Waves of Chaos & Winds of Greed
Disaster Capitalism & the Commodification of Crisis in Florida
I am a third generation Floridian. My grandparents migrated to Florida in the 1950s, escaping the poverty-stricken Bible Belt to raise families in the Sunshine State. My parents grew up in South Florida, my father on the west coast and my mother on the east. I was born and raised in Lee County and have witnessed its evolution firsthand.
Hurricanes are a part of life here; over 80 tropical and subtropical cyclones have made landfall in Florida throughout my lifetime. Hurricane Charley hit Southwest Florida on my fourth birthday; it is the first of many storms in my recollection. I remember gas lines, sandbags, and cheap grills. Unlike some, my family was lucky; we had a busted windshield and prolonged power outages, but ultimately skirted calamity. In the years that followed, we weathered countless storms of varying magnitude, and, excluding the occasional roof leak, remained unscathed. We began to grow comfortable with our good fortune, yet, evacuation orders and storm surge warnings became increasingly common.
In 2017, experts claimed that Hurricane Irma would completely submerge our 1960s South Cape Coral home within hours, therefore, we promptly evacuated. We stockpiled gas, water, canned food, batteries, and all other recommended supplies. We boarded up and sandbagged; we packed what we could fit into our cars and came to terms with losing everything left behind. We fled to a hotel in the middle of the state with my elderly grandparents and a slew of family pets; we incurred considerable out-of-pocket expenses to avoid overcrowded and under-funded hurricane shelters.
After the storm had run its course, we traveled back to assess the damage. Upon our return, we felt both relief and confusion; our house was fine. One small tree had toppled over, and some grass across the street had withered from saltwater exposure—that was it. We spent thousands of dollars on preparation and evacuation, poured countless hours into damage mitigation, and endured immense psychological and emotional stress—all for what turned out to be nothing. We were blessed once again, yet felt more misled than ever.
Storms are unpredictable; the narrative is not. Having lived through multiple “once in a lifetime” hurricanes, I can confidently state that the establishment’s legitimacy permanently decreases each time they get it wrong. Floridians watch media personalities and politicians salivate over every impactful storm; tragedy is good for business. Mongers must strike while the iron is hot; no one watches the Weather Channel when Mother Nature is calm. Some have good intentions, some do not, alas they practice their talents in a rotting system—one where capital incentives always favor sensationalism over objectivity. The talking heads cried wolf for years, and when he finally came, nobody believed them.
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Hurricane Ian was the most catastrophic storm to hit Florida in nearly a century. Although it was initially expected to make landfall near Tampa, the cyclone made an unexpected turn, slamming into Southwest Florida just shy of Category 5 intensity. It was slow-moving and massive, spanning over 500 miles in diameter and unleashing sustained winds of 150 mph throughout Lee, Charlotte, and the surrounding counties.
I was attending college in Tampa at the time, and given the media’s reprehensible track record, neither myself nor my family in Lee County took proper precautions. We did not board up or sandbag; we did not stockpile supplies and we did not have an evacuation plan. As the storm trended southward, however, my family’s concern began to grow; they booked a last-minute hotel room away from the coast and crossed their fingers.
As the storm made landfall, cell service, along with the power and water supply, was largely disabled across Southwest Florida. Since Tampa remained unaffected, I was tasked with monitoring the news and sending regular updates to my impacted family and friends. As the night progressed, the outlook worsened; the tides continued to rise and the media’s giddiness turned into solemnity. I tried to remain positive in my sporadic briefings but could not deny my family the truth: our luck had finally run out.
When the sun came up, I stockpiled supplies and headed south; thousands of people had the same idea. The further I went, the worse it got; I-75 was flooded and every powerline and stoplight south of Bradenton was down. The National Guard was activated and supplies were limited; smoke billowed from burning buildings and it smelled of civil unrest. The cell service worsened and the chaos grew; I was driving into the apocalypse. A two hour drive turned into an eight hour battle, but I finally made it home.
My neighborhood was unrecognizable; it looked as though a nuclear bomb had been detonated, leaving nothing but mud and debris in its wake. The only home I’d ever known was in ruins. The yard was blanketed with every imaginable piece of wreckage and the structure’s exterior was beaten to death. The house was filled with murky water that reeked of chemicals and sewage and everything below three feet was ruined; twenty-five years worth of nostalgia and security had been absorbed by the Caloosahatchee River overnight.
We were in shock and were forced into a state of dissociative self-preservation; we quickly pivoted into salvaging as much as we could. We paid little attention to the superficial—the electronics and appliances and consumerist clutter—and instead focused on the sentimental. Refrigerators can be replaced, baby shoes cannot; we were painfully reminded that value is redefined in the presence of trauma and loss.
The sunset was beautiful that night, but as darkness settled, so did the realization that this journey was far from over. We returned to shelter and tried to sleep as candles burned and generators roared; humidity and mosquitoes pulled sweat and blood from our skin as we clung to the hope that we’d wake up to find it was all just a nightmare.
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The sun rose and we were still in hell. The power was out and boil water notices flourished. Scavengers and vultures scoured neighborhoods and insurance disputes began.
It was time to divide and conquer; my father and I set out to assess the damage done to my grandparents’ homes while the rest of my family remained focused on salvaging our own. The first stop was right down the road; my maternal grandmother is a ninety-four year old widow from Miami who moved to Lee County about a decade ago after her husband passed away. Her home is very similar to ours: a charming 1960s Florida bungalow in a Special Flood Hazard Area—Flood Zone AE. Upon arrival, we found a familiar scene: her home was surrounded by limbs and debris and had taken in at least a foot of water. While most of her sentimental belongings were spared, the damage was significant and would demand extensive rehabilitation.
Once we properly assessed the ruins, we made our way to the next stop. My paternal grandmother is an eighty-six-year-old widow from South Carolina who has called Matlacha, Florida home since the 1960s. My late grandfather affectionately described Matlacha as a "cute-iful" island community, celebrated for its vibrant art galleries, fresh seafood restaurants, and quirky Old Florida charm. Surrounded by estuarial waterways and mangroves, the island is a haven for fishing, kayaking, and exploring Florida’s natural beauty. However, its low-lying location between Pine Island and mainland Cape Coral leaves it exceptionally vulnerable to flooding and storm damage—a vulnerability made painfully clear in the wake of Hurricane Ian.
All of Southwest Florida’s barrier islands—notably Fort Myers Beach, Sanibel, and Pine Island—were ravaged by the storm. The Sanibel Causeway and the road leading to the Matlacha Bridge were completely washed away, cutting off vehicular access to each island. Despite this, the D&D Matlacha Bait and Tackle Shop quickly and generously opened its boat ramp to the public, providing immediate access to the island by sea.
My father and I connected with my lifelong best friend—a fellow Lee County native equipped with a sixteen-foot jon boat—and ventured into what felt like a warzone. Apache helicopters hummed overhead as first responders collided with chaos. Pine Island natives, immigrant farm workers, journalists, and busybodies scrambled to get onto the island. The policeman monitoring the boat ramp took a hands-off approach. He described the scene as the “Wild West” and explained that his only role was to prevent panicked violence.
We dropped the boat into the water and embarked on a voyage of devastation and heartbreak. The storm’s wrath had rearranged the landscape—entire blocks had been washed away, leaving nothing but desolate stretches where homes and businesses once stood. Boats lay overturned, and cars sat submerged, silent witnesses to nature's indifference. Sandbars were moved and reshaped and mangroves stood stripped of their vegetation, their skeletal branches a stark reminder of ecological fragility. Water rushed back into the Gulf at a startling pace, dragging trash and pollution along with it.
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We arrived at my grandmother’s shortly after noon and could hardly cope with the carnage. The water line was above my head. The garage and first floor had been fully submerged; a thick layer of sludge coated the tile. Most of the top-floor windows had been blown out, scattering and shattering the dining room, living room, and kitchen. The roof had been partially torn off and the foundation was visibly sinking. Minnows swam freely in the flooded streets and the remains of neighboring houses were scattered across the driveway.
We spent hours filling trash bags with sentimental belongings—photo albums, journals, family heirlooms, and cherished keepsakes. Our focus was on preserving the irreplaceable pieces of my grandmother’s life, the tangible remnants of fleeting memories.
Repairing the house was out of the question—it was beyond saving. We boarded up as best as we could and spray-painted “NO TRESPASSING” in bold letters across the outer walls. This wasn’t just a warning—it was a plea to leave what little remained untouched, driven by the looming threat of looters and the uncertainty of when we could return to the island.
As we prepared to leave, we noticed a man a few doors down, disheveled and dazed, sweeping the floor of a house now partially submerged in the canal. Despite his calm demeanor, there was an eerie detachment about him—he was clearly in shock. He was one of the few who had stayed on-island during the storm; he was low on water, out of food, and his cell phone had long since died, yet he continued cleaning—fully disconnected from catastrophic reality. We approached and offered to take him off the island; he hesitated, his bewilderment anchored him to the ruins of his home, but eventually agreed to join us on our odyssey back to the mainland.
The overloaded boat rode perilously low; water breached the bow with each passing wave. After a tumultuous trip, we made it back to the boat ramp. My parents immediately called their siblings to arrange extractions for both of my grandmothers, knowing their cars were flooded and their homes were not livable—the storm had erased their final sense of independence.
My maternal grandmother was taken to Tampa, where she stayed with family for a year while repairs were underway—repairs that remain largely unfinished to this day. My paternal grandmother was taken to Tallahassee, where she lived with family before transitioning into an independent living community; she hastily packed a bag one day and never returned home.
Our initial hurricane response spanned about two weeks, during which time we focused on preserving what we could and securing what remained. Once we stabilized each of the three properties, we retreated to whatever sense of normalcy we could find. I traveled back to Tampa to regroup and reintegrate into my collegiate and professional routine; my parents moved to Miami with family and resumed work remotely as they recovered from the physical and emotional toll the disaster had wrought. Despite the insurmountable amount of work left on the ground, we had no choice but to set it aside for the time being. Our priority became re-establishing balance, while simultaneously navigating a complex and ceaseless maze of insurance claims, building codes, contracting agreements, and governmental regulations.
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My parents had both wind and flood insurance coverage for their home. My paternal grandmother only had wind coverage and my maternal grandmother had no coverage at all. My family has always maintained a healthy skepticism of the corporate establishment; our distrust of the insurance industry spurned a detailed and thorough accounting of all hurricane damage to prevent undervaluation. We are not insurance professionals; we were forced into this shady world by circumstance and immersed ourselves out of necessity.
We spent hundreds of hours fighting tooth and nail for fair compensation. We analyzed every aspect of our insurance policy and agonized over every detail of our claim. We took thousands of pictures and documented every single thing we could. We were diligent and responsive and upfront and honest. We met every deadline and spoke openly and frequently with case managers and desk adjusters, still, the swindlers made it nearly impossible to receive fair compensation. Insurance companies are souless; they exploit the vulnerable customers they claim to protect and stop at nothing to strengthen their bottom line.
Our house was destroyed and our family was displaced, yet the industrial machine of bureaucratic gluttony remained indifferent. Citizens Insurance, Florida’s insurer of last resort, is incompetent except when denying claims and reducing payouts. Each year, Citizens raises rates and drops customers as flood zones expand and coverage worsens. They contested our claim for over a year and wore us down to the point of exhaustion. We continued to fight and eventually received modest compensation, only after they realized we would not be willingly cheated. Though we secured most of what we were owed, Citizens promptly dropped our policy—leaving our home virtually uninsurable forevermore.
Having been preoccupied with our own insurance battle, my family hired a “private insurance adjuster” to comprehensively advocate for my grandmother in her pursuit of just restitution in Matlacha. Private adjusters are insurance professionals who assess property damage, negotiate with insurance companies, and advocate on behalf of policyholders. Traditionally, private adjusters are former insurance company employees who learned the system's intricacies and exploits and charge a 10% fee based on the insurance payout they secure. They are slimy but they are on your side; sometimes you must fight greed with more greed.
The private adjuster successfully secured a portion of my grandmother’s rightful payout, yet, Citizens continues to deny and delay to this day. My grandmother, like many other climate refugees, can barely afford to pay her mortgage, property taxes, homeowners insurance, and other essential expenses, let alone the additional costs of unexpected tragedy: relocation, rent, reconstruction and replenishment. She certainly cannot cover the upfront cost of extensive renovations while waiting for an uncertain reimbursement from insurance. Therefore, as each day goes by without the remaining payout, her home continues to deteriorate.
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We expected insurance companies to plunder; we were shocked by the systematic failure of government. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) responded to Hurricane Ian with negligence: their encampments were out of control and their disaster payments were abysmal. Modular homes and trailers were routinely delivered to incorrect properties and their communication was inconsistent—they were disorganized and inefficient and their strategy and procedures varied wildly depending on the employee and the day.
City, county, state and federal agencies proved to be more subversive than the insurers—their regulations were contradictory and their efforts clashed. For example, the county received a complaint about my grandmother’s increasingly decrepit home, prompting code violations. These violations threatened a fine of $250 per day if she did not obtain the proper permits and begin repairs immediately. However, the FEMA 50% rule complicates things: it mandates that if the cost to repair a house exceeds 50% of its structural market value, the property must be torn down and rebuilt to current codes. Adding to the complexity, my grandmother’s home is located in Matlacha, a historic district with stringent preservation laws. These laws make tearing down any structure nearly impossible. As a result, my grandmother and her neighbors are faced with three challenging options: (1) Attempt to rebuild and spend hundreds of thousands on illegal and unpermitted repairs (2) Spend thousands on the lengthy and conditional approval process required to legally tear down the house, leaving an empty lot and the loss of homestead exemption status (3) Sell the property for a fraction of its worth to a wealthy investor or corporate entity who can assume risk while craftily diversifying their portfolio.
In the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Ian, regulatory enforcement from overwhelmed governmental agencies was sparse and unpredictable. The county's enforcement of federal rules was selective, not out of compassion but self-preservation. A strict application of the FEMA 50% rule would have spelled disaster for the county’s tax base, requiring the demolition of nearly all structures in Sanibel, Fort Myers Beach, Pine Island, large swaths of South Cape Coral, and all other coastal areas in Southwest Florida. This reality led to a patchwork approach: homeowners navigated a maze of leniency and loopholes, while the city, county and state turned an inconsistently blind eye, knowing the alternative was economic ruin.
Like my grandmother and many others in our community, my parents found themselves navigating the constraints of the FEMA 50% rule. Tearing down our home was neither financially feasible nor desirable, so we took matters into our own hands. After receiving our insurance payout, we hired a questionable contractor to covertly handle trickier renovations and completed the rest of the repairs ourselves—strategically ensuring the permitted work remained below the 50% threshold of our home's market value. Meanwhile, neighbors with more severe damage turned to “private appraisers” to inflate their structural valuations, creating room for repairs that would otherwise violate FEMA regulations. My parents’ home restoration took well over a year; they navigated numerous contractor, code compliance and insurance disputes, but finally made it back into their home, just in time for the next hurricane season.
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Hurricane Ian’s devastation in 2022 left Southwest Florida in a prolonged recovery. While 2023 was a quiet year for tropical systems, 2024 brought consecutive setbacks. Hurricane Helene and Hurricane Milton, though offshore, triggered widespread flooding in many areas still reeling from Hurricane Ian; strong winds and floodwaters erased nearly two years of progress. Helene scattered debris and clogged drains, and when Milton arrived just two weeks later, the flooding was even worse—Helene’s leftover wreckage kept water from receding and community infrastructure could not keep pace.
Each storm once again threatened my parents’ and maternal grandmother’s residences; they had been home less than six months before facing back-to-back floods. Brackish water gnawed at their walls, but this time they were prepared—sandbags, Flex Seal, visqueen, sprayed insulation, and absorbent dams stood between the waves and their hard-won stability. Their houses were spared this hurricane season, but Matlacha was not so lucky; my paternal grandmother’s withering home was filled once again by several feet of water as it sat vacant—caught in a web of governmental red tape and corporate litigation.
My family’s experience is not unique; hundreds of thousands of Floridians cannot avoid Mother Nature’s intensifying wrath. Our communities teeter on the edge of collapse; we cannot evolve fast enough. The endless cycle of recovery and destruction has left individuals financially and psychologically depleted. Construction and infrastructure projects are now annually thwarted and the environment has no time to restore natural resilience.
Estuaries suffer and seagrass is stripped from native flats. Pollution and storm runoff mix with industrial fertilizers and contaminate aquatic life, feeding algal blooms and fueling recurrent red tide. Wildlife is displaced, habitats are lost and vegetation is cleared, exacerbating erosion and accelerating sea level rise. Mangroves are evolution’s response to natural and unnatural assault; they shield coasts from intensifying storms and rising seas while preserving water quality and promoting aquatic biodiversity. They are unyielding and adaptable, yet even they struggle to rebound amid sustained carnage. Without adequate recovery time and intentional community stewardship, coastal storm barriers will quickly wash away—the communities they protect will not be far behind.
Southwest Florida’s primary export is tourism—closely rivaled by real estate and retirement. Hurricane Ian crippled these industries, and Hurricanes Helene and Milton sealed their fate. Small businesses have been forced out of coastal communities as climate risks compound and property values tank. Corporate developers lurk as locals abandon ship—institutionalized wealth assumes the liability natives cannot shoulder and steadily chips away at Florida’s authenticity. Climate crises have been commodified by industry; residents lose everything while corporations cash in.
Disaster capitalism incentivizes the exploitation of tragedy and the monetization of recovery. The so-called “Disaster Industrial Complex” is massive and grows more powerful and profitable with each environmental catastrophe. The media stokes fear, driving up engagement and advertising revenue. All levels of government start spending; politicians posture as saviors while awarding lucrative contracts to corporate allies. Insurance companies hike premiums and deny payouts, lining their pockets while forcing homeowners into legal battles with private adjusters and attorneys who carve out their own piece of the pie. Hedge funds and corporate developers circle distressed properties, seizing opportunities to buy low and build high. Construction firms, AC, roofing and window companies, fence installers, landscapers, electricians, contractors and tradesmen of all stripes capitalize on the eternal repair; their regulatory and white-collar counterparts similarly benefit. Demolition crews and debris removal services strip the land of what little natural protection remains and dumpster divers sift through the wreckage at the end of the line.
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Recovery is more profitable than resilience. Hurricane Ian caused an estimated $113 billion in damages—Hurricanes Helene and Milton likely added another $200 billion; post-storm restoration profits are innumerable. Industry thrives off homegrown denial; we reject nature’s reclamation and pay to rebuild our sandcastles at high tide. We have no choice; we must break laws and cross our fingers or cut our losses and flee. With nowhere to go, most natives roll the dice each year—praying to be spared at the expense of another.
We are the infantry in an unwinnable war—thrust into battle by surging tides and commercial greed. We were plucked from destitution and drafted to fight for our oppressor. We fight for survival and survival alone—against a sympathetic enemy only defending herself from corporate colonization. Our suffering fuels their empire; affliction and exploitation are two sides of the same coin. Logic dictates retreat, but in a war where mutiny is met with a bullet, our loyalty is forged in fragility and fear. Concession is inevitable—but not until those in power have extracted every last dollar.
The government is paralyzed by incompetence and captured by those who benefit from tragedy. Hedge funds dictate who recovers and who is erased, holding both the insurers and developers in their grasp. Our coastlines recede but faintly remain—just not for the proletariat. As disasters clear our coveted land, communities are replaced by commodities: fortified towers for the wealthy rise where neighborhoods once stood. Thousands are displaced and left penniless—refugees scatter as the government forsakes the many for the few.
Florida is not alone in this reckoning. The West burns while the South drowns, and in both cases, industry finds a way to extract wealth from the ashes. Our future is bleak; extensive reform is imperative. We must mobilize beyond partisan lines, forging coalitions of pragmatic populists committed to breaking the establishment’s stranglehold. We must demand governance that is both lean and effective—where bureaucratic bloat is slashed and social safety nets are expanded. We must elect leaders who serve the people, not the powerful. Policy must realign capital incentives—industry should be driven to strengthen communities, not exploit them. Resilience must take precedence over recovery, and the externalized costs of catastrophe must not fall solely on the public nor the environment—commercial and governmental stakeholders must equally share the burden.
Disaster capitalism must be replaced by human-centered capitalism. Insurance companies and corporate developers must be held accountable and sustainable restoration must be prioritized. Natives must be supported and the environment must be protected. Building codes must enforce storm-resistant, climate-adaptive designs, and rebuilding in repeatedly devastated zones must be restricted. Coastal overdevelopment must end—natural storm barriers must be rehabilitated and expanded—mangroves, wetlands, and oyster reefs must be treated as public utilities. Infrastructure must be fortified: drainage systems upgraded, roads elevated, utilities flood-proofed. Corporations must be held accountable for pollution, industrial runoff, and the long-term environmental destruction they leave behind. Disaster recovery must be overhauled—insurance cannot remain a predatory industry that abandons homeowners when they need it most.
Those displaced by climate catastrophe must receive meaningful relief—government action must prevent their displacement from becoming permanent instability. The federal government must coordinate with state and local agencies, as well as private industry, to protect its citizens through both immediate aid and long-term structural reforms. Direct financial assistance, including relocation grants and tax credits, must be given to the displaced and destitute, along with federal climate refugee status and legal protections. Community resettlement grants must be distributed to sanctuary regions—equipping municipalities with the resources necessary to absorb climate migrants without overwhelming local infrastructure. Comprehensive housing initiatives must focus on expanding supply, stabilizing prices, and preventing the exploitation of displaced communities.
The unprecedented nature of this crisis demands bold, unconventional action. Whether it is reviving the Civilian Conservation Corps to spearhead climate response and restoration, implementing a Universal Basic Income to increase economic mobility and resilience, or establishing a publicly funded disaster relief pool with a federally backed single-payer home insurance program to guarantee fair payouts, constructive social programs and safety nets are essential solutions to emerging challenges.
Regardless of national discourse, Florida natives and transplants from both conservative and liberal persuasions collectively acknowledge our fate. We are not radicals; we believe humanity contributes to climate change, while also recognizing that natural fluctuations impact weather patterns. We support the green movement while acknowledging its limitations and pitfalls, and advocate for pragmatic and equitable solutions to the undeniable climate crisis. We are not anti-industry; we believe capital incentives should align with public wellbeing. We have watched the tide creep higher each summer, and as sea walls crumble and Southwest Florida sinks, we seek refuge from the unrelenting waves of chaos and winds of greed.
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