A Numbers Game

Floridian Andrea Askowitz jumps and counts her way through her anxiety over climate change, and this Atlantic hurricane season.

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I pull out my jump rope and start slow with a double jump, just high enough for the rope to pass under my feet. Swing, jump, jump one. Swing, jump, jump two. Swing, jump, jump three. At 100, I raise my left pinky and start at one again. At 200, I lift my left ring finger. It’s easy to lose count.  

Before dawn, my daughter’s college, Tallahassee Community College (TCC) sent out three text messages. 1. TCC ALERT! Severe Thunderstorm Warning! 2. Tornado Warning! 3. TCC ALERT, TCC ALERT, TCC ALERT!

I call. Tashi is up. She got the three alerts, which came through her cell phone, same as mine, with an excruciating sound. She did her best to turn them off so she could go back to sleep. She heard the wind. She thinks she heard trees fall. She says she isn’t afraid, but I am. Today is May 10. Hurricane season starts June 1. We’re not even in hurricane season yet, and this is the second time Tallahassee has been under a tornado warning since my daughter got there five months ago.

Now, at 55, jumping rope isn’t just a game. Jumping is a meditation. Jump and count. Jump and count. Jumping is also Xanax.

I count 300 and stick out my birdie finger. Fuck you, global warming. The first 400 are always the hardest. Stiff muscles. Dread this workout will last forever. I started jumping rope at age 6 probably. On the playground in first grade all the kids jumped singing, “Down in the valley where the green grass grows. There sat Andrea sweet as a rose. She sang, she sang, she sang so sweet. Along came (boy’s name) and kissed her on the cheek. How many kisses did she receive? One. Two. Three...” Now, at 55, jumping rope isn’t just a game. Jumping is a meditation. Jump and count. Jump and count. Jumping is also Xanax.

Tashi lives in a townhouse complex with hundreds, thousands of other students. The buildings are adorable and functional, but even an untrained eye can see they were made by the first little pig, or maybe the second. When Hurricane Andrew blew through South Florida in 1992, at a Category 5, my brother and sister-in-law lived in a similar townhouse complex. They hid all night in a windowless bathroom with their dog. After the storm huffed and puffed, the bathroom was the only room standing.

When Andrew hit, my dad acted like it was a good time to make moonshine and went to sleep in his bed. My mom and I hunkered down in my brother’s room, the only one in the house that didn’t have a skylight. When the electricity went out, we had Bryan Norcross on the transistor radio. He said, “Do not go outside.” I wasn’t going anywhere, except the bathroom. Three times. That’s what my body did when I got scared.

We heard a crash. The window in the next room, my childhood bedroom, must have shattered. Water seeped in under the wall. Bryan Norcross said, “Stay under your mattress.” My mom and I pulled my brother’s mattress off the bed, but lay on top of it, paralyzed. I think we both knew that getting under a mattress meant total doom. The air was hot, but more than that, thick. Hurricane winds create pressure. When I lifted an arm or stood to go to the bathroom, I felt the air, heavy, like I was moving through water. Everything I knew about the sky, breathing, life on earth was different.

When Andrew hit, my dad acted like it was a good time to make moonshine and went to sleep in his bed. My mom and I hunkered down in my brother’s room, the only one in the house that didn’t have a skylight.

At 400, I lift my left pointer and quicken my pace. I’m doing double jumps, only faster. Sometimes my knees hurt around now, but not today. At 500, I stop to stretch anyway. I bend my left knee and hold my heel to my butt with my left hand. I count to 20. I do the same on the right. My calves feel tight, but I’m not going to stop to stretch again. I need to keep moving. I need to get winded. I try not to think about anything except counting, but my mind has a mind of its own.

I grew up in Miami and went through the hurricane routine a couple of times. We filled the tub and taped up our windows, but in my 24 years, Andrew was the first to hit hard. Every spring since, I’ve felt the heat of summer approaching and with it a rise in anxiety, sort of like when a dog’s ears perk up. Higher alert.

My rope is red and black with plastic, inch-long pieces and cushioned handles. I’ve tried other ropes—ones made out of leather maybe or taught nylon, like gyms have hanging around—but those hurt when you miss. They don’t draw blood, but they feel like they might. My rope is perfectly weighted and missing only hurts my feelings.

Last year, 2023, Miami’s average temperature was 79.9 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the National Weather Service, that’s 2.5 degrees above the 30-year normal and the warmest year on record. In winter, when Miami is at its best, I open the windows and enjoy the cool air. I didn’t count, but last winter and again this winter, my kids yelled at me more and more to close the windows and turn on the air conditioning.

Last week, a friend who’d grown up in Brazil sent out news that his home state, Rio Grande do Sul, was under water. The airport looked like a muddy river; 105 people already dead. 

In January, I watched the TV series Five Days at Memorial about Hurricane Katrina and the flooding of New Orleans. Levies broke. An American hospital was stranded. Forty-five bodies were left for dead.

Last week, a friend who’d grown up in Brazil sent out news that his home state, Rio Grande do Sul, was under water. The airport looked like a muddy river; 105 people already dead. 

Andrea Askowitz (and her dog) with the boat she bought.

Yesterday, I went to Marine West, a boat store on U.S. 1 that I’ve driven past a million times without ever seeing it. I told the woman at the register I wanted an RHIB, which stands for rigid-hulled, inflatable boat. I didn’t even know what a hull was until I’d gotten into it on Google. I typed in rescue boat. Blow up boat. Best boat in case of flooding.

At 600, I raise my right thumb and step up my pace again, one swing, one jump. I dash off 100 in like a minute. I know 1,000 jumps takes about 15 minutes if I stay focused. Swing, jump, swing jump. I miss. Bummer. Start again. I’m no Rocky, but I go one foot, swing, jump, then the other foot, back and forth, doing my dance. I crisscross and double under, swinging twice on one jump, but count them as one. I’m moving now, sweating, heart beating.

I was afraid to tell the woman at Marine West why I wanted a boat. I didn’t want her to think I was a prepper. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. But worse than the woman thinking I was crazy, was her thinking I wasn’t crazy. What if she thought getting a boat in case of flooding was a good idea?

I was afraid to tell the woman at Marine West why I wanted a boat. I didn’t want her to think I was a prepper. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. But worse than the woman thinking I was crazy, was her thinking I wasn’t crazy. What if she thought getting a boat in case of flooding was a good idea?

Now a warning from the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration: “The number of named storms is the most it has ever forecast in May…17 to 25 named storms, including eight to 13 hurricanes.”

Numbers are rising.

I’m at 800, now 900. I’m back to a fast-paced double-jump. I’m tired, but I can’t stop now. I need this more than ever. At 1,000, I start again at one.