ESCAPING THE HURRICANE: A VISION OF ARMAGEDDON?
A VISIONS COLUMN BY TONEY ATKINS

Hurricane season is here again, and the tropics are starting to churn. After suffering the wrath of three devastating hurricanes within a six-week period, some folks around Daytona Beach are watching the weather with a certain amount of fear and trembling, if only in the back of their minds.

Despite an appearance of normalcy, signs of the storms' wrath in 2004 are still visible in the Daytona Beach area. Some businesses remain closed, workers can still be seen making repairs on structures throughout the county, and a number of residents still suffer psychological effects of the impact the hurricanes had on their lives -- something many had believed they would never have experienced because such storms had been a rarity here.

Black and white businesses alike continue to struggle to recover their losses. Some residents say they still haven't received the financial assistance they believe they were promised to get their lives together again.

One Black resident died after Charley plowed through the area. As the rains and winds were diminishing, she was outside and was electrocuted when she came into contact with a live power line.

In addition to fallen trees, power lines and damage to homes, businesses and property, residents learned the harsh realities of the potency of a hurricane. With each of the three storms, people discovered what it meant to live without modern conveniences. For days and even weeks, some areas had no electricity, meaning no lights, no air conditioning, the inability to pump gasoline into their vehicles or to get money from ATM machines. Computers were useless in places without power or backup generators, and in some areas, cell phone service was disrupted.

The experiences were much like ominous glimpses into what could happen as the result of a terrorist attack. In these cases, Mother Nature was the terrorist, reminding us that we are mere mortals who have to learn to weather and conquer obstacles in order to survive.

My mind flashes back to the Labor Day hurricane -- Frances, I believe it was. Residents on beachside areas along most of the east coast of Florida were ordered to evacuate. Because there was uncertainty as to where the storm would actually hit, many did not know where to go, so they simply headed north.

As fate would have it, I had to travel to Georgia to deal with a familyemergency. My adrenaline was surging as I drove on U.S.92 underneath the Interstate 95 overpass. The interstate was like a parking lot. Vehicles were not moving much at all. The one service station that was selling gasoline near I-95 was jammed with a line of cars waiting their turns at the pumps.

I stopped at a boarded up 7-Eleven that sported a handwritten sign advising that the store was open. There were few people inside, even though the hurricane was a couple of days away. The latest edition of the Daytona Times headlined that Volusia County residents were gearing for the storm.

There was little traffic on International Speedway Boulevard all the way to the beachside, and a decision to drive through part of the Black community revealed the uncanny, unusual sight of practically no one on the streets. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside resembled a ghost town, unlike an ordinary time when the street would be busy with cars and pedestrians. Hotels and motels had already boarded up and shut down. The air was almost too still, only occasionally awakened by a gust of wind.
My pondering as to which route to take took me up S.R. A1A. I couldn't help but feel an eerie sensation as I drove north, practically the only vehicle on the highway. There was a sense of foreboding as I glanced at the angry Atlantic Ocean and almost expected a huge wave to sweep over the road and drag me out to sea. Occasional raindrops and sea spray sprinkled my car.

When I was forced to I-95, the nightmare really began as I became part of the gridlock of evacuees. Interstate 10 was faster moving, but surreal with the number of cars packing the rest areas and lined along the road. The gridlock resumed at Interstate 75 and again it was difficult to find a parking spot in a rest area, where people of all races, tired and some with wild eyes, walked around to take a break from their travels to heaven knows where. A van hauling horses passed through; some cars seemed to be loaded with all of their occupants' earthly belongings; people seemed ignorant of any differences as they talked about the impending storm, their concerns, their fears and their prayers. A woman opened her raincoat to reveal her naked body as cars moved slowly toward the exit, which made me wonder irrationally if she had left home so fast she forgot to put on her clothes.

Vehicles became constant neighbors as they snaked northward on I-75 after dawn. You got to know people you didn't even know. In South Georgia, the DJ on a radio station playing gospel music warned drivers that all hotels and motels near the interstate were already booked solid all the way to Atlanta. Churches called in, offering refuge to travelers. One caller offered a room in his home. Places to get free meals were announced. Another station revealed that the hospitality was spreading. I remember thinking that Floridians should express their gratitude to the Georgians for opening their doors during a time of crisis.

It was rare to see anything but Florida tags on the northbound vehicles. It was a though Georgians were taking alternate routes to avoid adding to the line of cars snaking through their state.

Atlanta radio stations advised that there were no acccommodations all the way to the Georgia-Tennessee state line. In Chattanooga, stations were advising that many hotels and motels were already full, and callers told of heart-wrenching encounters with the refugees in which they overheard such conversations as one between a father and daughter. The girl wanted a candy bar, and her dad told her that she couldn't have it, but only because he didn't know how they were going to afford to spend the night at a motel. Generosity bloomed again as shelters opened and people offered prayers for the people of Florida. Many Floridians didn't know what they would find when they were able to return.

A trip to my destination took more than twice as long as normal.

As it turned out, the area where I lived just outside Daytona Beach was flooded and without power for days while I was gone. My return trip was in total darkness, driving down I-75 past exits where there were no lights at the usual restaurants, service stations and other businesses.

It was like a glimpse of Armageddon.

I relate this experience because it dramatically impacted me as to the power of nature on our lives and that it could happen again. And I couldn't help but wonder how the same people who stayed and those who left would handle an even worse catastrophe, God forbid.

Are we ever really prepared? Now's the time to start thinking about it with Hurricane Season 2005 in its infancy. Now's the time to live in hope, not fear or dread. It's time to be ready, with prayers that no one anywhere will have to experience repeat performances of last year's horrors, minor in some respect to those elsewhere in the world.

-- The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the staff and management of the Daytona Times. Toney Atkins is a senior writer for the newspaper.(c) 2005, Toney Atkins / Daytona Times