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I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. One February years ago, years ago, after days of single-digit temperatures and

Norteasters and tunneling paths to my car through chest high snows and icy

gust. I brought up an image to warm myself. In a month I would lounge beetside under blue skies with a

drinking hand. But our Snowbird adventure turned into endless board games in a rented condo.

My family and I watched rains lash the sliding glass doors

and balconies. On the final day of our Florida vacation, the sun finally appeared.

But not for long. Clouds formed into a dishwater gray monster and roiled up the coast of Melbourne Beach.

It woke me from a satisfying snooze, expecting sunlight to steadily wash my face. My son was searching for

sand dollars. My wife warned, firmly, let's go, that storm will be here any minute. In denial, I didn't want to leave my folding chair.

I stared at the storm's underbelly and thought,

we've at least another half hour.

Then the wind picked up.

Everyone below umbrellas packed furiously. I grabbed our cooler, thunder cracked the air. My

wife called to my son. He kicked up sand running. We barely made it inside.

A sudden microburst black We barely made it inside.

A sudden microburst blasted white plastic furniture into the air.

Umbrellas cartwheeled down the beach.

Someone's dog floated for a second. That moment was not

allegorical. The wind's force was real on our bodies and belongings. During moments of political crises, I think of wind, how conflicts

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