Florida landfalls

A new Hurricane Season officially goes on the books on June 1st:

Here’s a historical calendar showing 110 years of storms that made landfall in Florida at hurricane strength. The color coding of the interior dot shows each storms strength at landfall, and the outer dot the strength at its height.

If you click HERE, it will take you to an html-empowered version of the same graph, which, upon clicking on the dots, will transport you to Wikipedia summaries for each storm. They are fun to read (if you have time).


The calendar shows that most of the powerful storms are clustered between the months of August and October.

Hurricane-strength landfalls after November and before mid July are much rarer, but also keep in mind that’s an incomplete metric:

Tropical storms and waves that (though not hurricane strength) can be just as big rain makers, and also rough up the coast with their swales.

Case in point is Alma (1966).

It's Florida's earliest landfalling hurricane ... and it made Florida landfall twice, once on the Keys and again in Apalachee Bay, way on the west side of the peninsula, but quixotically dumped 10 inches of rain over on the Gold Coast east near Miami.


Thus, landfalls – let alone hurricane-strength landfalls – only tell a fraction of the story.

But it’s an interesting way to keep track, and look back into time. As for what this season will bring, that’s anyone’s guess!

Lake O sphere

Lake Okeechobee, when full, holds 5 million acre feet.

It’s hard to conceptualize that number when you’re on the top of the levee: All you see is endless blue. It might as well be a sea.



But what if you could wrap all that water up in a sphere?

How big would that water look then?


Not that big it turns out.

It would be a big sphere to be sure – with a diameter of 1.4 miles … and if you could wrap a cloth around it, you’d need 6.3 square miles of it.

Florida’s next biggest lake – Lake George at 460,000 acre feet – would only have a 0.6 mile diameter if similarly spherically wrapped, and require 1.3 square miles of cloth.



Both would be too big an order for the local tailor. (And even if it wasn't, the political controversy over which clothier(s) would get the order would be too difficult to solve!)

That’s why we have hydrologists instead ... and math.

Haunted waters

Back in college there was an old railroad bridge that spanned the Lehigh River. It was barely fit for a human, let alone a train – but for some reason one spring day I found myself mid river up on its tracks.

The gaps between the creosoted wooden ties were wider than I expected and thought of the river’s shallowness suddenly started bothering me.

Trust me, one hundred feet (or how ever high it was) is considerably higher looking down! (It’s a mathematical fact … although the exact formula eludes me.)


I know what you’re thinking: “Never look down – you’ll freeze!” But I couldn’t help myself – it was a really good view of the river valley, and after all, I was a fledgling hydrologist.

I made it, one step at a time ... and once was enough.


The true horror of the experience wouldn’t hit me until weeks later.

While running along the earthen toe path of the river-side canal, I caught a strange motion out of the corner of my eye, and looked up to see the sight of a real live train, with a line of cargo cars behind, crossing the bridge.



It was fit for a train! And possibly a human too:

But not both at once.

I shook my head at my stupidity and good luck (… and thought once more about the shallows.)



I wish I’d had the chance to do the same back in my The Mudderland, across the waterway that is its epicenter, and across which used to span the tracks and trestle of the Ma and Pa Railroad (see video).

Today those tracks are gone, and so too whatever held them up:

But the stone abutment at its northern bank still remains, a monument which is as much a fixture of the running waters as the natural rocks themselves, which too – to a stone – have remained unchanged since the days of my youth.



The Ma and Pa Railroad lives on through its ghosts: stories of call men still hollering along the line, whistles shrieking in the dead of night, or the rat-tat-tat of the metal wheels running off into the fog at dusk.

While I’ve never seen one of those ghosts myself, a teacher of mine lived in a house along the line, which he and his wife rehabilitated from the foundation up.

His wife ran out screaming from the foundation one day, in hysterics: “J! Come here!”

Certain that it was a ghost; we were greeted instead on the other side of the door by a giant black snake hanging down from the rafters.



I was perfectly content to watch it retract back into the rafters, which it started to do; but Mr. J, himself being petrified of snakes, but quite at ease in giving orders, was insistent on it being caught … by me.

“Bob! Grab that snake. BOB! NOW!”



That was the first snake I ever caught – and truly in that moment I cannot describe pride of my accomplishment. Unsure what to do with the snake, other than take it off his property, I took it to a friends house where the snake proceeded to bite me, right on the knuckle, where to this day, I still have a scar.

It’s faint, and sometimes I can’t find it, but in the right light, it jumps out.


That’s about as close to proof that I have that the Ma and Pa Railroad is haunted.

For me its good enough. I haven’t caught another snake since.


But of course it’s not the railroad (or the snake) that haunts me, it’s the meander of the creek that riffles by the monument of stone that still remains which – when the summer has ended and the fall leaves are at their peak – is usually shallow enough almost to cross by foot.


Those waters run deep to be sure, but I don’t need a bridge to cross them.

90 (plus humidity)

Since the start of May, Phoenix Arizona has had 15 days rise above the 100º F mark.

Naples can only lay claim to two days above 90º F over the same period.

It’s obvious which is hotter … during the summer that is.



Come winter the temperature tables are reversed:

Daytime highs rarely drop below 70º F in Naples, whereas Phoenix can get downright nippy.



Monthly map of mean temperatures. Source: New, M., Lister, D., Hulme, M. and Makin, I., 2002: A high-resolution data set of surface climate over global land areas. Climate Research 21: 1–25

That summer-winter flip flop is explained by the difference in relative humidity.

In Naples you are unlikely to see relative humidity, as measured under the peak day sun, drop below 40 percent. The summer mid-day standard is 60 percent.

The standard in Phoenix is closer to 20 percent, and routinely below 10.



Thus, have a sweater on hand if you make a winter visit to Phoenix. And if you find yourself in Naples come summer time, you’ll want to turn the AC on most of all at night – not so much for the heat (which cool into the 70s), but for the humidity – which rises upwards of 90 percent.

Swamp ladder

It's an early start to the wet season, but that's only meteorologically speaking:

Late May and June are our traditional soaking in season.

Water's have to soak in first before they can climb up the wetland ladder, where they crest in the pine flatwoods.



Here's a graphical display of current swamp stage relative to major major ecological landscapes and historical statistics for Big Cypress Nat'l Preserve, as of Monday.



Our quickest wet season out of the gate was 2005. It shot up into pine country by mid June, and stayed there for 6 straight months. Last year the pinelands got their feet wet for 4 months in comparison.



But that's getting ahead of ourselves:

The waters have to rise into the cypress first. That's already happening in some places.

Unofficial "no name"

Sometimes you get a big rain week and don’t know it.



At least that’s how it felt where I was standing.

I was at Naples Beach on three occasions Memorial Day weekend. Giant wet season clouds were scaling the skies to the north and inland – it was quite a show, but the liquid version never made its way over my head.


At a larger scale, the same sort of thing unfolded this week across the peninsula.

Central and northeast Florida fell into the grips of a sky darkening and record drenching extratropical storm. That's a fancy name for a mid-latitude low that has neither tropical or polar origins.


Flooding was particularly severe in Volusia County (source) and Daytona Beach has recorded upwards of 20 inches for the month of May (source).

That’s unusual for any month, but particularly so for May: The wet season has only just begun and Hurricane Season’s official start is still days away.



In comparison, it was typical wet season fare for South Florida – mostly sunny skies through the morning, giving way to spotty thundershowers by the afternoon.

With one big exception:

Ten inches of rain from that mid-latitude low fell in the upper reaches of the Kissimmee River basin this past week. That puts it at almost a foot for the month – matching what Fay-drenched August of 2008.



Those waters will be flowing south in the weeks to come.

Isn’t it so often the case that the “no name” storms that pack the most water?

And this one wasn’t even tropical, but it sure felt that way … (although, as I stated earlier, this was one storm I didn’t feel).

Baitfish bonanza

To an outsider, fishing may seem like a leisurely activity, but the truth is, like any good hobbies – it’s a passion:

A day on the water is a full mind and body work out.

At least that’s the case if you’re a good fisherman, which I can say in great confidence that I am not (not even close).



But I’ve seen real anglers in action.

I marvel at their ability to read the water, the wind, the fish, their equipment, adjust technique accordingly, rely on a 6th sense that’s virtually unexplainable, and if you’re a snook fisherman on the Earman River – factor in the upstream spillway (S-44).


The S-44 not only feeds freshwater from the Everglades into the estuary, it also sweeps baitfish into the brackish waters along with it.

That churned up water and turbulent flow is a perfect hunting ground (or in this case, “water”) for the sonar-enabled snook to nab those hazy-eyed and disoriented new comers. Source



From what I can see from the spillway data, those bait fish were on low supply this spring.

The S-44 recorded its lowest volume of spring flows ever, going all the way back to 1985 when record keeping at the site begins.



While I stand to be corrected, since I do not live on the Atlantic coast and – as I stated earlier – I am not a fisherman:

Odds are I couldn’t catch a snook even if it were flowing with seine nets full of baitfish.


But odds are high that good fisherman could catch a couple regardless,

For the next few days at least:

The Atlantic Coast snook season closes on June 1st.

Cracks of time

Photo points are not so much hard work, as they require patience.

Whether its tree foliage or water levels, seasonal changes don’t unfold overnight.

Or do they?



Three weeks ago I stopped at a scenic spot on my commute home, and to my shock, saw it riddled with cavernous cracks. (I didn’t dare walk out – on fear of falling into a chasm without rappelling equipment!)

I shook my head in amazement, and also at my luck (accompanied by a sigh of relief):

Days later an early summer deluge pooled water back across the barren flat.



Other times I’m too patient with photo points … or do I mean lazy.

My glances out the window at 50 mph all spring long seemed to confirm the obvious: “it looks just like it did the day before, and the day before that (dry) … so why stop?

I did stop twice: once in mid March and again in mid May. The two months inbetween saw the thin (and still damp) cracks open into dry gorges of discontent.



In the first case, I knew what I had when I snapped the camera, but in the second, it wasn’t upon reviewing the photos – months later – that I saw the difference.

In all cases I was glad I stopped.

Sight unseen

Ever wonder why all things seeming equal, somehow they never are?

There’s always something missing.

In some cases it’s truly invisible. Other times it is smack dab in front of one’s face … but because we’re not looking for it, we miss it. Either way, it’s there – as a sight unseen – but making all the difference.



That’s sort of the case with the wood storks.

It was a good nesting season up in wood stork central – Corskcrew Swamp, but down in the Big Cypress, the colonies are spotty at best, as they always are, or at least as they have been in recent times.



Wood storks are finicky when it comes to their water.

They require a good wet season (to build up the aquatic food base) and then a slow winter recession so the wetlands are shallow enough for foraging. But it also has to stay wet long enough through the nesting season. And all it takes is a frontal deluge to ruin (dilute) the broth.



What made this particular dome in the Big Cypress a good nesting spot, whereas other seemingly identical ones not (see above photo), I’ll never know.

One thing is for sure: The wood storks do!

Hydrological breakthrough

Question:

Can we rely on technology to guarantee future water resources?



Answer:

The answer is yes, but not an absolute yes of our forefather’s forefathers – rather it’s a tentatively stated and probabilistically defined, “let’s hope so.”

At this point it would be pretty fool hearty to go back to the dousing rod or hand pump, and truly, why would anyone want to try … unless, of course, more technically rigorous methods turned up dry holes?



Technology has become a double edged sword of sorts, in a way that makes me ask – “is it too late for technology, or is it too late for us because of our technology?

We have it now, for good and for worse, as our answer and curse. It’s our fate and the facts, but we need it now more than ever, and I don’t think that is a hope misplaced.

What haunts me is the question – “if we knew then what we know now, would the world and its waters be different today?”



I am buoyed by the prospect that technology, if properly harnessed, can save us heartache down the road.

Ecosystems and water ways have been pillaged for economic gain, but would the calculations that created those messes – so long ago – have been different if our grandmother’s grandfathers had better technology at their fingertips?

What if the original drainers of the Everglades didn’t “dig first, and ask questions later,” and better yet, if they had the technological tools to find answers to uncertainty of their actions?



Unfortunately, the one thing that technology has never invented (despite a legion of prognosticators who claim its powers), is a crystal ball!

Thus, I can make no guarantees, only hope – on a wing and prayer – that technological solutions await, always in the nick of time.

Sensible solution

“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity” is a well-worn phrase in Florida,

But it’s always struck me as being incomplete, in absolute terms, and also relatively so.

Surely there must be a more sensible way to word it?

Rain barrels fill up fast in Florida. So fast that all it takes is one good afternoon shower to overflow the 42.5 gallons that the barrel has to offer.

Compare that to trying to fill up a 12 oz can from water vapor from the Florida sky. By my calculations it takes 115 barrels of sky, or “sun barrels” as I call them, to fill up that 12 oz can.


That’s not much water in absolute terms, but relatively speaking it’s a bucket full.

Relative humidity is the summer metric that matters most in Florida.

The higher the relative humidity, the more difficult it is to sweat, thus making it difficult to cool down.



In Florida, relative humidity runs around 65 percent in the mid day sun, and hovers in the 90s come night time. Compare that to soaring mid day Phoenix sun of 110º F with a relative humidity of 20 percent.

Or as Arizonans say – “It’s a dry heat.”

The only sensible solution is to combine the two – heat and humidity – into a common number.

Not surprisingly it’s called sensible heat index.

That gives Florida’s typical mid summer day of 90º F and 60 percent relative a sensible heat reading of 100º F.

Thus to rephrase the famous saying –

“It’s not the absolute heat, nor is it the relative humidity, but rather a sensible combination of the two.”

A dish served wet

One week does not fill the wet season platter,

But it’s a start …

And an early start at that.



This year’s May 11th start is over a week earlier than the long term May 20th average.

Meteorologists have been predicting an above-average wet season, but at least one forecast was calling for a later-than-normal start to summer rains -- not an early bird special.



We can scratch the early part, but will the wet part still hold?

I don’t understand the full aerodynamics in play, but apparently the swing of the ENSO index out of La Nina and into the neutral phase may grease the wheels by enhancing our sea-breeze fed convectional thunder showers.

They are the bread and butter of the peninsular rainy season.



The past few days have been hybrid rains from a disorganizes swirl of clouds moving north from Cuba, and front bearing down from the continent, with a good dose of convectional uprising.

That sandwiched us with clouds rising from all corners.

It’s been a sight to behold.

Hydraulic heaven