[6 p.m.] Tampa owns a certain kindred spirit with Boca Grande because it was once home to fabled pirate Jose Gaspar, or so the legend goes. In fact, the island Boca Grande sits on is called Gasparilla Island.
Just before I paid the pirate-like $4 toll to reach Jose’s namesake, I noticed Dave Miller of nearby Placida working frantically to put up plywood over the windows of his home. He spent the last day doing this chore in stifling humidity but the job was done and now he and his wife Luci were making contingency plans to leave and head for higher ground. They said they will likely travel to Orlando, where some of their family lives.
My first stop in Boca Grande was the lighthouse at the southern tip of the island. There’s actually two lighthouse here, the 105-foot tall steel-girder structure on the public beach built in 1927, and this older, wooden one, which serves as a channel marker for Boca Grande pass. It was built in 1890 and is said to be the oldest structure on the island. The lighthouse offers an awesome view of the pass and today, there were a dozen or so locals hanging out on the beach, a camera crew from a local CBS station and about 10 gazillion of those famous noseeum bugs. I had forgotten about these horrid things until now, when it seemed they were consuming me alive. Still, they were worth it to get this view.
[7:30 p.m.] Just after sunset, I headed into downtown Boca Grande. I kept looking for the locals but it was practically deserted—a far cry from the busy scene last night in downtown Venice. I walked into one restaurant and three college-age kids who worked there said the place was closed. They were deep into what seemed to be a heavy discussion, as well as deep into Heinekens and cigarettes. So I asked what else was open downtown, got a Wilma update from them and beat it for a nearby Italian restaurant. That restaurant was open, but they were likely going to shut down Friday. I walked down a few more streets and looked for Fugate’s, which, just like the guide books tell you, really does look like one of those old 5-and-Dime stores from the 1950s. It opened in 1916, is the oldest business on the island and is supposedly a popular hangout for the locals. But when I got there, it was closed.
Like so many other places I’ve seen the past few days, I’d like to come back here, minus the threat of a hurricane. But something tells me I probably couldn’t afford Boca Grande because the Bush clan vacationed here last Christmas. They played a little golf, went fishing and relaxed. I bet the Secret Service took care of all the noseeums, too. But they would be powerless right now to stop Wilma from heading this way.
Thursday morning.
Photojournalist Mark Guss and I made our way separately to Naples this morning, leaving our respective homes in Bradenton and Tampa. He made better time, hitting Interstate 75 early and calling by 11 a.m. with an update. Traffic was already backed up at times on northbound I-75 between Sarasota and Port Charlotte. Guss didn’t know whether it was evacuees or not, as the bumper to bumper gridlock was sporadic at best.
By 1:30 p.m., when I finally hit the highway, I too came across long stretches of stalled cars, heading north. There didn’t appear to be any accidents or major construction causing the delay. Just long lines of cars, trucks and recreational vehicles going nowhere fast, but at least, going in the opposite direction of the coming storm.
That’s the thing with hurricanes and evacuations. You don’t know who’s leaving, who’s commuting or who’s just out for a drive. You sit and wonder, “Am I crazy to be heading the opposite way?”
It doesn’t feel like a hurricane is barreling toward the Fort Myers area judging by the ho-hum attitude of locals here.
Sure, the TVs are turned to the weather station and a few businesses and homes are boarded up. But gas is still plentiful and lines are nonexistent.
Even the Home Depot had ample parking. Heck, we’ve still got power and wireless Internet connection in the hotel.
Boring.
Photographer Michael Spooneybarger and I drove at least a100 miles today, traversing barrier islands and the most suburban reaches of the area in search of hurricane frenzy.
None.
People gardened or biked or shopped, and a utility crew even repaired a power line, perhaps the most optimistic act ever witnessed with a line-snapping hurricane looming.
We stopped by a plasma donation center on the outskirts of Fort Myers.
Spooney shot photos of people boarding up the building. I went inside, where about a dozen people waited to give in exchange for cash.
Clinic manager Patricia Gant said the place is often a last-resort for people who need a few extra dollars, generally the community’s poorest residents.
One haggard gentleman waited for his turn.
He was reading a book: “A Winners Guide To Greyhound Racing.â€
[1:30 p.m.] It’s a good thing Wilma is inching along down by the Yucatan today. I seem to be trudging along down Tamiami Trail at the same pace. My general yardstick for progress of a trip is this: if you can still pick up Tampa Bay area radio stations, you haven’t gone very far. Ok, so I can’t pick up WMNF, but who can outside of Seminole Heights? Besides, when the powerful Bay area stations are playing tunes like “A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)” by Ray Parker Jr. and Raydio, I’d rather listen to the same AM weather report over and over.
The beach here at Englewood is quite a departure from Venice and Manasota. There’s a lot more development here, and that’s not necessarily a good thing. The first sign of beach de-evolution: the dreaded PAY STATION when you park on the beach. It’s the same machines they have on Pass-A-Grille, where you feed a machine a few bucks for a tiny piece of paper to place on your dashboard. Other signs of the fall of beach civilization include cheesy tourist trap gift shops offering three T-shirts for 10 dollars, condos and half-milion dollar yachts docked everywhere.
The good thing about Englewood Beach is its seedy side. It reminds me a lot of Treasure Island—the place in Pinellas County, not the childrens book by Robert Louis Stevenson. There are quite a few dive bar/restaurants here and today, I saw Harley Davidsons parked outside most of them. As I left the beach, however, I saw who was riding those Harleys—retirees! Hey, maybe they’re Hell’s Angels retirees, the ones the Stones used for security in 1969 at Altamont. The Stones were in Tampa at the Forum last night, right?
Well, on to Boca Grande, occasional hangout for the well heeled. With the storm looming, all I can think of here is “all this could be under three feet of water soon.”
[10:30 a.m.] Shhhhhh…..Don’t tell anyone about my first stop today. It’s yet another beach where developers have yet to rip up the sea oats and smash some of those bothersome turtle eggs to put up high-rise condos. What gives down here?
The more I travel along the Tamiami Trail on Florida’s West Coast, the more I want to come back for a vacation. It’s like getting into a time machine and coming back to Florida of the 1960s. If it weren’t for the threat of a rather large hurricane, this would be the perfect time to visit southwest Florida. It’s hot, but not August hot, and it’s not crowded because most kids are back at school.
I have no idea how they found this spot – even me, a lifetime resident of Florida, had never heard of this beach – but there was a German family vacationing at this beach today. Their two preschool sons were loving it. The Gulf was flat as a pancake, clear and red tide-free. And the sand here is like the kind you pay $4 a bag for at Home Depot.
Some locals from Englewood said they were here for the first time in months because like many Tampa Bay area beaches, the red tide was so bad it made you cough every other breath you took. Today, it’s absolutely perfect for the beach, with the water a comfy 81 degrees, no stingrays in sight and not even a ripple – yet – from Fred Flintstone’s wife.
The trick to covering a hurricane is to get gas whenever you can.
At home, I won’t even think about gas until my low-fuel light goes on.
While waiting for a hurricane, I get nervous when the gauge drops below three-quarters full.
So this morning, I am off to fill our Suburban and the six or seven gas cans that will have to sustain us after the storm hits.
My hope is that people aren’t as worried about gas as I am and haven’t swamped local gas stations.
You look at a community differently when you are waiting for a hurricane.
Photographer Michael Spooneybarger and I spent the night driving on Sanibel and Captiva islands trying to get a feel for the area before the storm. It was a pretty normal night. People were out to dinner, going for walks, biking. We trolled through dark neighborhoods, imagining what they might look like after a wall of storm surge washes through.
“That whole area would be gone,” I’d say, drawing a nod from Spooney.
We also looked for areas that might be good, safe places to ride out the storm, assuming it makes landfall somewhere near here. We want to find people who will ignore calls to evacuate. We want to be safe, but we want to be where stories are. We don’t really want to weather the storm in our hotel, though that is an option. We spent a little time looking for safe places to hide our Chevrolet Suburban during the storm. We can’t tell if storm surge would be a problem at out Fort Myers hotel, which looks to be about a mile from water. It looks safe, but you can never be too sure.
[7:30 p.m.] The prevailing thought in these small towns along the Tamiami Trail in West Florida seems to be “I’m going to wait to see if it turns our direction before I do anything.” I suppose that’s a wise enough decision, especially since I’m someone driving in the general direction of a Cat 5 hurricane. But what if it’s the old Woody Allen line from Love and Death, you know, where Woody asks Diane Keaton “what if everyone shows up to the same restaurant on the same night and orders the same thing off the menu,’’—i.e., total chaos. Same thing could happen with Wilma as people rush off the coast.
As a light rain fell just after sunset, folks here in this tiny artsy/restored district of downtown Venice seem to be going about their business in the usual manner, going to dinner at intimate restaurants and wine bars, heading to the Venice Little Theater for a show and going to beauty spas. Meanwhile, Mother Nature looms large as the Weather Channel’s ratings go through the roof.
[6:30 p.m.] When I was in high school in the mid-1970s, I used to drive my 1972 Triumph GT-6 down to Venice Beach to get away from the crowds on St. Pete Beach. 
The sea oats and coarse sand here seemed so pristine and natural compared to the urban feel of, say, Pass-A-Grille. I still remember this photo of me on this blazing-white sand road down here, standing alongside my Triumph. And as I drove up tonight near sunset in this monster truck that could probably hold three Triumphs in its cockpit, the road was still there, just as it was. The beach seemed the same, too—although there’s probably a few more condos than the last time I was here.
The sky at sunset here was amazing. It had this look that it was about to pour down in buckets—you know that spooky look the sky gets right before a bad storm, where the clouds hang low. But at the moment of sunset, an orange sun peeked through the clouds just above the water—and then sank quickly out of sight. That might be the last time I see the sun for the next several days.
It’s Wednesday night, and I’m packing my bags and checking them twice. I thought we were in the clear this year. No such luck with a late-season monster headed straight for Florida. This time, it’s Wilma, a category 5 for the record books, and no one seems to know exactly where she will go. I’m driving to Naples tomorrow morning, as that seems to be a possible path, to ride out with residents this formidable storm when it makes expected landfall by the weekend.
Here in Tampa, people seem not to be in a panic. This afternoon’s trip to Publix found water in short supply, but plenty of bread, milk, batteries and Halloween candy on hand. Gas lines weren’t bad near downtown off Kennedy Boulevard. That’s a relief, but one that could change if Wilma’s track wobbles more north.
I heard someone today say that this could be our Charley. Remember how last year every forecast had it heading right up Tampa Bay? Then, at the last minute, Charley took a sudden turn into Charlotte County and tore inland, destroying homes and businesses in towns like Arcadia, before finally exiting to the Atlantic. I was there, and it was scary. Residents wandered about, their hair wet and matted down, staring in disbelief where buildings once stood as many belongings floated down the street. I pray that isn’t the case this time. I don’t want to see anyone face such a nightmare, but at least right now, those living in the projected path are prepared, or making preparations.
Tonight, I’ll do the same for my house, and hope for the best.
We arrived in Fort Myers about 5 p.m., before the expected frenzy of evacuation for Wilma. Residents here like saying “Wilma? Who’s Wilma?” or “What hurricane?” But there’s barely a television set not tuned to local weathercasters making their best predictions about where the storm might go. A few evacuees from nearby barrier islands and mobile homes have started to check in at the Comfort Inn where we are staying. Photographer Michael Spooneybarger and I are heading to Captiva to see how residents there are getting ready.
It’s sunny here and breezy. Quite gorgeous, really. I’m packing up and heading down the Tamiami Trail toward, well, I’m not sure what to expect. I always head that way via bland-but-fast I-75. I’m fairly certain about what I’ll find: there’ll be some small beach towns—and more rain.
With the sun peaking in and out of the clouds, I headed down to Lido Beach to see if anyone was actually having fun down there. Sure enough, there were beachgoers. No, it wasn’t Sunday afternoon type crowds. In fact, there might have been a mere 50 people in a stretch of about a half mile of this beach. But there were families and groups of friends out here, rain or shine.
I convinced Sarasota’s Bill Richards and Cheri Grabau to talk to me on video about their plans for Wilma. They were with friends who were enjoying some fine beverages on the beach, swimming and generally having fun. I didn’t ask them what type of work allowed them to be on the beach in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. They were in their 30s and 40s—far too young to be retired. Maybe they were independently wealthy. They had one friend visiting from Germany and another, Lana Mills, is a native of Latvia now living in the area. While Bill and Cheri talked to me on camera along the water’s edge about Wilma, one of their friends up on the beach decided to drop his swim trunks and moon them.
After regaining his composure from that unexpected incident, Bill said he will head to his brother’s house in Orlando if Wilma threatens Sarasota. Cheri is waiting to see what the storm does in the next day or so before making up her mind. Their friends on the beach? They were having way too much fun for me to bring them down with a question about hurricane preparedness.
The Schuetze family is here in Sarasota and it’s Day 4 of their Florida vacation. When I first approached them and asked if I could interview them, father Lynn asked me if I was selling something. When I assured him I was a reporter from the Tampa Tribune (and I was carrying 50 pounds of camera gear, too), he still asked, “Are you sure you’re not selling something?” Maybe they have aggressive subscription folks where they live.
The Schuetzes are from Omaha, Nebraska, a place a lot of us along the Gulf Coast are probably considering moving to following all these monster hurricanes. They’re staying with family in the area and are scheduled to head home Sunday out of Sarasota International Airport, which is just about the time all heck might be breaking loose on this side of Florida as a result of Wilma.
Speaking of Wilma, let me digress a minute. Why Wilma? If you’re going to name a ferocious hurricane after a Flinstones character, wouldn’t Bam-Bam have been a better choice?
Anyway, Lynn and his wife, Jill Kohles, are split on what to do if Wilma comes our way. Lynn says he would like to find a safe place locally and ride it out. It is, after all, the kind of weather excitement you never get in Omaha. Jill, whose father lives in Sarasota, seems to prefer the Get the Heck Out of Dodge in a Dodge, Chevy or Toyota plan. They do, after all, have two children—13-year-old Dylan and 11-year-old Kylie. But this is their vacation. Even when it was raining off and on today, they had their beach stuff packed in the car ready for action. They’ve had a few days of non-stop sunshine, however, and don’t seem too bummed by the prospect of non-stop rain - or Old Testament-type flooding - the rest of the week.
It’s 1:30 p.m. Wednesday in Sarasota’s posh, up-scale St. Armands Circle.
There’s overcast skies and every few mintes or so, a band of showers briefly passes through. At this time of day, you would expect a late lunch crowd but the trendy sidewalk cafes here are close to full. Why? Because this is St. Armands Circle, a fairly pricey tourist destination and hangout for the well-to-do. Here, it’s more like Disney than downtown Tampa. And like the crowd at Disney, every other voice you hear in St. Armands Circle seems to be in a different language.
Tampa’s David Walston, 34, and Eric Lentz, 32, just found out how expensive lunch can be here. At one of the more modest eateries, they shelled out a combined $26 for a couple slices of pizza, a salad and two ice teas. Me, I’m surviving on tea and Power Bars from the 7-11.
Lentz works for chemical/aspirin giant Bayer and Walston is a sales rep for Univar, one of the distribution companies that stores some of Bayer’s products in warehouses around the nation. The two friends drove down to Sarasota Wednesday for a customer meeting and decided to lunch in St. Armands. When they left home early Wednesday morning, they knew Wilma was already a Category 5 hurricane but they figure they have time to make a decision about what to do if the storm heads for the Tampa Bay area. Walston is single and is waiting to see when the storm turns east before deciding where to go. Lentz feels the same way but his wife is expecting their first child and says they will leave Tampa and head north if Wilma continues to be a strong hurricane and heads anywhere near Florida’s West Coast. Both are headed back to Tampa later this afternoon.
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