How Michael has candidates scrambling.
An American flag hangs from what's left of a palm tree Saturday, after Hurricane Michael ripped through Mexico Beach, Fla. (David Goldman/AP)
TALLAHASSEE — In Florida, all hurricanes are political, but some hurricanes are more political than others.
It’s only a few weeks until Floridians go to the polls to elect members of Congress, a U.S. senator and the governor. As those of us along the northern Gulf Coast and inland to the Georgia line confront drowned villages, splintered houses and fallen trees in the aftermath of Hurricane Michael, the most mercilessly destructive storm anyone in these parts has ever experienced, candidates must tread carefully. They have to show up — preferably with a chain saw, full gas cans, hot pizza and a truckload of ice — exhibiting empathy and promising help. But they must never look as though they’re merely grubbing for votes.
Even though they’re definitely grubbing for votes.
Gov. Rick Scott (R) has been in front of the cameras for days, warning, trying to reassure. And also trying to win a Senate campaign. Just like every governor of Florida since the United States acquired the territory from Spain in 1821, he knows he has the proverbial “one job": Fix hurricane damage. In 1992, Andrew chewed up much of South Florida with 165 mph winds. Gov. Lawton Chiles did not respond as quickly or as decisively as his battered constituents wanted, and his popularity crashed. Jeb Bush got high marks for the nine hurricanes he had to handle during his tenure as governor, but because most of the country doesn’t suffer from murderous sea-fed whirlwinds on a regular basis, this didn’t translate into presidential primary votes.
Scott’s opponent, incumbent Sen. Bill Nelson (D), hasn’t gotten as much free media: The Tallahassee Democrat reports that he was turned away from the state’s Emergency Operations Center because the presence of Florida’s senior senator would allegedly “politicize” the crisis. Nevertheless, Nelson continues to campaign, reminding voters that Scott is . Despite the frequent flooding from sea-level rise in South Florida and the gradual disintegration of barrier islands, despite the measurable increase in temperature, state agencies under Scott, including the Department of Environmental Protection, are forbidden to use the phrases “climate change” or “global warming” in official reports.
The Gulf of Mexico is now 3 or 4 degrees warmer than usual, almost certainly fueling Michael’s unusually destructive power. That warmer water also exacerbated the seasonal “red tide” of toxic algae, leaving dead fish, dolphins, turtles and manatees all over Florida’s famous (and economically vital) beaches, earning Scott the nickname “Red Tide Rick.” Nelson appeared on CNN the day after Michael hit, imploring, “Listen to the scientists at the National Hurricane Center; listen to the scientists at the National Weather Service.”
Scott did listen to some scientists once. Sort of. In 2014, Jeff Chanton, a professor of oceanography at Florida State, to the governor’s office and explained in terms anyone (even a politician) could understand how human activity since the Industrial Revolution has altered Earth’s climate: Burning fossil fuels increases carbon dioxide, which traps heat in the atmosphere. Polar ice melts; the Atlantic and the gulf rise. Low-lying areas (Miami, for instance) are at severe risk. But Scott, a multimillionaire with investments in oil and gas companies, had no response.
Tallahassee Mayor and Democratic gubernatorial candidate Andrew Gillum pledges to be a leader in addressing climate change by fostering sustainable energy. Gillum also lambastes Scott for cutting the budgets of Florida’s water management districts, firing scientists and coddling polluters. The two have had a partisan feud going on since Hurricane Hermine in 2016. The governor blamed the mayor for what he deemed the slow recovery of power to homes and businesses, accusing Gillum of refusing aid from other electricity providers. In truth, the city accepted help from eight outside utility companies.
Nevertheless, Republican U.S. Rep. Ron DeSantis, Gillum’s opponent in the race for Florida governor and another climate-change skeptic, has been challenging Gillum’s leadership in the aftermath of Hermine, a Category 1 storm, claiming Gillum delayed work on power lines while “waiting for unionized workers.” This, according to Barry Moline, the then-head of Florida’s Municipal Electric Association, is nonsense: “A flat-out lie.” But lack of veracity did not stop the Republican Party of Florida from during Hurricane Michael, in which an indignant blond woman complains that after Hermine “trucks just sat while people suffered.”
Gillum suspended his campaign (as did Scott) to deal with Florida’s latest hurricane crisis, which slapped us in Tallahassee pretty hard. That doesn’t mean he’s averse to media exposure. Gillum was photographed filling sandbags a couple of days before Michael roared ashore; now he’s in a hard hat wielding a chain saw. Perhaps DeSantis will don a natty work shirt and help pile debris, though he’ll probably choose someplace farther along the coast: Tallahassee votes 60-65 percent Democratic most of the time.
Panama City, also hit hard by Michael, is friendlier to Republicans. Count on Nelson to lend a hand at some point, too. His debate with Scott, which was due to take place in Tampa on Tuesday, has been postponed, no doubt to the relief of many. Neither is what you’d call a charismatic orator.
Scott will be ubiquitous, though, in the well-ironed blue button-down and the “NAVY” ball cap he always sports for natural disasters. The ball cap has now inspired a $4 million ad buy from VoteVets, a group supporting Nelson. It says veterans are offended at Scott’s touting for political purposes his brief (29 months) and not particularly distinguished service — reportedly, he would buy soft drinks on land and to fellow sailors.
Politics are as much a part of North Florida’s environment as mosquitoes, palmetto bugs and humidity, though for a couple of days after Michael, we paused to mourn our losses: that pile of brick and stained glass that used to be a thriving church in Marianna; Mexico Beach, with its sugary sand and funky old shacks, destroyed; the man in Gadsden County who died trying to ride out the storm in his old wooden house. Then, as some of us got electricity back, we looked at our social media and saw that politics had never really disappeared: Should we raise taxes to pay for underground utilities? Should we cut down all the damned trees? Do we trust Democrats? Do we trust Republicans?
Meanwhile, there are plenty of fallen oaks and pines and cedars in every road and every yard from Tallahassee to Cape San Blas. Candidates welcome. We’ll lend you a saw and pair of gloves.
Sumber: https://wapo.st/2ClL6z9
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