If you live along the East Coast or the Gulf of Mexico, September can make you a little crazy.

Even now, there are two yellow 𝘟’𝘴 floating off the coast of Africa, creeping westward, insidiously making their plans. As you well know (you 𝘥𝘰 watch the NOAA weather map, don’t you?) those little 𝘟’𝘴 can grow into little red circles, sprout tails, and take on fancy names like Chantal and Dorian and Gabrielle.

     Once a storm has an “official” name, folks get 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 nervous. Unless they pick a name like “Teddy,” which doesn’t inspire much fear in anyone. (“𝘙𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴! 𝘏𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘥𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦!”)

     A friend of mine who lives near Houston is intimately familiar with a lot of those names. He’s survived three Cat 4 hurricanes and countless lesser storms. Tropical weather, he says, is like a giant bowling alley that stretches from West Africa, through the Virgin Islands, over the Dominican Republic and Cuba, through the Gulf of Mexico, terminating on his front porch. “We’re the 𝘰𝘯𝘦 pin,” he says.

     Listening to my friend’s colorful metaphor, I pictured Tarzan standing on the coast of Senegal, hurling bowling balls across the South Atlantic. Depending on the spin, they’ll sometimes veer to the right. (Watch out, Charleston!) Other times they curve left, striking Central America or the Yucatan. A few of them roll straight on down the alley. 𝙎𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙠𝙚!

     One thing’s sure. The best hurricanes are the ones that wobble off into the North Atlantic and peter out.

    “Gutter balls,” my friend said. “That’s what we’re praying for.”