Trelawny, Jamaica. Not sure what’s happening on the southern side of the island.
Being at a resort during a hurricane is peak boring dystopia. The staff calmly fed us breakfast and handed out pack lunches — sandwiches, cereal, and bananas. Fresh towels delivered just in advance of the lockdown. Gas-powered generators provide lights, TV, and Internet. The same fuel the earliest Cat-5 hurricane in Atlantic history. We stay in our room, entertaining two kids and exchange messages with friends back home and the family we travel with. The mattress for our king-size bed covers the patio doors. The staff residence we see below has its windows boarded up.
We’ve used two streaming services to watch movies.
The false alarm two hours ago showed that our go-bags are ready, and we can head to shelter in under 30 s. They ever actually confirmed it as a false alarm.
I was on long bay in Tortola in 1999 for Lenny. Beachfront cabins. Sounded like a freight train just out the door. 75-mile-an-hour coconuts were a hazard. We had no Internet, phones were out. Similarly surreal, though. Water was scarce, and milk was unobtainable, but rum was super cheap and plentiful - so we had it on our cornflakes.
When they were handing out the disaster lunchboxes, I heard a person in line say, “they had better offer alternative milk” as though offering oat, almond, and soy like they were at Starfucks was the priority in a hurricane. I get it. Some people can’t process lactose. My partner can’t. Nor can she handle gluten. She, at the same time, realizes that her dietary needs might play second string to 230 km/h wind and a legit deluge. She took her white bread and cheese sandwich, milk and cereal, banana, and Oreos and dealt with it. She was more concerned with all of us being alive at the end of the day and wanting to help the staff get home to their families.