To this day, I’m still amazed by the colorful range of responses that an approaching hurricane will bring forth from Floridians. Non-native residents frantically plan for the looming apocalypse by stocking up on nonperishables, flashlights and bottled water. Concerned parents beg their college kids to stay indoors, avoid power lines and charge their cellphones.
The more responsible among us raise an invocation to President Fuchs for giving them an opportunity to binge season two of "Narcos" and shirk all social obligations. Then there are those who laugh in the face of natural selection and Uber surges by heading out to Gainesville’s finest bars for a night of soggy fun: We all know Midtown is hellish enough without the added natural disaster.
But there’s a reason hurricane parties have evolved in the southeast over the past few decades.
It’s a lot less fun to stay at home contemplating your own mortality and the omnipotence of Mother Nature than, say, drinking cheap gin and tonics and laughing at any storm under a Category 3.
So when Midtown lost power Thursday night, chants of “F--- Hermine” echoing through its hallowed grounds ensued as everyone was pushed out the doors and into the pouring rain.
Our blissful ignorance was cut short.
Like many fellow Floridians, hurricanes evoke a combination of terrifying and laughable memories. I think of moving to South Florida in fourth grade and being immediately greeted by Hurricanes Charley, Ivan, Frances and Jeanne in the first two months. I think of reading “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” by an electric lantern over the course of six days as we waited for the power to go back on.
I think of my mother checking our new backyard after the storm, only to find every one of our beautiful, old trees ripped out of the ground. I think of my parents laughing off Hurricane Katrina right before it changed course and headed straight for Louisiana.
Everyone who grew up in Florida has a special mélange of storm-affiliated memories. For my fellow students, however, many of these memories took place when we were old enough to understand what was happening but also young enough for the storms to be tinged with that distinct variety of childlike terror.
As Hermine loomed closer, I realized that if it ended up posing an actual threat, I would have no clue what to do. What if we lost power? Or our water shut off? Or we had no cell service?
All of these anxieties were smoothed over when I called my mom, whose first and only tidbit of advice was, “You should try to meet a cute boy at a hurricane party.”
So when I found myself walking home from a prematurely dark Midtown, my cheap umbrella braced against 50-mph winds and heavy rain, I began to deeply question my decision-making skills — which should come as no surprise to you by now.
The next morning, as we walked down our street to examine the minimal damage, my friends and I laughed about how careless we had been.
Video of UF student Michael Cizek biking around campus while giving a satirical account of the wreckage was shared endlessly on social media. We joked and moved on, a response that was only possible due to Hermine’s tame nature.
Just like the hurricane party itself, laughing in the face of potential danger — without getting yourself killed — is an integral step in preparing for any natural disaster. Besides, it’s a hell of a lot more fun than stocking up on candles and worrying at home alone.
Marisa Papenfuss is a UF English senior. Her column appears on Tuesdays.
