'Sink, Florida, Sink' (The Novel) #1
Prologue
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You may recognize the title ‘Sink, Florida, Sink’ because I wrote a play of the same name or because of the song by Against Me!.
Last year, that play version had its world premiere in Texas at The Public Theatre of San Antonio. After that, I hoped to be done with the developmental writing of it. By then, it had been a three year-ish timeline from the first draft to the first production, and I was feeling pretty satisfied with where the script settled. Of course, the hope was that other theatres would produce the show, but then 2020 happened. The theatre industry effectively shut down. The already hard-sell of a climate change-influenced, semi-apocalyptic hurricane play became a bit less enticing to the artistic producers that were considering the show.
But I think the story of ‘Sink, Florida, Sink’ is still worth telling, so I’ve decided to adapt the story into novel form. This week’s gangletown is the Prologue from ‘Sink, Florida, Sink,’ the novel. If you love it, let me know, and maybe I’ll share more in the future.
Thank you to Monica Keaton for her work copy-editing.
PROLOGUE
My flippers (Floridian for flip-flop) disappear in the sand amidst the tiny shells and flecks of seaweed as I knead my feet around to find the most solid spot at the top of the tallest dune. My ankles click. Up here, I have to be stable. I have to be someone a little different than who I want to be and would be if things weren’t the way they are. I have to be their leader, and a leader can’t slide around in the sand. I know this as a truth. Being small and young as I am- only five foot three and turning twenty just this morning- I have to be firm and resolute. I’ve got to work against these things that I can’t control. If I don’t, I’ll lose them entirely. The slightest quiver, and they’ll question my directives, revolt. Instead of the woman in charge, they’ll see a little girl. They’ll see my fear, and-
I look down onto old 16th Street from the top of the dunes. What remains of Cocoa Beach looks ancient and prideful this morning. At this hour, my favorite hour because of the quiet, the sun hits just a sliver of the island. If I squint, it almost looks the same as before.
I welcome the memories that these glimpses bring back.
Today it’s the asphalt. Full of shells, gray, crumbled at the edges and seamed with deep cracks all over. It reminds me of Grandma Sandy. She was my favorite grandparent even though she was technically our step-grandma. In the years that Mom and Greg were together, Grandma Sandy and her house were a constant. It was always chilly with the AC cranked down to sixty-five. I hated the feeling of fake cold, but the place was still warm with energy. It was always comfy. I never felt self-conscious curling up onto the couch or opening the pantry to graze for snacks. She kept fruit roll-ups just for us. I loved that it was not one of the yuppie condos on the water where the old people get mad at kids for “walking loudly.” Grandma Donna lived in one of those, and it was never as fun. Plus, Grandma Sandy’s place was just three blocks from the beach, so we could take an easy walk across A1A and be in the water just like that.
Her neighborhood was initially developed in the sixties, but her house burned down and rebuilt when Seb and I were kids. I don’t know too many of the exact details of that situation. No one talked about it much. If they did, they’d mention it in passing by referring to it as “the old house.” I used to wonder what it was like when Grandma Sandy showed me the burnt edges of Greg’s baby photos and said, “these are the only ones that survived,” but over time, I guess the curiosity faded. She never got emotional when mentioning the old house or any of the items they’d lost in the fire. It was something that happened. Something impactful, sure, but she didn’t carry it with her as a sadness or a burden the way some people do with their losses, the way islanders do now.
Grandma Sandy didn’t linger in her memories. She didn’t linger at all. For my whole time knowing her, she absolutely refused to let anyone see her in a state of rest. If Seb or I came into the house, we went through the garage door (of course), but opening it was like setting off an alarm. The door had this rubbery plastic lining that scraped against the tile floor, and it screeched no matter how careful you were. If Grandma Sandy were watching television or even sitting down for a bite of food when she heard that plastic screech, she would pop up and hurry into the kitchen to start “putzing around” as if she’d been doing it all day. I know she wasn’t that old (maybe sixty, sixty-five?), but she was old enough to have earned some rest. No one would have faulted her for sitting down to watch a program on t.v. or taking a nap, but she refused. “The body that rests is the body that rusts,” she’d say. And she’d continue to putz—what a marvelous lady.
The crumbling asphalt also makes me feel old. I remember this street being resurfaced when I was in sixth grade. I know it was sixth grade specifically because Seb and I had to switch beach entrances for the week while they did the construction. I also got my period for the first time that week. I was proud of it, and I told Seb as we paddled out for an after school special. He told me I couldn’t surf near him if I was bleeding because I’d get eaten by a shark. Seb was such a little shit. Seb is still a little shit. It was the only time in my life I’ve ever worried about being eaten by a shark. Even more so than in high school when a shark actually bit me. Surfing since I was four years old, I’ve stepped on and been stung by everything you can think of, but this was the first time I’d ever truly felt concerned. Sharks are attracted to blood - that’s science - but aren’t they disgusted by human blood? Is period blood different somehow? No. I thought of all the other girls that surfed and decided that I had nothing to worry about. Though, and I would never share this with Seb, sometimes when I’m out alone, I catch a spike of fear and practice paddling as fast as I can just in case.
But there isn’t much time to linger in the past. I thank the faulting ‘phault and start the morning meeting as I do every day. I take in a deep breath of salt air and bellow out to my neighbors, “Bright morning, everyone!”
“Bright morning,” they echo, and a hush falls over the group as they wait for me to continue with the day’s agenda. We all know how this goes. Today, fortunately, is nothing special. Just another Wednesday to move through. I didn’t even have to write out my list because there were only three items to address:
There are no new builds this week, so everyone should continue working on existing projects.
Rations were divvied up yesterday, so everyone should be happy and full-tummied.
A reminder for everyone to be inside before dark, not at dark; curfew standards do not change just because it is summer and the days are longer.
There are no questions. Silence. I dismiss them to begin the day and watch as they scatter off to their stations. Denny bounces away, noticeably more wide-eyed than usual, and Priscilla slugs. Having been assigned to a build just south of the port, she has the longest walk of anyone, so I can’t blame her. She looks at me like she wants to rip my throat out.
I sit in the sand and savor the morning’s peace. Today’s lack of urgency is notable.
Typically the island operates with a sense of desperation associated with everything. For the past few years, there is always something to worry about or to prepare for. Another batch of rations spoiled or stolen, another neighbor sick, and another job to fill, another build to prioritize, de-prioritize, or re-prioritize. It’s a never-ending and unpredictable cycle: The old pier is crumbling and we need to save it → the old pier is crumbling and there is nothing we can do to save it → the old pier must be protected at all cost. Lather, rinse, repeat.
If not some physical building project to focus on, there are plenty of others. Who will get the first meals that week? Should it be the young and able-bodied so that they can remain strong enough to keep building? Or should it be the elderly and weak because they require more to survive?
There is always something to worry about. Every cloud in the sky brings with it a wave of fear. Could it be the beginning of the next real storm, or is it just another shower racing its way up the coast? The weather down here has always been messy, but a summer shower is not the same as a hurricane.
If it isn’t a passing cloud but, instead, the beginning of something more serious, the island has to prepare. There are protocols, codes, rules. So many rules. We jump into action immediately. These hurricanes - the kind so strong there wasn’t a category for them six years ago when One hit - are not to be fucked with. It hadn’t been called One at the time, of course. Back then, they called it “Hurricane Calliope.” We had to start referring to them by number after Three took out the last of the island’s power. Without television or radio, we had no way of knowing something so insignificant as a storm’s name.
One came suddenly. The news reported it as a tropical storm around seven o’clock one night, and by eight the next morning, it was a Category 4 Hurricane. “Unprecedented growth,” they kept saying on the news. At the time, of course, a Cat 4 wasn’t unheard of, but Floridians had an incredibly long history of dismissing impending danger. “We’ve seen worse,” we’d scoff. “They always say it’ll be bad, and it’s never that bad.” It was surprisingly common for people to ignore the threat altogether; instead, they’d throw hurricane parties and get blasted on Malibu rum. Many might have assumed that after Katrina, which made landfall as a Cat 3 in 2005, people would have prepared differently, but it was almost as if nothing had changed. A shocking number of people chose to stay. These people would rather hunker down and ride it out - “see what happens.”
Things changed when One was upgraded to Cat 5 and projected to make landfall on West Palm Beach. Even for many of the “true” Floridians, a Cat 5 was serious. The nation watched in awe as it approached. Something weird was happening. Despite all logic and sensibility, the media flocked toward the East Coast to cover the damage despite the mandatory evacuations.
After just forty-eight hours, One had been upgraded to a previously non-existent status on the Saffir-Simpson Scale: Category 6. The storm was large enough to cover the entirety of the state of Florida and then some. Winds relentlessly sustained between 180 and 185 mph. I-95 was flooded with people who’d made a last-minute decision to try and getaway. Cars were gridlocked from Savannah, Georgia, all the way down to Miami (almost five hundred miles of road), and by the time it was over, thousands had died in their cars. The highways were referred to by the world news as a mass grave.
Before One, there had not been a storm more deadly or more destructive on the planet unless, perhaps, you were to include Noah’s flood, which I now believe was a true story. Katrina’s two billion or Maria’s one hundred billion dollars worth of damage would look like pocket change in One’s wake. Or at least it would have if there had been enough time to assess the damage.
Just a month after One, Two came. Another Cat 6 with winds of 190 mph. What hadn’t been ruined by One would surely be taken by this. Two made landfall on Miami Beach and slid up the center of the state for twenty-two hours. It wasn’t downgraded to a Cat 5 until Georgia, a Cat 3 by Tennessee, still a Tropical Depression in Missouri. The remnants of the same system were recorded as far north as Duck Bay, Winnipeg. Canada. The combined death toll of One and Two was assumed to be over 95,000 people.
After Two, Florida’s most southern drypoint was Okeechobee. Some predicted that within a few months, the water would retreat farther, but it never did. The Everglades, South Beach, the Bahamas, and the Keys were all underwater.
In the months following One and Two, the world responded to the storms. It was considered a global emergency. The United States and Canada rallied behind victims, opening refuge centers, sending aid, sending volunteers. People wanted to help, but not everyone could donate money. At one point, so many volunteers were trying to get into the state, trying to help physically, that they had to impose border patrol on all major roadways getting into the state. There were stations in Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama where agents encouraged people to register online to take in families in need or give blood. It was an impossible challenge, and the dialogue was immediately centered around two things: saving lives and rebuilding as quickly as possible. Eleven storms later, and these are still the priorities that I hold onto today.
To save lives, they had to restore power. Remarkably they were able to get almost 45% of the state back online within sixteen weeks. Thankfully, this included Cocoa Beach, and when the lights came back on, Seb and I were out in the water floating on our surfboards.
It was almost dusk, and, floating in silence as we often did, I spotted a flicker out of the corner of my eye. Here and there, the remaining buildings started lighting up. “Seb!” I said with a desperate breath. He was swatting the water with his palms, trying to create a slapping sound on the surface. “Seb!” I shouted.
“What? Jesus, Vi, you scared me half to…” and he watched as a streetlight flicked on over the tattoo shop.
We paddled in immediately and made our way up the shore at a sprint. When we’d made it back to the house, Seb hadn’t even pulled the leash off his ankle. He stopped in the front yard and could see inside the kitchen, lit by a single bulb, glowing yellow. I’ll bet he almost wanted to cry, but when I came up behind him a few seconds later, he swallowed those tears immediately. As siblings go, we were close, but we have never been the kind of twins one hundred percent in sync. Seb was still a fourteen-year-old boy, after all.
“I don’t even know why we’re so excited. It’s not like we’ll be able to get online or anything yet,” he said. “It’s not enough for us to go back to normal.”
“Sure, but maybe we can get little things done like charge our phones or whatever?” I responded.
“Yeah. Or like. The microwave.”
We ran inside.
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