For years every summer from when my brother and I were very small my family and I transformed our lives in one week at a small South Carolina beach town. Our parents, away from work and the daily demands of life were relaxed and actually fun to be with. Trading comforts like air-conditioning for ceiling fans we ate basic southern food, played in the ocean and sought interesting shells. Occasionally a pod of porpoises swam by as we sat transfixed on the porch. Idyllic, undemanding, peaceful.

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Even before reading Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us I have always loved the ocean. It’s mysterious, moody and can be, like me, quite dramatic. So when I retired, moving to within minutes of the beach was a dream come true.

Except hurricanes.

Since this remarkable viral plague paralyzed the world I am surfing Zillow almost daily. I have convinced myself that living in the mountains will be my best option. Yes, ice storms. Yes, frozen pipes. I have yet to make my pros and cons list for living both places. I tend to be impulsive. This is a bad trait when considering something like moving house. Since 2003 for instance I have moved 7 times. Three different states. Four of those moves were for work. That is a lot of boxes and bubble wrap. So this one (if there is one) I hope will be the last.

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What made this hard is knowing I will be a 6-hour drive from the ocean. And one of the houses I looked at boasted a “concrete-insulated cellar of bomb shelter quality convenient for safety from tornadoes”.

So maybe hurricanes, though terrible, can be withstood.

 

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