These last few days have been a weird mix of apprehension and normalcy.

Ever since Hurricane Ian became a circulation of interest in the waters of the Caribbean Sea last Friday it has been taunting and toying with cities all up and down the West coast of Florida – whipping up caution and fear and rearranging plans as people did their best to prepare for the possible worst.

Myself and my 4.5 million fellow west coast residents began a familiar ritual: religiously watching the Cone of Uncertainty and the myriad spaghetti models that would lend us precious clues on where the storm might potentially go. It’s a delicate dance. We pray that the storm misses us, yet we do not wish for our good fortune to mean destruction for someone else. If we could, we would just wish it to dissipate or disappear.

We commence filling our tanks with gas, gathering food and water and supplies to sustain us for a few days. Long lines at the pumps become common as people top off their tanks and fill gas canisters to power their generators. Milk and bread and batteries and water become hot commodities, forcing people to travel from store to store in search of them. Then there is the rare visit to the ATM to get some cash incase an extended loss of power to the area renders our rectangular pieces of plastic with their coveted 16-digit bank-linked codes unusable.

You’d think after a few decades in a hurricane zone, this would get easier.

And compounding the situation this time around for me was having to leave my place in the Tampa/Clearwater area a few days ago for work up in Ocala. I had to decide what to take and try to gauge my food needs for an undetermined amount of time. Grab the passport, certificates, and other important documents. And remember to bring in the bike and the patio furniture as I hope and pray that I have something to come back to at the end of the week.

Once you make a plan and everything’s in place, you wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

And try to go on about your business, all the while knowing your life might drastically change in a matter of days.

Unlike other major weather events, hurricanes at least give you the chance to take measures to protect yourself, your loved ones, and your property. You can choose to take your chances and leave, or hunker down and ride out the storm (unless your are in an evacuation area: then please, just leave).

Meanwhile, life goes on outside of the cone. Work has to be done. Bills need to be paid. Calls need to be returned. You try to immerse yourself in whatever you are doing, or doing what you can while you have the opportunity and the electricity to do so. It is such a strange dichotomy.

You are glued to the twice-daily National Hurricane Center forecasts to see where the Cone of Uncertainty (aka Cone of Doom) is pointing. This 5-day forecast cone has the powerful ability to simultaneously induce fear or relief, depending on your geographical relationship to it.

We are taught to not focus on the center line of the cone, but it’s hard not to.

Meteorologists are quick to point out that the hurricane could land anywhere inside the cone, and that the hurricane’s actual path will wobble.

You try to defuse the uneasiness by making jokes and sharing memes on social media, and that helps until the winds pick up and the lights begin to flicker. Chocolate is always a good choice. Adult beverages can help take the edge off. You take a nap to bolster your reserves if the storm is forecast to arrive at your doorstep overnight, just incase you end up huddling in an inner closet in the wee hours… because the howling wind will not let you sleep. Experienced hurricane riders will have developed their own coping rituals and mechanisms to deal with the storm.

You also worry about family and friends elsewhere in the state. With Ian’s massive size, more than half the state’s peninsula is now covered by Ian’s menacing swirl.

My daughter and granddaughter joined me and my family up in Ocala. My son and his family decided to remain down in Estero, just 30 miles south of Ian’s landfall and just outside of the 20 mile-wide eye wall. Too close for comfort, for me.

There’s not much worse than your children being in danger with nothing you can do that can cause such feelings of helplessness.

You fear for their safety and hope and pray that they will be okay. Fortunately for us, they are okay, despite the surrounding chaos like sporadic flooding and displaced roofs Ian left in his wake.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

My attention turns briefly toward home. Some expected rains and winds, but largely spared the catastrophic turn of events had Ian continued on his earlier path. Water has been sucked out of a portion of the Bay and the area’s canals, so the impact of the returning water flow won’t be felt or known for a few more hours.

Elsewhere, Ian’s 500 mile reach was felt on the Atlantic side of the state even as Ian was still churning in the Gulf. Like I said, a massive mother f*cker.

By the time it reaches us in Ocala, it should be downgraded to a tropical storm. I step outside, feeling a slight drizzle and a cool breeze, and watch in amazement as the gusts entice the trees to dance vigorously in the wind.

And I offer up a prayer of thanks and exhale a just little bit more.