely nothing like a hurricane to galvanize both the good and bad instincts of human beings in this place.

At this writing, Idalia is going to come ashore in the forgotten stretch of Florida just south of the Big Bend. Counties like Levy, Dixie, Lake, Alachua, and Taylor are going to get pounded hard if the storm sticks to the usual model. If it follows the GFS model, my fiance and I will be out of here with a car full of dogs, cats, and hopes that the Florida property insurance system doesn’t absolutely collapse.

It’s always fascinating to have conversations about the storms. Floridians notoriously won’t leave for a Cat 1 (Publix run = beer, wine, and snacks), mostly won’t budge for a Cat 2 (Water, bread, milk, beer, wine, and snacks), will consider leaving for a Cat 3 (“Meh, it’ll turn.”), but usually decide to ride it out. Floridians are just stubborn about assessing rick.

Cat 4 and 5 storms are mercifully rare, even in these climatologically uncertain times, and Idalia doesn’t quite seem inclined to jump up the scale there yet, though the hot, hot, hot Gulf of Mexico is like blood in a shark pool for a storm like this. Very little wind shear, shallow waters, and all that heat could mean tomorrow gets…sporty.

Now, I’m just a country campaign consultant and writer, and my knowledge of the weather is all aviation-related (and I’m a damn obsessive about aviation weather, though the counsel on tropical storms and convective systems, in general, is '“Run like hell!”), but this storm is twanging a chord of caution in my mind. We’ll likely be up peering at the next weather update in a few hours and making a decision to stay or go.

Likely, we’ll stay. We’re 20 miles inland, well above sea level, and in a house built tough…but we can still be out the door in 15 minutes and will if the track shifts.

Folks in the coastal areas where we know a massive storm surge is coming…well, y’all might want to get packed tonight and get on the road ASAP if you live between St. Marks and Tampa on the coast.

What’s the worst case? Some traffic, irritation, and a lost day.

I’ve lived here almost my entire life and seen the terrible damage of Andrew, Michael, Ivan, Wilma, Charlie, and Katrina (yes, she took a bite here, too) and more tropical storms than my 59-year-old brain can immediately recollect.

Florida is a strange, wonderful horrorshow of a state, with so much good and bad commingled. The “Eight Months of Heaven Four Months of Hell” nature of the state has its annual break right about now, and the tropics like to throw a little season-ending farewell party.

Hurricane season is upon us, and now it’s time to stop the usual Florida manana attitude and get ready to move. Don’t die stupid.

More to come…and an actual political piece later this week.