TEMPLE TERRACE – More than a month after Hurricane Milton toppled a laurel oak, Cutting through shingles and cinder blocks, the house’s shattered roof still stretched skyward. Fuzzy clumps of insulation fluttered across the living room floor.

Christine Geyer, 51, did not return to tell of the devastation at her mother’s home. After talking to repair workers about the growing mold, he turned his attention elsewhere. He turned to the one task he hoped would lead to a happier ending: He called Champy.

“Champions, man!” Geyer called.

He toured the neighborhood, peering into cul-de-sacs and driveways for a glimpse of his tuxedo jacket. The “Lost Cat” posters he hung He described the “Batman mask and the sweetest ear tufts.”

“Still no cat?” A neighbor who saw Geyer pass by many times asked him to take out his trash.

No luck today. It’s been almost three weeks.

As the days stretch into months after Tampa Bay’s most devastating hurricane season in a century, the lonely effort to recover is just beginning. Coping becomes harder as the first hours of adrenaline fade away into the purgatory of getting by. Housing is scarce. Endless paperwork causes hours of waiting.

Geyer’s long-time partner, Durke Schmidt, found himself sobbing while shaving one day. He lost 10 kilos. Stress created uncertainty As the losses mounted, their 12-year relationship became more than just ordinary things.

The tree destroyed not only the little green house belonging to Geyer’s family, but also their nursing home. plan. Thirteen days ago, during the first of a succession of hurricanes, Their longtime rental home in Tampa, in the Palmetto Beach neighborhood, was swallowed by floodwaters. Their cats climbed onto the stove or floating bed to stay dry.

Two storms, two weeks, two homes lost.

In a region consumed by disaster fatigue, Geyer and Schmidt’s bad luck stands out; due to two storms posing threats to different areas. While Hurricane Helene’s record storm surge decimated low-lying coastal communities, Milton ravaged inland areas with wind and rain.

“The hits just kept coming,” Schmidt said wearily. “Whatever. Divide and rule, I guess.”

Storm surge and panic

Hours before their lives changed forever, the couple tried to relax on their tiled porch. Schmidt, 50, sipped his whiskey and puffed on his cigarette on the stairs; He could feel the fog from McKay Bay already hitting the crumbling seawall a block away.

The date was September 26th and Hurricane Helene was getting closer with each passing minute.

He was only half-joking when he said he might enjoy the cooler weather before the “impending doom.” He had a really bad feeling about this, but he hated to say it out loud as Geyer watched his favorite Marvel movies on the laptop next to him, sprawled on a blanket.

These were the last peaceful moments in a neighborhood they loved.

Palmetto Beach is a low-income enclave in the heart of Tampa’s industrial area, with older, more affordable homes hidden behind oil drums. Across the water, cranes in the harbor dominate the horizon.

For Schmidt and Geyer, the place felt like a refuge from gentrification; He was close enough to Ybor to bike to the dive where he bartended. He liked to sip his beer by the sea early in the morning after his shift.

They met when he was also a bartender and were both inside Ybor’s hospitality circle. He has since switched to real estate but at night she still pulls out feather boas to dance classic burlesque in Tampa Bay clubs, her tattoos peeking through gorgeous vintage robes.

As that night progresses all the illusions As the water rose, the calm disappeared.

Just after 11 p.m., as Helene’s record storm surge began to peak, a Tampa Bay Times reporter texted Schmidt to ask if the couple was OK.

“NO!!!!” he replied. “I’m trying to get out.”

He then stopped responding.

Tragedy and community

When the refrigerators began to float, Geyer and Schmidt grabbed what they could and, out of pure instinct, stuffed the items into bags. Schmidt threw a gun inside, even though he didn’t know why.

Carrying the bags over their heads, the couple walked down their street, past the Silverado in the swamp, into chest-high water.

Schmidt continued to shower for days after crashing into a friend’s trailer; He felt that the smell of the flood waters (a mixture of gasoline, sewage and the sea) could not go away. His friends told him they couldn’t smell it.

Their communities gathered. Other dancers collected Geyer’s old clothes, determined to save the soaked corsets and dresses. A. His friend set up a makeshift bar, preparing cocktails for everyone in front of the moldy house. helped.

The couple prepared to live in the Temple Terrace home, which was completely renovated after Geyer’s mother moved into assisted living. Her 80-year-old mother came from upstate New York before dementia set in and was tired of the fuss and Easter stuff. Geyer inherited his love of cats from him.

Just a few days later, as a monster storm once again blew toward Tampa Bay, Geyer sheltered her six cats in baskets and towels in bathrooms. He planned to stay, too, until a friend offered him a hotel room at the last minute.

When he returned home and saw the tree, Geyer was struck with fear. He dug through the insulation to find cats whose skin had become inflamed from the fiberglass.

“There’s no way this could happen,” Geyer kept thinking. He felt like he was in the movie Last Destination, where people who once cheated on death were chasing misfortunes.

He found the cats scared but safe. All except Champy.

A glimmer of light

In the weeks since, they’ve moved back and forth between friends’ houses, not knowing where to go next. Many Tampa apartments have become luxurious and expensive.

Geyer doesn’t know how much insurance will be put on his mother’s house. As the homeowners repaired the house in Palmetto Beach, they talked about whether they would feel safe returning as the threat of severe storms only increases with climate change. If they return, Schmidt thinks he can get a life raft.

Last week, Geyer received a call from a Temple Terrace neighbor who saw the Champy posters. Geyer tried not to lose hope as he drove, remembering all the disappointing calls from people who had spotted other black-and-white strays.

She got out of the car and called his name – then she heard him meow too. Champy walked into the driveway and embraced him, overwhelmed by his soft purrs.

Geyer took him home – or at least to his temporary home. There he wrapped her in a feather boa.

Times staff photographer Jefferee Woo contributed to this report.

If you want to contribute to the recovery of Geyer and Schmidt, There’s a GoFundMe here.

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