Hurricane Melissa is closing in on Jamaica with the confidence of a diplomat who already knows where the emergency exits are and how to pronounce “barometric.” She flashes an eye like a golden VIP lanyard and introduces herself as “Category Mind Your Business.” The ocean nods. The islands check their schedules. The air itself throws up a sign that reads: closed for private event.

Meteorologists, who haven’t slept since the spaghetti models formed a union, announce, “She’s stronger than Katrina,” and then immediately hire a therapist for the entire sentence. Studio green screens sweat. Doppler radar puffs a paper bag. I watch the wind speed climb like a budget request that’s finally been heard.

Officials hold a press conference, deploying phrases by forklift. Out of an abundance of caution, they caution, a phrase so abundant it requires pallet jacks. Shelters open, curfews whisper bedtime, and everyone wonders why the cone of uncertainty is shaped like a dessert no one ordered.

Jamaica braces with the coordination of a well-practiced orchestra putting instruments back in the cases. Boats get tucked behind breakwaters like nervous vowels. Neighbors check on elders. The sound systems lower their voices as if the bass could offend the barometer.

Reporters assemble by the sea wearing expressions rated for gale-force, shouting vocabulary at foam. One producer asks if wind has a publicist, and another calmly searches for hand-crank weather radio with SOS siren as if enlightenment comes with AM reception.

Airlines do their usual weather yoga, rebooking, reposing, and finally just planking over the Caribbean. At Gate B12, an overhead speaker cancels my flight with the serene menace of a head butler. I consider that turbulence is what the atmosphere calls feedback.

Supermarkets see the water aisle become a philosophy department. Bread becomes cryptocurrency you can toast. A man buys all the batteries ever made and swears he will power civilization with a flashlight and spite.

Meanwhile, climate steps to the microphone and says, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me,” at a pitch only coral can hear. The Ministry of Obvious Temperatures releases a statement: “When you preheat the planet, the oven notices.” The clouds nod like seasoned diplomats, fluent in sarcasm and saturation.

Melissa issues last-minute demands: all the wind, none of the advertisements, and a playlist that slaps like corrugated zinc at 3 a.m. She asks the coastline to be more photogenic and requests a floating waterproof phone pouch lanyard for her selfies. She is a storm and also your most exhausting group chat.

On social media, influencers demonstrate how to unbox a hurricane. “First, you cut away the outer bands—careful, they’re sharp—then reveal this stunning eye that says ‘I wake up like this.’” Comments flood in faster than creeks with opinions.

Practical notes: charge what you can, move when told, help who needs, and respect the sea like it’s holding your receipts. If you can’t be brave, be useful. If you can’t be useful, at least don’t livestream your inflatable flamingo evacuation test.

As Melissa bears down with the charisma of a thousand press briefings, everyone’s plans become weather-shaped—mine included. The skies cancel our appointments, the wind reschedules our priorities, and the ocean’s out-of-office reply just says: noted. Melissa still wants the window seat, but Jamaica, politely and decisively, would prefer the turbulence sit somewhere else.