On maelstroms, both internal and external.

Maelstrom (n): 1. a powerful often violent whirlpool sucking in objects within a given radius.  2. something resembling a maelstrom in turbulence.

I think, given the fact that we’re about to experience our first Hurricane, and that it is going to happen on my daughter’s 15^th birthday, that the experience warrants writing about. I am, if nothing else, curious about the storms that are brewing both within and around, this mortal shell I possess.

Let’s begin with the category 1 force of nature headed our way, one Hurricane Irene. While I have no doubt my fellow citizens from areas regularly visited by such pleasantries are looking at us here around the New Jersey shore with the same superiority and disdain that heavily inked folks give the tattoo neophyte when the first enter the studio, I don’t care.

I am freakin’ excited.

Not scared at all, but very excited.

And I don’t think I’m alone in this; in fact, I think the potential for disaster awakens something primitive within us that we truly dig on a subconscious level. I think that - as descendants of people that HAD to move, to hunt, to think on their feet and act with immediacy or die – that we feel, in many cases, helpless. To clarify, life has become so ridiculously convenient that we, as a species, have become pathetically dependent upon basic creature comforts such as having clean water, readily available food, constant shelter, instant light, and the ability to contact one another within seconds. Then the hurricane hits, or the earth quakes (had a little one of THOSE last week, too,) or the local weather starts calling for two feet of snow; and we are transformed.

Everybody knows the drill – Home Depot attendants gear up for the run what I affectionately call S.O.S. (shovel and other shit,) supermarket attendants start practicing new, non-offensive, ways of saying: “sorry no, we don’t HAVE any milk, eggs or bread left, perhaps you missed the fact that a Hurricane is coming and shouldn’t have waited until the winds hit 60 mph to go shopping.”  Meteorologists, those avid studiers of meteors, put on their “holy shit, I am finally the big honkin’ STAR of this production” outfits and practice sweeping hand gestures in front of the green screen, hoping simultaneously that something just short of the Apocalypse happens and that they continue to look good reporting it in HD after 72 hours with minimal sleep.

And us? The common folk? I think we thrive on the sense of purpose that preparing for disaster gives us; for a short time we feel, ironically, that our actions can somehow determine the safety of ourselves and our loved ones, that stocking up on batteries and spring water will help us wait it out in the cave while the metaphorical Tyrannosaurus prowls our pristinely manicured lawns. Of course, the T-Rex would get bored after a few minutes and move on in search of something more edible and less sheltered, Hurricanes hang around for a while.

Oh, and they f_ _ _ your cave up but GOOD before they leave.

Nonetheless, I dig the sense of community that impending disaster brings. Check out hardware stores, or the supermarket, or the bars for that matter, prior to an incoming flex of Mother Nature’s muscles. People are HAPPY, they talk to each other, nervous but clearly aroused, about the futility of their actions against the planet’s anger, but a sense of community is forged in that is clearly us versus it. It has often been said that “nothing unites like a common enemy,” and even if that emery is faceless, fierce, and as old as time, we love getting together to stare it down. We will shovel the neighbor’s car out of that two feet of snow, help the elderly lady down the street clean up the branches and damage around her house left by the Hurricane, and reach out to one another immediately upon regaining our cell phone signals after the Earthquake gently reminds us, in the middle of our busy day, of our mortality. We do all this because, at our heart, we are an empathetic species that really, desperately wants to control our fate, or at the very least, secure the health and safety of other close to us.

And hey, if Hurricane Irene can do that, then bring it on, bitch.

Of course, I promised you some pithy commentary on maelstroms of both the physical and emotional variety didn’t I? Yes, I did, check the second paragraph. Well, Hurricane Irene is due to water our plants and sway our branches with 70-100 mph winds and 5-10” of rain (in 24 hours?!?) on the same day my only daughter, and oldest of my living children, Samantha, turns 15.

Happy Birthday, hon, looks like that cookout at the Jersey Shore might have to wait, unless you want to retrieve your hot dog in, oh, Manhattan. 

All kidding about flying frankfurters aside, I am about 100% more frightened of my daughter turning 15 than I am about any stupid Hurricane. Actually, if it was a Hurrivolcanitsunami filled with rabid wolverines and great white sharks that learned to walk, I still don’t think it would be as daunting as the prospect that my daughter is taking another symbolic step toward independence and, infinitely worse, sexual activity.

NOTE: For those of you shaking your heads and saying “dude, kids a helluva lot younger than that are independent and sexually active now, wake up.” I offer the following caveat: “You don’t know me, and you don’t know my wife, and if you did, you would know that those things, while they will happen sooner than we would ideally want (that is to say, never,) they won’t happen until we’re good and f_____g  ready or the trail of destruction we will wreak will make what Irene leaves behind look like cleanup after a toddler's birthday party.

As I was saying, Sam is turning 15, and while I’m not in the habit of making my private conversations with my family publically traded stock, I’ll share this nugget with you in the hopes that it might resonate with any dads (or moms) out there that need that virtual hand on the shoulder/ I’m with you moment. Lord knows, I need them once in a while.

I told Sam that while it kills me to see her start preferring time with her friends over her family, that I am also aware that those are just the selfish wishes of a dad that wants to keep his little girl all to himself. I didn’t say it was rational, just honest. Like any kid, she’s blissfully unaware that when I look at her, I see two Sams: the one she is - that has a wicked sense of humor, an independent streak a mile long, a devastating right hook, and (God help me) boobs.

But I also see the Sam she was, just a moment ago – innocently singing along with Bear in the Big Blue House, dependent on her daddy to feed her that slimy Gerber spinach she used to love, and euphorically happy to see me when I pulled up at Children’s Academy to pick her up.

Sam from then would have cuddled with me, safe in the knowledge that I would protect her from that nasty Hurricane Irene and all her bluster. Sam now wants to stay over her cousin’s house [on her birthday] and go outside during the Hurricane.

            I miss my “Sam from then,” I really, really do.

            Maybe that’s why I’m crying a little bit while I’m typing this.

            If it’s any consolation (and it isn’t,) Mother Nature seems to have started crying whilst I was Blogging. The opening volley of  Irene’s onslaught has been launched. Maybe things will get really bad, maybe the storm will exceed even the expectations of those hyper-motivated meteorologists and fear and panic will reign as nature’s fury demands that we bow down in fear.

            That would be great.

            Then I could run, right into the eye of the storm, to my niece’s house to save my daughter and bring her to safety, seizing control of my destiny and reclaiming my daughter as my little girl. If only for a few moments, I could conquer the storms, both of them. If Hurricane Irene could do that for me, I would be eternally grateful.

            Bring it on, bitch.