72 hours on Fort Myers Beach ahead of Hurricane Milton brought an eerie stillness over the once-vibrant haven. Hotels, businesses, and restaurants had closed their doors on Monday, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty. Residents and tourists hastily departed the island, their absence echoing through the streets. As a precaution, nearly every vehicle parked on the low-lying northern end was relocated to higher grounds, highlighting the community’s readiness to confront the impending storm.
With no visitors, snowbirds, or locals in sight, the resort town, usually teeming with life, felt desolate. The melancholy of abandonment settled over the sandy shores, as if nature itself was holding its breath. By Wednesday, heavy rains began to blanket the region swiftly. At 11:00 a.m., the ominous sound of a tornado warning enveloped parts of Lee County, adding an urgent tone to the unfolding storm narrative. Dozens of such alerts followed, as Milton made its formidable entrance.
As cameras documented a stunning waterspout crossing the bridge at Matlacha, just a few miles away, Fort Myers Beach faced fierce wind gusts and torrential downpours. By 4:30 p.m., scenes of Estero Boulevard transformed dramatically as storm surges turned the iconic roadway into a rushing river. In an alarming blink, the gulf waters and Matlacha Pass appeared to merge, claiming the ground floor of the island.
Power outages soon blanketed the area as the county had already cut off the water supply preemptively. The darkened sky danced with the haunting flashes of transformers exploding across the mainland, a stark contrast to the serene coastal calm that had graced the beach just days before. However, by 11:30 p.m., a silver lining emerged as the waters began to recede, revealing the once-submerged parking lots that had been hidden for over six hours.
Thursday morning brought a haunting beauty; the sunrise illuminated the aftermath—wet, sandy roads, broken palm trees, and strewn debris painted a poignant picture of resilience amid destruction. Bill Waichulis, the General Manager of the Pink Shell Resort, offered a flicker of hope. “Better than expected,” he reflected. “We were bracing for the worst. This storm exceeded Helene, which took us 48 hours to recover from. If we regain power soon, we may be back on our feet within 72 hours.”
The resort had taken considerable measures to safeguard its elevators, an essential lesson learned from Hurricane Ian. “We moved the elevator cars to the middle floors,” Waichulis explained, aiming to protect them from potential surge. Heavy-duty barriers were installed at all elevator entrances, a strategic defense against the forces of nature. “We storm-proofed the panels; our elevators are perfectly protected,” he stated with a hint of pride. It was a testament to the community’s spirit and a symbol of their preparedness against future storms.
Yet, amidst the destruction, life continued its pace, reminding those who remained of the beauty that often emerges from chaos. There’s a local saying that “Fort Myers Beach always comes back,” and as the waves lapped gently at the shore, there was a quiet certainty that this resilient town would once again flourish, standing strong against whatever nature might throw next.
