Every August, I turn into two things I never trained for. A meteorologist and an actuary.

I watch the spaghetti models. I do the math in my head. Is the money and the hassle of evacuating worth the risk of riding it out? Ninety percent of the time, it’s a big nothing burger.

But.

I call it “White Knuckle Season” down here. August and September. Three storms stand out as why.

Cleo. August 29, 1964.

My wedding day.

Hugo. September 21, 1989.

The worst storm Charleston took in my lifetime here.

Floyd. September 16, 1999.

It cost our governor his job, and had me, Marjorie, and our cat Nicole driving to Atlanta for safety. Charleston never even got hit. Didn’t matter. We went anyway.

So why do I stay for this every year?

Because Charleston and I have a history.

September, 1962. The Air Force sent me down to Charleston Air Force Base to navigate C-130s, and later C-141s. Five very full, happy years later, I left the “Holy City” with the love of my life, Marjorie, our daughter Christine, and our son Jim, born March 6, 1967.  Five months later we packed up and moved our young, growing family away from what I’ll forever call my “home town.” 

Thirty years in the Air Force took us all over. But we came home to Charleston for visits and vacations whenever we could, and I got lucky enough to be assigned back to Charleston AFB for my last two years of service. We retired in 1991. Thirty-five years here now.

I don’t plan to ever leave.

Storms and all.

I do stay at the edge of my seat through August and September, though. Real hurricane season, in my book, even though Michael showed up on October 11, 2018, and either proved me wrong or proved the exception to my rule. Rightly or wrongly, I relax a little once October hits, even though the official season doesn’t end until November 30.

The other thing that makes it White Knuckle Season is the news.

The weather people start covering these things while they’re still off the coast of Africa. A week, sometimes more, before they could possibly touch land here. Good news, you get plenty of warning. Bad news, you get to stress out for a week about a storm that, nine times out of ten, never shows up at your door.

Hence. White Knuckles.

So here we are again. August 6. Two months to go.

Four, according to the meteorologists.

Sixty-five years in, and I’d still rather white-knuckle it here than be anywhere else.

Wish us well.

Enuf