Let’s be honest. Some people watch NASCAR for the crashes, and some watch the Vatican’s Christmas Eve mass on the off-chance that a crazed onlooker will tackle the Pope. Many meteorologists will tell you that nothing gets their heart racing like an impending hurricane, tornado, or blizzard. It’s hard to reconcile that the most interesting aspects of meteorology are also so destructive. You don’t find too many drizzle researchers. Is it Schadenfreude, or pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others?
For some of my friends in the meteorology major, they got hooked after an exciting childhood encounter with Hurricane Fran or the Blizzard of 2000. As a child growing up in the severe weather vacuum we call “the mountains of Southwest Virginia,” the earliest memory I have is watching 1993’s Hurricane Emily level the awning of a Texaco station on the CBS Evening News.
By the time I was five I memorized the list of hurricane names as if it would make me the coolest kid at my elementary school – It did not. Some kids watched Power Rangers and Rugrats – I watched Hurricanes Felix, Luis, and Lili parade across the Atlantic. (Just so I don’t lose all credibility as a normal human, I did enjoy Legends of the Hidden Temple) Outside of horror movies, Kindergarteners are not capable of Schadenfreude. It must be something else.
I think it’s still possible to justify an interest in hurricanes insofar that one can personify and track them seasonally, not unlike characters on Survivor or American Idol. The best part is that hurricane season is never cancelled at the whim of a vacuous NBC executive.
I should be very clear that I never want people to get hurt or lose their home, but risk and violence are inherent to many hobbies and interests. In fact, a compulsion to study hurricanes can provide the motivation to move through the rigorous math-laced meteorology curriculum. Then one can become a researcher or forecaster that contributes to saving lives and property. Anyone who says otherwise is probably a disgruntled drizzle researcher.
And without hurricanes, Raleigh’s NHL franchise would probably be named the Rebels or something.
Then there are snowstorms. I’ve ran barefoot into the backyard wielding a yardstick more recently than I should admit. I can’t explain where the fascination originated or why it persists. There is nothing remarkable about frozen water. In fact, one can find frozen water quite easily in convenience stores and refrigerators. There should be nothing new about snow, but each impending winter storm takes me back to a childlike state of awe and distraction.
Most normal Americans don’t need snowstorms after they’ve completed their school days. For weather nerds, it’s a different story. There is nothing pleasurable about flight cancellations or power outages unless it can be a vehicle for attention, acclaim, and purpose within life.
Snow is not an ends, it is a means – a means whereby meteorologists have the opportunity to engage the public with the faint hope that a perfect forecast will stop the endless criticism about accuracy once and for all. A “see, I told you so” of epic proportions.
Like any good drug, the anticipatory high of a winter storm turns into a crippling addiction. Carried away with optimistic computer model forecasts, one develops a penchant for wild risk-taking behavior leading to public embarrassment and going ‘in the fountain.’ There is the very real danger of being pelted with cans of smoked herring at the grocery store after a busted forecast. (A savvy meteorologist grows his/her own food). With my reach limited to student media outlets, I am a media personality of no real consequence (or MPNRC). This normally makes me immune from such threats, but I must keep in mind WKNC’s extensive following at the state prison.
One thing I am not: a tornado chaser. I’ve made pathetic attempts at tracking thunderstorms that usually end after getting stuck behind a slow-moving U.S. Mail truck. Besides, there’s something distasteful about spending weeks on end in the featureless expanse of Red States, whooping into a camcorder as small communities turn into matchsticks. I have accepted the fact that I have a better chance of riding a unicorn to the Soviet Union (not pictured) than witnessing a tornado in my lifetime. Not having to worry about missing a tornado is a liberating feeling. Besides, then I’m not entirely a bad person.
