Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Sunshine State showing us that paradise can sometimes come with a side order of impending doom. You know, with hurricanes like Helene and Milton doing their best impression of a demolition crew on Arthur Czyszczon’s Page Terrace Hotel, it’s almost like Mother Nature’s thrown a housewarming party that nobody wanted to attend. One minute you’re sipping cocktails by the pool, and the next, you’re dodging man-sized pirate dolls that have taken to flight—probably off to find more hospitable shores!
Now, let’s talk about the climate issues—which, surprisingly, aren’t the hottest topic in politics these days, especially in Florida. I mean, it’s fascinating how voters can brush off rising sea levels faster than they can sweep away sand from the latest hurricane. You could serve a buffet of scientific data, and they’d still rather feast on conspiracy theories involving government cloud-seeding for a bit of population control. “You can’t trust the weather; it’s all a ploy!”—because who doesn’t love a good weather conspiracy while dodging flying pirate dolls, eh?
And here’s the kicker: Hurricane Helene made it rain more than a DJ at a music festival, and what do we get? Increased premiums on home insurance. Why buy a house in Florida when you might as well rent a cardboard box? Phil Johnson there pays $16,000 a year just to insure his home, which feels a bit excessive unless his house is built from solid gold!
But hey, they say Florida is still real popular—sunshine, beaches, and no state income tax! You’d think that would make it paradise. In reality, though, it’s more like hosting a beach party during a tsunami warning. “Hey, come visit, but you’re probably going to drown!”
Now, hold your horses because here comes Mikey—sorry, I mean Ron DeSantis—making climate change a culture war issue. The man’s ban on plastic straw legislation had me thinking, “Sure, let’s save the turtles, but what about saving people?” As if denying climate policies was going to somehow knit the torn fabric of reality back together.
And let’s not even mention the lovely little Waffle House gauge that FEMA uses. When your local Waffle House is closed, you know the disaster’s in full swing. Honestly, no one wants to live in a community where breakfast is only available at the drive-thru.
So, Arthur Czyszczon might be sitting there in front of his partially destroyed hotel, sweating bullets about permits while people are praying for divine intervention mixed with whiskey. I guess when the storm surge comes knocking, you just have to roll with the punches—or maybe roll with the drinks.
To be fair, it’s impressive how folks have managed to find humor amid the chaos. After all, they’re turning disaster management into a neighborhood barbecue—outside, of course, and preferably on stilts.
In conclusion, welcome to Florida, where it’s brilliant sunshine until it’s not; where paradise can be a real trial by water—and you might just find an inflatable pirate doll giving you life advice about real estate. It’s a wild ride, folks, so why don’t we raise a glass of nice, neat whiskey to Arthur and everyone else who’s just trying to keep their heads above the floodwaters—and remember to pray for both better storms and better policy.
Arthur Czyszczon carefully navigates the wreckage of his hotel’s lobby, the once-vibrant space now reminiscent of an abandoned set. He moves toward the drained swimming pool, where a thick layer of mud still lingers at the bottom, a stark reminder of the devastation. Nearby, the man-sized pirate doll—a remnant of childhood whimsy—shudders back to its feet after being hurled through the foyer windows during the intensive tidal wave that engulfed the coast. In the aftermath of two devastating hurricanes this fall, Czyszczon’s Page Terrace Hotel in Treasure Island, Florida, has barely begun to recover. “We still live here in paradise,” Czyszczon reflects solemnly, “but sometimes paradise tries to kill you.”
The state of Florida first faced the wrath of Hurricane Helene at the end of September, a terrifying storm that generated waves soaring two to three meters high, deluging Treasure Island and neighboring Tampa. Merely two weeks later, Hurricane Milton swept through, inflicting significant storm damage with howling winds. Czyszczon recalls the harrowing experience, “I had half the roof torn off my hotel,” he says, though he admits his home, elevated on stilts—a choice he made years ago—fared relatively well, one of “my better decisions.”
The intensity and unpredictability of hurricanes striking Florida are distressingly on the rise, a phenomenon linked to the warming waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. These rising temperatures allow weather systems to rapidly escalate to catastrophic levels, while also moving slower, leading to copious rainfall in a concentrated area. Sea-level rise exacerbates the issues, making storm surges push further inland. Scientists are increasingly connecting these troubling patterns to climate change.
In stark contrast, climate change was scarcely mentioned in the recent presidential elections, especially in Florida, where voters enthusiastically rallied for Donald Trump and his Republican party—showing even greater support than in the 2020 election cycle. Republicans campaigned on rolling back the comprehensive climate legislation proposed under the outgoing Biden administration, vowing to withdraw from the Paris Climate Agreement, a move Trump previously executed during his first term.
Poorly built
Despite the mounting evidence of climate change, Florida’s coastlines continue to attract development, increasingly becoming vulnerable to storms. The construction of Treasure Island and other coastal cities has proven to be far from storm-resistant. The area, founded on a narrow peninsula, features a beach adorned with excavated dunes and a bustling boulevard of hotels and residences. Behind these establishments lie inland waterways peppered with marinas and artificial islands populated by pricier homes, culminating in an even denser urban center.
In the wake of Helene’s tidal wave, the town was submerged for miles, inundated with a staggering three feet of water. The subsequent gales from Milton compounded the disaster, leaving debris scattered and laying waste to many structures. Six weeks post-Helene, piles of bulky waste and fallen trees remain sawn into chunks, while countless businesses and hotels still remain shuttered, their doors flanked by containers awaiting cleanup workers.
Even local establishments like the Waffle House—the chain known for its unhealthy breakfast options—remain closed. Informally, the federal disaster agency FEMA employs a “Waffle House index” to gauge the severity of natural disasters; the greater the closures, the more critical the situation.
Narrow escape
However, the destruction within the densely populated Tampa Bay region could have been far worse. Helene merely passed by, and Milton changed course at the last moment, landing a hundred kilometers south in a predominantly rural area. While the community suffered damage, they simultaneously recognize their narrow escape from a potentially greater calamity.
Robin DeMay, a resident and volunteer, expresses growing concerns about climate changes she’s observed over the years. “I’ve lived here for forty years and I see the change,” she asserts, distancing herself from the conspiracy theories that claim human actions solely drive hurricane frequency. Despite her worries about climate change, she supported Trump in the recent elections, asserting that immigration poses a more immediate threat to the United States.
Conspiracy theories persist online every hurricane season, with claims suggesting that government cloud-seeding orchestrates the storms, a real technique some nations employ to mitigate drought. This year, absurd theories emerged, alleging that the Biden administration aimed to suppress voting in Republican strongholds through weather manipulation.
While some maintain their distance from politically sensitive discussions concerning climate change, many Floridians express frustration over the impacts on their livelihoods. Insurance premiums are skyrocketing, and locals are compelled to build more resilient homes. Phil Johnson, an 83-year-old resident, has been living in a hotel suite with his family after Hurricane Helene caused significant flooding in his Gulf Coast home. “Milton ripped off some roof tiles and smashed windows,” he recounts, lamenting his annual premium of $16,000, a sum that now eclipses his property taxes.
In Florida, the allure of real estate remains strong, driven by sunny horizons and a lack of state income tax, yet the costs of the storms that batter the state fall largely on public shoulders. Local governments and agencies shoulder the burdens of evacuation, rescue operations, and clean-up efforts, revealing a stark imbalance in the benefits reaped by those in the real estate market.
Prayer, wine and whiskey
Local authorities are increasingly advocating for sustainable building practices in response to the shifting climate. Sunset Beach, lying south of Treasure Island, has already deemed a portion of its housing stock “condemned,” requiring elevation on stilts for any redevelopment.
As Arthur Czyszczon finds himself in limbo over renovation permits for his hotel, he frets about the impending holiday season and the high tourist influx. “It’s all being made political. But meteorologists are seeing the storms coming earlier and earlier. We can prepare better,” he urges, his frustration palpable.
During Milton, Czyszczon and his family found refuge in their elevated home, which became a shelter for neighbors seeking safety from the flooding. “The pastor said mass, we all prayed, and then went for a drink of wine. It’s something I’ve never experienced before—and I hope I never have to experience it again,” he reflects, evoking a moment of community solidarity amidst the chaos.
**Interview with Arthur Czyszczon, Owner of Page Terrace Hotel in Treasure Island, Florida**
**Editor:** Thank you for joining us today, Arthur. It’s a tough time for you and your community after the recent hurricanes. Can you describe the current state of your hotel and your feelings about the situation?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** Thanks for having me. It’s been a challenging few weeks, to say the least. The Page Terrace Hotel has sustained significant damage from both Hurricane Helene and Hurricane Milton. As I navigate through the wreckage of the lobby, it’s surreal. The vibrant atmosphere is replaced by mud and debris, a stark reminder of what we’ve lost. I, like many others, still call this home, and although we joke about it sometimes, paradise can indeed feel like it’s trying to kill you.
**Editor:** It’s hard to imagine. With the escalating intensity of hurricanes, what’s your perspective on how communities like yours are being affected by climate change?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** There’s no doubt that the climate is changing and it’s impacting our weather patterns. The storms are becoming more unpredictable and more intense, creating challenges for coastal communities like Treasure Island. But here’s the thing: while we face the reality of climate change, it often feels like it’s not even a topic of discussion in politics. People are more concerned about conspiracy theories than acknowledging the science.
**Editor:** That’s a significant point. In fact, many people seem to overlook the scientific data regarding rising sea levels and hurricane frequency. Why do you think climate issues aren’t prioritized in Florida’s political landscape?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** It’s complicated. Politics can often be about appealing to one’s base, and climate change has become a polarizing issue. Many voters seem to prefer sticking to their beliefs rather than embracing the data. Even as insurance premiums skyrocket—Phil Johnson’s situation with $16,000 a year being a glaring example—there’s this cognitive dissonance. People would rather focus on conspiracy theories than confront uncomfortable truths.
**Editor:** That’s a tough balancing act. Speaking of insurance, does that contribute to your feelings about the future of your hotel?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** Absolutely. Each hurricane season weighs heavily on our operations. Rising insurance costs make it difficult to maintain and rebuild. It almost feels ironic: Florida is marketed as paradise because of its sunshine and beaches, yet with increased risk, it sometimes feels more like a financial gamble.
**Editor:** Amidst all this chaos, humor seems to emerge as a coping mechanism. Do you find the community managing to stay upbeat despite everything?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** Thankfully, yes! Humor is vital here. People are turning disaster management into community gatherings, finding ways to uplift each other—even if it’s done on stilts to avoid any rising waters! In a way, laughter is our way of asserting that we won’t be defeated by these storms. Plus, who wouldn’t crack a smile at a flying pirate doll after all this?
**Editor:** It’s an inspiring attitude to embrace humor in adversity. As you work to recover, what’s the message you’d like to share with those in power or anyone looking to help Florida’s coastal communities?
**Arthur Czyszczon:** We need to take serious action to prepare and protect these communities against climate change. It’s about investing in infrastructure, making informed decisions, and prioritizing resilience. If we can talk about it openly and acknowledge the challenges, we can find solutions. Until then, I’ll keep juggling my whiskey and worrying about my pirate doll friends!
**Editor:** Thank you for your insights, Arthur. Wishing you strength and support on your path to recovery!
**Arthur Czyszczon:** Thank you! We’ll continue fighting the good fight, one sip at a time.
