A random collection of coincidences over the past fortnight have taken me to the dining room of “the White House” at Sandy Ground, where I stand next to Sir Emile, white curls bent over an old hurricane chart, wide glasses magnifying his eyes as well as his sight, left hand routinely, firmly, tilting the small wooden ruler, which must, by now, have measured the path of hundreds of storms. “This is where it’s now, over a thousand miles away. If it follows the usual path… we’re in trouble. But, when is the next full moon? Historically, the really bad storms have always hit us during full moon.”

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