People are clear: the water brought it Heleneand the winds, Milton. Everyone knows it and repeats it — “that’s been there since Helene”; “that pole knocked him down Milton”—but deep down, they don’t care. Damage is damage, no matter the cause. After the passage of the second hurricane in two weeks, in the city of St. Petersburg, on the west coast of Florida, there is no one who has escaped without even a scratch. When walking along it, it is impossible to find a street without remains of trees or fallen branches and the intersections with the traffic lights off, which are the majority, are a game of chance or an example of civility: everyone waits their turn to move forward.
But there is little traffic and the city is still half empty. Many residents have chosen to stay away until basic services are available. The power remains out for around two million homes in the State and for the majority of Pinellas County, where the city is located. Drinking water will not return until Monday; Meanwhile, residents have been advised to boil water before using it, even to brush their teeth. And between 70 and 50% of gas stations are out of stock in the coastal counties where Milton it hit the ground.
Upon entering the city, one of the most affected, first by the floods and then by the winds, there is a devastation that is seen before any other. The torn roof of Tropicana Stadium, home of the Tampa Bay Rays, the city’s baseball team, flutters in the ocean breeze that hugs the peninsula that forms Pinellas County and Tampa Bay. The postcard, which could perfectly be advertising for an apocalyptic movie, announces that “normality” has not arrived here recently.
A few blocks south of the arena — which had been prepared to receive thousands of rescuers who, after the broken roof, moved to trailers in the large parking lot in front — is the neighborhood of Fruitland Heights. If it weren’t for the fact that almost all businesses are closed because they don’t have power—like more than 2 million Floridians still—the black women sitting on porches and children riding bikes and running through the streets give the feeling of a summer Saturday, without classes and without worries. But only one of those things is true. Schools are closed until further notice, but in this vast succession of humble homes everyone is worried.
Allicia Johnson stares into space from the open door of her one-story, 600-square-foot rental home. He lives there with his son, with whom he suffered the scourge of Milton. “Since the water started to get in, we used a bucket to quickly remove it so it wouldn’t damage the furniture. It is very scary to look out the window and feel that if you put your hand out you can touch the water.” He doesn’t know if it came from the sea or if it was rainwater, only that “it was very dirty”. Johnson could not afford what he describes as “the luxury of evacuating” the city in which he was born and in which he has lived his entire life. He had no way out and had to be present to defend the little that is his.
Typically, she works as a receptionist and housekeeper at two luxury resorts in the area. But for two weeks now he’s only gone a couple of days to clean up the mess he left behind. Helene, and she doesn’t know when they will call her again. She fears that they won’t call her, that the damage has been so severe that the hotels will have to close for a while. And every day he doesn’t work, he doesn’t get paid. At least he was able to save his belongings, except for a few moldy towels, and he still has a roof; Although without light her fan does not work and she is forced to sit at the door of the house to cool off a little. All you have to do is wait exactly in the position you are in. “Assistance programs can help me with food, that’s the only really essential thing,” he sighs.
Just 10 kilometers to the north are the neighborhoods of Snell and Venetian Isles, some of the most affected two weeks ago by the sea waters that brought Helene and They covered everything. On a closed street surrounded by large houses with private docks and, like practically all of this area, with piles of destroyed furniture piled up on the sidewalks, two neighbors talk while cleaning a shared green area. Matthew Couch, a doctor, and Chad Hall, owner of his own construction company, count themselves lucky. Although they talk about the possibility of moving somewhere less prone to natural disasters, they will be able to stay in their homes. They were built less than ten years ago and, therefore, under new regulations that dictate that they must be erected on a foundation at least three meters high to protect them from flooding. Most of your neighbors are not in that situation.
“In the older houses they lost everything. In a year they will all be torn down and builders will be making new houses. Yes, they will have to move, but they are like poor farmers sitting on a gold mine,” says Hall. Couch, while pointing ahead, at a house that seems already abandoned with everything that was once inside scattered on the lawn, adds: “That one came on the market the day after Helene for two million dollars.” Around here, hurricanes put natural selection into action, nothing more than that.
But the persistent power outages, the lack of drinking water and the shortage of gasoline equalize everyone. Regarding this last question, from Sarasota to St. Petersburg, about 70 kilometers of densely populated territory, only a handful of gas stations are operating. The lines of vehicles are eternal. Two and a half hours of queuing has made some. Even more so, say others in the groups of collective frustration that form at gas stations with store service, but without fuel. There is no word from the authorities or the usually very vocal Governor Ron DeSantis about the shortage.
The situation, which unexpectedly highlights absolute dependence on oil, requires creative solutions. On another of the closed streets of Venetian Isles, the couple Jeff and Sue Paddock fight with a hose. They are trying to put it into the engine of their boat, which is parked in front of their home, so they can use the gasoline inside to power a generator that will give them electricity at home. One more day, normality refuses to return in Florida.