{*Did you know you can write on Elephant? Here’s how—big changes: How to Write & Make Money or at least Be of Benefit on Elephant. ~ Waylon}

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We’re above the rising surge in a concrete block building; the halls are devoid of the usual footfalls and conversational voices that carry through any normal day.

Outside, a light rain falls as a soft breeze sways the trees. A hundred miles offshore, the largest storm on the planet rages in the warm Gulf waters. We wait.

Begin again. One more breath, one more step, one more day. Begin again. Starting over often implies throwing everything away that happened the first time, all the knowledge, the history, the steps that worked or didn’t work, progress lost, a blank slate. This is working from a place of scarcity, a place of discouragement.

We spent the morning yesterday piling sandbags and trying to waterproof my friend’s first-floor condominium on Harbor Island. The condo survived Helene, though the building’s storage units filled with seawater. Milton’s surge could be twice as high. Neighbors share a polite nervousness and exchange cell numbers for a group chat while riding out the storm.

If I don’t remember where I was or how I got here, I may as well be lost. Context gives meaning; context provides relationships. Relationships form boundaries, and boundaries have substance: existence. Existence is defined by relationships—with people or things. Noting the qualities and characteristics of these relations determines whether I am living well. Beginning again sometimes requires retracing steps, practicing, refining, and trying to do better. It’s not devoid of history, context, or memory. It’s not scarcity.

I’ve been through quite a few hurricanes over the last 30 years in Florida. My relationship to Milton is nervousness, a low-level fear, and a subtle excitement. I’m afraid I’ll lose friends, material goods, my home, and to have to witness the suffering of friends and strangers. My excitement is the test of my skills as a human being, having empathy and being of assistance to others. Also, the physical skills of surviving whatever the storm throws at us, wind, water, devastation. What tools will I need to get through this, and if necessary, begin again.

Off the island, down the road, we fill my apartment’s cupboards with several days of food. I have distilled gallons of water, charged batteries, checked my solar items and first aid kits. The Teslas—after Helene, now known as saltwater bombs—have been moved from the lower levels of the garage. My neighbor gave me his key before evacuating to the south. He asked me to water his Ficus tree and told me feel free to have any of his canned goods if needed. I thanked him and wished him well.

Perhaps it’s a story of millennia, or maybe no time, maybe all time, I’m not sure there is a difference. Like the day’s rising sun, the night’s rising moon, cycles that start again with such regularity they’re arguably not cycles at all, merely a continuum. In Greek mythology, the gods had condemned Sisyphus to rolling a huge rock to the top of a hill only to have him lose his grip and watch it roll back down just before he finished the task.

The elevators are locked down; we expect to lose power. The sky’s darkening. The main storm is still hours away. The television reviews evacuation and shelter information. For those of us who are sheltering in place, we’re told by local authorities to understand that when the storm hits, there is no ability to assist if we need to call.

Sisyphus had angered the gods. He had tricked and captured death, upsetting the natural order. He sought a reward and ratted out Zeus for kidnapping, and finally, at death, he initially escaped the underworld by insisting on a proper burial and refused to return. From my perspective, a mortal human being who feels strongly that kidnapping is a bad thing, I don’t see his infractions as necessarily bad; some may even say they seem aspirational. The gods didn’t feel that way when they caught up to him. For being deceitful and selfish, they condemned him to eternity with the rock to roll up hill.

It’s much easier to do the same thing every day, over and over again, knowing the skills needed, knowing the result will go unchanged, unchallenged. Maybe Sisyphus was blessed, not cursed at all.

I’m the only resident left on my wing. My friend from Harbor Island and her Yorkie have decided to stay with me rather than evacuate alone. I’m more comfortable worrying about myself, but it’s nice to have the company. Another friend from our trivia team lives in a new building the next neighborhood over. Her dog is old and unwell, she feels she can’t leave. She also doesn’t have an issue with surge. Like the neighbors on Harbor Island, we keep in touch by text.

Was that really the fate of Sisyphus? Or was the selfish ruler simply tired? Was he secretly afraid to get to the top, as he’d have to find something else to do, something of his own, alone? Or was he afraid that by getting there, his purpose would be lost? No gods to give him purpose, no one to deceive, actually doing for his own sense of what he needs to have done. Surely this would have more purpose than rolling a rock up a hill only to watch it roll down again.

The rains are intermittent; like waves, they roll in with heavier and heavier winds. We have hours to wait. We watch the news, check the websites, read the texts of neighbors, friends and loved ones. We talk to far away friends and family on the phone; some have been in hurricanes, some haven’t.

The building’s fire alarm shrieks. The building is more horizontal than vertical, spanning a couple of blocks with multiple wings. This wasn’t in the preparation. We grab the dog and phones and head for the garage. Strobe lights flicker with the blare of the alarm. There’s no smoke in the hallway and no people to question.

In the front of the garage there is a small family with a teenage child. I introduce myself. They’re from the opposite side of the building. The alarm isn’t as loud in the garage. Below us we hear a door slam and someone running through the visitor parking area. We hear a car bang into something and see an old white van trying to speed out of out garage.

My new neighbor friend and I conclude the fire alarm is false and that whoever was in the van had pulled the alarm. Fire trucks arrive and someone lets the firefighters into the building. They verify that there is no fire. Someone had pulled the alarm. They are able to turn it off on my wing and the neighbor’s wing but couldn’t for the apartments facing the street. Those apartments will have to wait until after the storm. Someone had tampered with the alarms.

Is it still purpose when the actions of effort become muscle memory, doing for the sake of doing, no longer clearly having a context, effort lost as persistent routine, the repetition and movement like an echo, reverberating off walls, devoid of substance. Without context, there’s no point. Sure, an autonomic response is important for life; I breathe to live, not live to breathe. The breath facilitates. Rolling a rock up, watching it roll down…maybe the creativity for Sisyphus is the quality of roll, where it lands and how it gets there.

It’s gotten dark, the winds rage, the rain pelts my windows and looking into the courtyard, the trees are bending with the winds. A small group of doves shoot from one tree to the next trying to find some stability. During Helene, a few gusts had shaken my patio sliding doors. For Milton, I secured the sliders using wine corks fitted against the door and the track. The winds are fiercer with Milton, but the door holds steady.

The news reports that the edge of the eyewall will pass over Tampa, meaning we will have all the wind, but unlike Helene, none of the surge. Tampa Bay experiences a reverse surge, an incredible natural phenomenon to witness, but it’s dark, the rain, intense, we were told to expect 18 inches. From my apartment, I can see storm sewers overflowing. The street ripples with water. The news is reporting gusts of over 100 mph.

As far as anyone knows, Sisyphus is still rolling his rock. A colleague of mine recently retired; with the various changes of leadership, our jobs have been increasingly bureaucratic. Rolling the rock up. Change, however, is inevitable, and there are always unpredictable variables, like the wind, the rain, or a vandal.

The peak eyewall arrives, and the sound is as if someone has opened the gates of hell and released the screams of thousands of years of suffering souls into the air. Friends text and check to see who still has power. My friend in Ybor quickly loses hers. The Harbor Island crowd, like us, has some flickering, but lights and cable are holding. Amidst the furious winds, we can hear large objects crashing to the ground and other objects scrapping along the pavement.

I left the apartment to see what I could from the parking garage. Despite the sound of the nightmare winds, the garage is oddly calm. I approach the street view and am hit with pelting rain and a gust of wind that knocks my 195-pound body about ten feet backward, nearly knocking me off my feet. I return to the edge of the garage; rain stinging my skin and grab the rail. Traffic signs are rocking franticly, road construction materials are strewn all over the street, making it impassable, and trees are being stripped of their leaves by the sideways rain. “Impressive,” I mutter to myself.

I returned to my apartment, and I noticed a change in the sound of the wind. We’re progressing through the eyewall. The sound is now like the combination of a giant tea kettle and a derailing train, again punctuated with crashing and pounding sounds. A couple hours of this have passed, all too violent for anyone to be rescued if they needed it. Our friends on Harbor Island still have power, and although the wind is blowing water between the panes of some of the older windows, no water appears to have risen and flooded any part of the building. We can see on the news that our friends just 20 miles to the south of us are not so lucky.

Although feeling poorly rested, the morning sun was golden, elegant, and welcome. I made coffee, unplugged my sliders, and let a cool gentle breeze blow into the apartment. There was a slight scent of lilac in the air from the leaves of the shredded trees. We still had power. Images of devastation were on every channel, coupled with stories of heroism. I sent messages to friends and family that I’m fine. The day was spent cleaning up, checking in with neighbors, and looking at damage to tally repairs.

My friends without power came by to put things in my refrigerator and charge things that needed recharging. Everyone wants to get out of the house. I notice down the street City Dog and Maloney’s—two bar/restaurants—have opened their doors. They understandably have limited food; we all were expecting to be underwater. Libations are flowing. People are standing shoulder to shoulder, sharing stories, hugging strangers, and appreciating any good fortune that has been had, all knowing, tomorrow, we all will begin again.

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