I keep trying to think of funny stories about the hurricane season of 2004, but only one immediately comes to mind. Frances, which followed hot on Charley’s heels and headed north just days before the approach of Ivan, spawned many a tornado throughout Central Florida. When an emergency broadcast bulletin blared through my tinny transistor radio that one such twister was moments away from our neighborhood ("Seconds can save lives," implored the announcer), I leapt into our lower-level interior bathroom, which John had tastefully furnished with flashlights, bottled water, a cozy comforter and coordinated pillows.

"Get in here, John!" I called through the house. "There’s a tornado coming right now!"
No response.
"Where are you? Tornado!"
Still no answer.

Risking what might have been life or limb to rescue my other half, I raced up the stairway to our bedroom on the second floor—the part of our house most vulnerable to high winds and structural damage. John was standing in a windowed closet, a small black bag in one hand, staring at a rack of clothing.

"Didn’t you hear me?" I cried. "Tornado, here, now!"
"Yes, I heard you. But, if the house is blown away, I’ve got to have something to wear."

Moments later, the radio reported that the imminent danger had bypassed us, skipping to a nearby community where falling century-old oak trees impaled roofs and blocked streets.

After 30 hours in the dark, with no TV or Internet to amuse us and only sporadic telephone service, the effects of slow-moving Frances continued to pummel our home—and those of millions of others. And, as we watched shingles fly from our roof, our mental state grew ever more rattled. We became almost as unhinged as the door to the backyard shed.

"If we survive this, we’re moving to Arizona," John announced.
"They have lots of scorpions there," I replied, "and dust storms."
"I’ll settle."

Hurricanes didn’t use to wrack our nerves so. In all the years we lived in Rehoboth, they never really frightened me. We would go to the beach and watch the waves pound the Boardwalk. We would drive down to Bethany Beach to see which of the stilt houses were falling into the ocean. Even as the eye of Hurricane Floyd raced up Delmarva in 1999, I confidently climbed into our van in an attempt to drive to Philadelphia for a scheduled Bruce Springsteen concert. It wasn’t until the wind-driven rain made it impossible to see six inches in front of me on the Smyrna bypass that I realized that my mission was actually dangerous. Still, I only turned back when the radio announced that the show was being postponed.

I arrived back home just in time to watch a tall pine tree topple into our street about two doors away. It only vaguely crossed my mind that, moments earlier, I had driven directly past the spot where it landed. I was more upset that the concert wouldn’t go on.

No, as recently as a few years ago, hurricanes didn’t bother me much. But, my attitude clearly has changed in this current hellacious hurricane season. It’s partly because the storms have come so fast and furiously—one, two, three—without a chance to unwind between them. And, I suppose, it’s partly a matter of getting older.

The younger you are, the more invincible you feel. Even during the most dangerous moments of Frances, police had to shoo teenagers away from the boardwalks in Daytona and Cocoa Beach (just as they used to do to me in Rehoboth and Bethany Beach). Then there’s the matter of younger people often having less to lose. Once you have worked for many years to buy a comfortable home and accumulate some creature comforts, you’re likely to become more protective of your belongings than you were as a recent graduate living in a summer rental with only a footlocker full of T-shirts to fret about.

As several acquaintances with children have pointed out (in our never-ending discussions of the effects of this year’s hurricane season), parenthood has added a lot to their qualms. A father of two pre-teens said to me shortly before Frances landed, "If I had my way, I’d sit out on my lanai with a beer and hurl insults at the damned storm. But I’ve got kids. I don’t like seeing them go through the stress of worrying about whether their home is going to be blown away." Dad decided to evacuate his family, and it turned out to be a wise decision: When they returned to their neighborhood, they found that their screened room had been ripped apart; and a flying palm tree had shattered one of their plate-glass picture windows. As I write, my friend was making plans to fly his family out of Florida again before the expected arrival of Ivan.

I’m not certain that my newfound personal distress about—or, respect for—hurricanes is really a matter of maturity over youthful naivety. Like my friend, in my heart of hearts, I’d still like to be dancing in the spray of a fast-approaching cyclone, screaming "catch-me-if-you-can." I know that many of you feel much the same way, and will be strutting the boards with confidence the next time a big one comes your way.

But, once you’ve experienced the kind of hair-raising hurricane season we’ve been through in Florida this year, you’re likely to become a little more pragmatic in considering the consequences of taking the power of nature too lightly. As I try to balance my dread of yet another approaching storm with my traditional sense of throwing caution to the wind (literally), I keep thinking of a variation on my favorite slogan from CAMPsafe’s HIV awareness project. It applies equally to many of the challenging situations that life unexpectedly hurls into our paths: Have fun! Play smart! Stay safe!