On certain afternoons in Florida, the sky starts sending polite little warnings—this was one of them. The beach had turned a soft gray, the water carried a greenish shimmer, and far out on the horizon the clouds were gathering themselves into what looked suspiciously like a committee meeting for a storm. The waves were still calm, but you could feel the air shifting, the way it does right before the Gulf decides to get dramatic. I admired the scene for a moment, took a mental snapshot, and then headed briskly home. Floridians know better than to argue with a sky that says, “Storm’s a comin.”