How to get someone to share their drinking water after a hurricane
The National Weather Service has a map that will ruin your day.
The map is interactive, which is a word information-slingers use to make the products of their research sound so much more fun than they ever could be.
And it’s called SLOSH, because the Ministry of Naming elves can’t resist an acronym.
“Let’s just call it what it is this time. Sea, Lake and Overland Surges from Hurricanes, OK guys?,” the elf who thought of the map said.
“OK, yeah. Yeah. Um, let’s do that,” the elf’s elf boss tells him calmly before losing his mind in a blast of red sweat. “BUT THAT SPELLS A WORD, WE HAVE TO USE THE WORD! ‘SLOSH’ IS THE PERFECT WORD FOR A HURRICANE MAP.”
To be more precise, this map is the SLOSH model of MOMS, which is “maximum of maximums.”
MOMS, as it turns out, is also a perfect acronym because this map envisions the absolute worst-case scenario, which is what any good mother does any time her child leaves the house.
In this case, the absolute worst-case scenario in a hurricane during high tide is “better get your SCUBA certificate now.” (That’s “self-contained underwater breathing apparatus.” Thank you, naming elves. That did make it easier.)
I say this because I’ve played with this map a lot — I’ve “interacted” with it.
I’ve zoomed in. I’ve zoomed out. I’ve gone through all five categories of hurricane, from the low-end “run for the hills” to the high-end “swim for the hills.”
And I’ve been most fascinated with one little area, a doughnut hole of allegedly untouched Beaufort County earth surrounded by a literal sea of danger zone colors.
This doughnut hole is where we’ll build our new world.
Where we’ll hoist our survival flag.
Where Sun City Hilton Head will finally get its wish and actually be Hilton Head. (Well, East Sun City anyway. Sorry, Westerners, you’re on the Ark.)
If a Category 5 hurricane hits this area during high tide, it won’t be a good look for most of us. But congratulations Ridgeland on your new beachfront properties.
Actually, if any brand of hurricane hits during high tide, it’s not going to be great.
We know this, though.
It’s the truth we’ve accepted about living in paradise.
The only option is to hope and pray it never happens — and that we really do live in “God’s Nook.” That hurricanes are too scared to dip a toe in our sharky waters.
In the meantime, though, we really should prepare.
Actually, you should.
I lift right out.
Here’s my hurricane evacuation plan:
1. Pack dog.
2. Pack cat.
3. Pack laptop, iPad, iPhone.
4. Leave.
5. Stop when I reach first hotel with room service and watch “Real Housewives” until the Benadryl kicks in.
6. Never let cat see this list or ever find out a truth he has known in his cat heart for a long time, which is that I’d rescue him second.
That’s my ideal hurricane evacuation plan, anyway.
Looking at that looooong list of things we should do and have and know and remember in case of a storm exhausts me.
As a result, I have become overconfident and cavalier.
Where am I supposed to be storing all those hypothetical gallons of water anyway? I’ll do that when we get a Costco.
Turn my fridge temperature up? What? Does my fridge have a temperature turner upper? Where have I been? There’s no food in that thing anyway.
GET TRAVELERS CHECKS?
Oh, come on now.
But then I think of the map.
The SLOSH of MOMS.
Not every storm is a MOMS storm.
But every big storm has at least some SLOSH.
In fact, I think I was once SLOSH’d on Folly Field Beach. The water was practically touching the dunes, and I had almost literally nowhere to sit.
And that storm was out at sea! I couldn’t even see it.
What if a storm comes that’s just one percent worse than predicted? Just one degree below “we should have evacuated”?
Will we have to fight for drinking water?
Will no one share their gallons with me, my dog or my cat?
No. No. I’d be too ashamed to ask anyway.
Besides I’d be considered one of the ostracized No-Preps, a society of lawless waterless Lowcountry ragamuffins that pops up because we couldn’t be bothered to get Travelers Checks like 70-year-old aunts before a bucket-list trip to the Vatican — and because no one likes those who don’t help themselves.
Our currency would be soggy books that we had hoped to read one day and thawed Lean Cuisines.
This has turned dark.
I promise I will buy water this year.
And I will share it with anyone who asks.
See you on the doughnut hole.
Liz Farrell: 843-706-8140, lfarrell@islandpacket.com, @elizfarrell
Aug. 20, 2015 A look at Beaufort County's hurricane vulnerabilities | READ
This story was originally published May 27, 2016 at 1:04 PM with the headline "How to get someone to share their drinking water after a hurricane."