We slip into the blue-lit water, our drip-splash slapping against the silence. My husband and I are the only two in the pool and it is coming on midnight. The resort we are staying at in Key Biscayne, a small barrier island off the coast of Florida, is oddly unpeopled. Canceled trips and altered vacations hang in the air, evidenced by so many dark hotel rooms.
A week earlier Hurricane Irma ripped into the island, toppling banyan trees like dominos, tugging up bushes, shattering lampposts, tearing through screens, and shredding the stately royal palms that line the hotel entrance. The storm literally de-fronded the trees. Leaving a single spear of palm jutting into the sky.