Love is a Poor Judge of Odds

Love is a Poor Judge of Odds

August, 2026

When the boys were young we traveled regularly to Florida for vacation. It was a favored destination—the wild and expansive swamps, the ocean beaches, the palms, figs, live oaks, the massive flocks of ibis, egrets, and shorebirds. After getting a taste of what the state offered we zeroed in on the barrier islands off Fort Myers, and eventually took a huge financial risk and bought a condo on Sanibel. To keep it, we worked hard renting it to visitors from around the globe, then used it ourselves every chance we had.

How could anyone tire of perpetual warmth, the pungent smell of low tide in the bayou, the dolphins, manatees, the mounds of shells?  We spent days in a skinny water boat exploring the great liquid wilderness of Pine Island Sound, stalking tailing redfish, casting for snook, sea trout, flounder, often without another human in sight. We spent hours on the beach sifting through shells, collecting olives, murexes, scallops; watching flocks of soaring frigate birds, enjoying the pelicans and terns and passing schools of baitfish.  

Our ground floor condo was built on a slab precisely four feet above sea level.  The thrill of ownership was brought to question during hurricane season, when the reality of our financial risk led to fitful sleep. As the value of the property appreciated, so did the fear of having to pay for something that was under water and utterly destroyed. We sold after 12 years. That was 20 years ago.

Louis L’Amour said, “The only thing that never changes is that everything changes.”  The barrier islands off Fort Myers and all they hold are far from permanent. In late September, four years ago, hurricane Ian came ashore with a storm surge of 12 to 18 feet. Every building was damaged or destroyed. Trees arching over roadways were taken out. Mangrove forests were killed. Beaches washed away. The causeway providing access to the islands collapsed in three places. Ding Darling National Wildlife Refuge, occupying over half of the land area of Sanibel Island, was heavily damaged.  It was a direct hit by a category 4 storm. The one I’d feared.  The condo was totally inundated. 

The state of Florida and the people who owned real estate on the barrier islands responded as governments and people do after natural disasters: they began rebuilding. The causeway was carrying traffic again in record time, and now, four years later, most buildings and businesses have been restored.  The islands are once again an appealing subtropical destination, an enticing and intriguing blend of wild, raw Florida, with accommodations and services fit for royalty. 

Threats to the barrier islands have changed in 20 years. On our recent trip, my wife had a conversation with an island resident who explained that bird numbers and varieties were equal to those prior to Ian.  What wasn’t mentioned was how those numbers have changed over 20 years. Some species, like snowy egret, little blue heron, tricolored heron, have declined markedly for reasons not fully understood. The usual culprits—habitat loss, environmental degradation, climate change—are highly suspect.

The way people and governments come together following natural disasters is a tribute to the tenacity of the human spirit, a collaborative effort to return to what was.  But if an active volcano takes out a village, no one goes rushing to rebuild without some assurance the volcano is dormant.  Given the certainty of climate change and sea level rise, how is rebuilding a barrier island any different?

Meteorologist Chris Gloninger reports that global ocean temperatures are at a new record high. Not by much—a few hundredths of a degree—but the fact it’s occurring at this time of year is of particular concern, “a giant red flag,” according to Gloninger. Climatologically, in the Northern Hemisphere the warmest ocean temperatures should occur in early spring, just after the Southern Hemisphere’s summer. It’s happening now, which indicates a steadily increasing ocean temperature baseline promising more coral bleaching, more rapid melting of polar ice, and an increasing likelihood of extreme weather events. 

Rebuilding a gulf coast barrier island is akin to restoring a lava-covered village as the ground swells and gas emissions are on the rise. Yet, the condos sell, the multimillion dollar homes are restored. We measure risks by insurance premiums, not warming oceans.

But I understand the pull. I felt it for 12 years, and I can feel it again now, 20 years later.  The shell-strewn beach, the tailing redfish, the smell of low tide, are things no photograph or memory can quite hold. That’s exactly why the islands are rebuilt after every storm. It’s not denial, it’s love, and love is a poor judge of odds. It’s not that we don’t believe the water will stop rising—we just can’t quite accept, standing on that beautiful beach, that it will.