What Florida Lost

Floridians know storms. Or, we like to think we do.

We hope not to be the statistic this time, trusting that our safe brushes with destruction in the past are a sign we will be shielded from the storms of the future. But, as the intensity of the hurricanes we face increases, so does the likelihood we lose it all. 

After the storms subside, Floridians grapple for years with what to make of houses, businesses and schools in shambles. And to outsiders, the destruction of a property isn’t as devastating without knowing — feeling — what was inside. 

That’s why, in this issue, Atrium Magazine reporters sought to capture that feeling. 

They featured valuable items that were battered, engulfed and scattered in the five most recent catastrophic hurricanes, dating back to Hurricane Michael in 2018. They found that loss goes beyond a paint job or roofing. Loss is the heirlooms and yellowing pictures — the shared experiences — inside a place that render it a home.

Dock days

By Lara Baron

FORT MYERS — Pastel pinks and oranges from the sky reflected on the soft waves of the ocean. Seated on a lounge chair on the dock at his home, Mark Fuchs, 23, cast his fishing rod far into the deep water. A smoky scent wafted above — Mark’s older brother was flipping burgers on the grill. His younger brother, meanwhile, kept himself busy with eager thoughts of catching a great white shark. 

For as long as they could remember, the men fished for sharks on their dock. 

The dock’s gentle swaying brings a peacefulness. The brother once rested there for hours, patiently waiting for that familiar tug on the line. 

Now, their laughter from these dock days is nothing but a distant sound. 

The destruction came, ironically, in waves.

Though Hurricane Helene’s murky water swallowed the dock whole, it survived. That was, until Hurricane Milton. All that remains now is severed wood and Mark’s admiration of the ocean, hoping he can one day, again, catch what lies below.

A captain’s treasure

By Valentina Sandoval

SARASOTA — With his two small dogs and rabbits, Simon Williamsen, 41, watched water rise and rise in front of his sliding patio doors, wondering when the glass would give out. 

The night Hurricane Helene hit, Williamsen chose which items from his home, nestled on a saltwater canal, he wanted to salvage. Furniture sloshed and banged in the wreckage as he looked for his treasures.

He’d collected it all: shells and corals, driftwood and lobster carcasses. Despite spending two decades as a boat captain, he remembers exactly where and when he acquired the items. They’re so meaningful he can still feel the wind, see the catch of the day in his hands and smell the ocean. 

He picked out three shark jaws and a fish carcass to keep. He would soon be picking wet drywall from his damaged home. 

Despite temporarily living in a hotel, Williamsen is set on rebuilding his house and his life. He leans on the support of his church, his faith and his treasures, intending to “keep going one day at a time, put this thing back together … and take some people fishing soon.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH — In 2018, 12-year-old Estella McGinity was ready for her first day back to school. At least, that’s what the seventh grader assured her family. How could she complain about having to adapt when so many others were forced to restart? Even so, it was hard to think positively that morning as she feared the outright unknown. The uncertainty she’d seen permeate Panama City Beach in the weeks prior finally reached her. 

She never imagined the school she attended since first grade would be reduced to pieces of junk waiting to be replaced. But she couldn’t let these thoughts pervade her mind. She wasn’t a victim. To distract herself, Estella played on her phone as her mom drove into the car line.

She stood in front of The Church at the Beach, a flat, beige building adorned with a large cross. She searched for the courage to step inside — to explore her new “school.” This was where all her questions would be answered. The lobby was big, but she couldn’t analyze it closely because she was directed to a main room and instructed to sit on a wooden pew. While waiting for the morning assembly to start, she looked around. 

The room held familiar faces. 

For the first time that day, Estella felt at peace. Her old campus symbolized many core memories. But the people around her now symbolized consistency. Hurricane Michael may have taken their school, but it only fortified the bond among students.

FORT MYERS — Many odds and ends circulated in 22-year-old Roan Borghi’s childhood bedroom over the years: Polaroids, Percy Jackson books, a Pink Floyd album and push pins on a map plotting where he’d traveled — except he hadn’t ventured far from his stilt house on the water in North Fort Myers. 

And, of course, there was the cork board that hung above his big, blue wooden desk. There, he displayed concert tickets and cards from loved ones. It was a shrine to some of the most meaningful moments in his formative years. It was an ode to finding the sacred in the mundane.

The cork board is no longer located at his childhood safe haven; thanks to Hurricane Ian, that room doesn’t exist anymore — at least, not in the same way. After storm surges flooded the first floor of their home, swallowing nearly a decade’s worth of Roan’s memorabilia, the Borghis gutted and refurbished the space into a guest room.

When he visits home, he sleeps in territory that would be foreign to his younger self. But when he returns to his apartment in Gainesville, there’s still one piece of adolescence waiting for him: the board. It hangs above Roan’s desk today. 

New room. New city. Same memories, in spite of it all.