It’s that time of year, and I’m feeling the pull. The call. The urge. The bug.

All I want to do is stare at weather maps, charts and forecast models. All pointed at the Atlantic. I’m in search of tropical waves and storms brewing out in that vast seething ocean. Kicked off the African coastline and riding a freight train for the Caribbean and parts north. Think: Elementary school kids released on the last day of school. Completely cut loose. All screaming, “Freedom! Let’s flatten some houses!”

Hurricane season is in full effect.

And just as the tropics start getting down to business, I get my annual hurricane obsession. Part fear, part fascination, and a whole lot of morbid curiosity sprinkled on. (Like, what would happen if two hurricanes collided … OVER MIAMI!?!). Plus, my own brand of amateur forecasting. (Translation: Another dude who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.)

I’m turning into a bit of a weather geek. I sit at my computer studying Web sites, discussions, animated maps and lots of forecast charts with squiggly lines and strange numbers that I can’t make sense of no matter how long I stare at them. Maybe it’s color by numbers? Maybe if I stare long enough, I’ll see pictures of rabbits or rocket ships?

Hurricane season is upon us again. We know this here in Florida because the weather gods have already begun flinging tropical bowling balls at us like tourists rushing the gates at Disney on a holiday weekend. “Hurry! Get in there! Get to Peter Pan before the line reaches 90 minutes!”

Last week’s South Florida brush with a tropical weather event wasn’t a doozy by any means. Just a reminder of things to come. Enough to make you sit up and take notice, and wonder what else we have in store this year.

And if 2022 has already taught us anything, it’s that we tropics watchers may find things are more complicated on the planning and preparation front. Inflation stands at more than 8 percent, outrageous gas prices mean it’s cheaper to purchase a backyard nuclear reactor than it is to drive to the grocery store, and even if you could afford to drive there, you probably won’t find much you need on the shelves. Thank you supply chain shortages!

And this is all when the sky is blue and the sun is blazing down.

What happens when the clouds grow dark, the winds pick-up and we Floridians start rushing for hurricane supplies like … well … tourists at the gates of Disney on a holiday weekend? “Hurry! Get in there! Get the last bottle of water!”

Good, ‘ole Florida. Where the cold snaps come, and the cold snaps go. In the blink of a day.

One morning it dips down to a mind-numbing 28 degrees – cold enough to cause Floridians to fall out of trees – and by afternoon it’s already climbing into the 60s with bright, warming sun filling the land.

Florida, you’re so schizophrenic.

My wife’s relatives from Long Island own a diner and sent pictures of what looked like Mt. Everest from the winter storm that hit them. It was the snow they shoveled at 4 a.m. from the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.

“Oh!” we thought. “Let’s send them a picture of our bird bath. It completely froze through this morning!” They texted back, “OMG! Are you all OK? You Floridians don’t know how to deal with extreme temperatures. We hear you fall out of trees!”

And we wrote back, “No, don’t worry. The ice already melted. We’re going to the beach.”

Which is one of the many reasons why people hate us.

Dare we breathe, fellow Floridians? Dare we tempt the fates and say it? No, don’t say it. Barely think it. Why bring on the meteorological jinx? All because we think we’ve dodged another hurricane season.

But it’s weird, isn’t it? It’s the end of October. There’s been nary a storm to threaten us all year, and we’re past the peak of the season. The tropics are quiet. There are no scary, swirling monsters spinning in the Atlantic or the Gulf. The weather is changing. Getting chillier. The tropical fuel tank is running low.

You still don’t want to tempt fate, though. Or let your guard down. Only fools act too early. Hurricane season runs through the end of November, after all.

And still, here I am starting to wonder if it’s time to ramp down some of my hurricane season “ramp-ups.” Some things like:

• Can I stop waking up early each morning and scanning the hurricane-geek Web sites? Running all the forecast models while my dog sits beside me with a look on her face that screams, “Feed me, weather nerd, or I’m hitting the kitty litter buffet-bar again!”

Tighten the chin strap on your helmet. Tug gently on your shoulder pads to make sure they’re good and snug. Growl, slowly and deeply. From down inside you. Like a bear. Or someone choking on a cough drop. Slide down into a three-point-stance. Make sure your feet have good traction. Dig in. Take a deep breath. Focus.

Then … pull up some hurricane forecast models and make yourself crazy!

It’s hurricane season, baby. Hut, hut, HUT!!!

We’re now in the height of hurricane season. My wife mentioned this the other day. How she read we are officially at the peak. That time of year when the Tropics become their most active, erratically launching wave after wave of spinning storms like a drunk in a shooting gallery.

And me? I spend my entire existence staring at animated forecast models and mumbling, “We’re doomed … and drowned … and all in between!”

Some might call it an addiction, but I like to think of it more as a hobby. I’ve always wanted a hobby. Especially one that ruins my blood pressure.

Don’t jinx it.

Whatever you do, DO NOT jinx it. Because for large parts of Florida, it’s going pretty well. In a record hurricane season like no other, so far we are doing pretty … NO! Don’t think it. Don’t say it. Don’t write it.

It’s not going pretty well. It’s going terrible. We’re literally running out of storm names. The say we start using the Greek alphabet if we run through all the names. Which is crazy because who even knew the Greeks had their own alphabet? And when was the last time Greece was even threatened by a tropical cyclone? So, where do they get off getting to name our storms with their letters? That’s crazy!

Personally, I think the areas most-at-risk should be allowed to do a write-in campaign to name them. Then we can get some really good names like: Little Swirly, ‘Ole Crooked Tail or The One That Licked Us. How about “Tiger Chomp?” Man, that would be good, wouldn’t it? I would take a Tiger Chomp over a Vicky or a Zeta. Besides, Greek alphabet-named storms are going to sound like a bad frat party in the Atlantic.

OK, back on topic: Don’t jinx it. Don’t let it creep into your mind. Don’t think we’re in the clear. Don’t you dare say, “maybe none are going to hit us this year.” Ugh! I feel sick even typing that.