Friday,
August 13, 2004, Punta Gorda, Florida
It
was three o’clock in the afternoon but day had turned to night. The hurricane’s
grayish-black fingers descended—reaching, clawing, and greedily devouring the
land.
The plan hatched in Scott's mind had been helped along by a little too much vodka. If he took a video of the
hurricane and sold it to a news station he could make his Florida gig last a
little longer. Scott had graduated from college in June and managed to spend
most of the summer hanging out at the beach, waiting tables, and clubbing every
night.
His mom's biting comment from their morning phone
conversation still replayed in his head, "Scott, all your friends are
starting jobs and you're down there partying like a high school loser on spring
break!" She didn't understand. With work to look forward to the rest of
his life, why not have a bitchin’ summer first?
With
luck, he could catch the eye of the storm by setting up in the apartment pool
house to record the second half of the hurricane. It was a once in a lifetime chance. Charley
was making a direct hit at nearby Captiva Island with 140 mile-an-hour winds. Here,
only a half an hour from Captiva, the winds were whipping around pretty bad,
but couldn’t possibly be anywhere close to 140, could they?
Power
and cell service had been out for the last few hours but luckily his iPod still
worked. He switched between the news and jammin' out to the Black Eyed Peas’
"Let's Get It Started."
A loud crash rattled the front window and caused him
to spill vodka on his pants. "Damn it!" He stood up and yanked open
the blinds. His neighbor’s white plastic lawn chair clung to the window
at an odd angle. It was crazy—he had seen the guy sitting in it only a few
hours ago.
The
chair fell off and tumbled away. The
rain still came down in torrents but the trees flailed around less than before,
weren’t they? Maybe the eye was approaching!
He
flipped the iPod to radio to catch the latest weather report. "The eye of
the storm is approaching southeastern Punta Gorda. The outer eyewall of the storm has the most severe winds so be prepared for more intensity as the
center of Charley approaches. The eye may only last a few minutes so don't be …"
Scott pulled the earphones off and dropped the iPod on his chair.
"Woooo
hoooo!" he yelled, trying to psych himself up. It was now or never. He
crossed the tiny living room, snatched his video camera from the kitchen counter, and shoved it in a Ziploc bag and into
his cargo shorts pocket.
He grabbed his Detroit Lions windbreaker off the edge
of the couch, put it on, and walked outside. The jacket soaked through in
seconds but the hood protected his eyes from the driving rain.
Surprisingly, the wind was relatively calm outside the
door—maybe the eye was here! Scott continued along the ground floor towards the
side of the building closest to the pool.
As he turned the corner, the wind caught him full on,
almost throwing him to the ground. Adrenaline coursed through his body and made
his legs shake. Why was it windy again?
It was supposed to be the eye of the storm. Fear began to worm its
way past the booze and made his stomach clench.
He looked towards the parking lot where the rain blew at
an impossible angle. He swore that it went upwards at times. The palm trees
bent nearly to the ground with the stronger gusts as ifa giant gorilla shook them. Buffeted by the wind he inched
his way towards the pool. A section of metal roof as long as his apartment flew
across the road and smashed into a car. The battering wind held it in place. Scott
jumped at the noise that echoed in his mind like his mom's shrill voice. Fear
weighed him down. He looked back towards his apartment. Don’t wuss
out!
The
fence separating the parking lot from the pool kept him steady as he pulled
himself along. A huge palm frond smacked him in the face and blew away. He
touched his forehead and his fingers came away bloody. “Shit, back off Charley!”
The storm threw the first punch, but it was just a scratch.
A
loud crack sounded overhead. Scott covered his head in reflex and let go of the
fence. The wind threw him to the ground and shoved his face in the mud.
“Aaaaaagghhhh!” he screamed. A palm tree smashed down inches from his legs
where it crushed the fence he had been holding.
All
he needed was a few more feet to the overhang and through the door to get to the
safety of the pool house. A red blur from the
parking lot caught his eye. He turned in time to watch it slam into his chest. Pain punctured the
vodka haze as the metal pierced his flesh. He tried to put a name to the red
horror that trapped him, pinning his body against the pool house. Scott worked it out in his mind
just before everything went blank,
"Fucking stop sign!"
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