The Gulf is too hot this year. The water feels heavy, the air thick with it, and yet summer has nearly passed without a single storm. No spirals spinning on the maps, no frantic rush for plywood or bottled water. Just stillness, and stillness is never safe.
My grandmother used to say the Bay was blessed. She would tell me stories about covenants whispered into the tide, or a princess buried in the water with her drowned warriors guarding her rest. And when storms spun wide and furious, only to curve away at the last moment, she would nod and say, “See? The Bay protects her own.”
I believed her, until I met Daniel. He was a fisherman, older than me, his skin the color of weathered rope, his eyes always turned toward the horizon. He said the Bay wasn’t blessed at all. “She’s beautiful,” he told me once, “but beauty like that always takes something back.” He’d lost a brother to a calm sea — no warning, no storm, just a boat that never came home. “The Bay feeds on us,” he said, “and that’s why the storms don’t stay.”
I didn’t know what to make of it, not then. But I remembered when Daniel himself vanished. Clear skies, flat water, and he never returned. The Coast Guard called it an accident. His family called it bad luck. But I knew. The Bay had reached for him the way a jealous lover reaches, and she had kept him.
That’s when I understood what my grandmother never said out loud: spared doesn’t mean safe.
The storms still circle. They pace the horizon like wolves, throwing their weight against the Gulf, but when they reach the Bay, they falter. They turn aside. And every time they do, another village farther up the coast is torn apart, another marsh is drowned, another name is added to the roll of the lost.
People here still call it a blessing. They laugh about the bubble, say the storms never land, pour another drink while they patch their roofs. But I think about Daniel, about his brother, about all the others the Bay has claimed when the skies were calm. The Bay doesn’t protect us for free. She takes her payment in flesh and memory.
Now the summer is nearly gone. The air feels too quiet, the water too still, like everything is holding its breath. Maybe the storms will try again soon. Maybe the Bay will sing them aside, as she always does. Maybe she’ll ask for another offering first.
And you know how these stories go.
There’s always a storm.
There’s always a price.
