I’m sitting on a balcony overlooking Norris Lake in northeastern Tennessee about 30 miles from the Kentucky state line. Don’t ask me how we got here. We left the interstate and followed the GPS pig trails. That’s about all I know.

We weren’t supposed to be here. We were supposed to be in Port St. Joe on the Gulf Coast. A house one block off the water. We made reservations months ago. We made out menus that include fresh shrimp, fish, and oysters.

They don’t have any of that up here in the hills of Tennessee. They have Rocky Top.

So, instead of sand and warm sunshine we’ve got hills and 52°. Instead of shrimp and crab leg gumbo, we’ve got pizza and fish tacos. Instead of the warm Gulf waters, we’ve got a pool slightly warmer than mountain spring water.

Sometimes the best made plans get waylaid by the unexpected. One minute you’re looking at the map, scoping out the route south. The next minute you’re trying to figure out where in the world Jacksboro, Tennessee might be and how we can get there from here.

The change of plans came as a result of Hurricane Isaias.

I’ve listened to the weather pundits pronounce this name exactly 583 times since this tropical depression started looking like something interesting a few days ago. I still can’t say the name without stumbling over my country sil-lob-bels.

I don’t know why those in charge have to get cute with the names. I understand following the order of the alphabet. But keep it simple. Irma or Ida would have been better.

I do know that this storm has turned into one very angry, very organized low pressure cell headed for the panhandle of Florida.

At first, about 3 days ago, I texted Marion.

“Have you seen the forecast for Port St. Joe?”

We had all seen it. There were lots of points-of-view like “if” and “could we” and “should we” being kicked around. It’s hard to pull the plug on a vacation trip, especially when the grandkids have been looking forward to it for weeks.

Besides, Marion had a sizeable chunk of money invested in the rental.

She was trying to stay positive.

“Even if we get rained out, we can play games inside and the kids will have fun.”

It looked as if the main storm would go far enough west of us that we might be okay. But we are not coastal people. We have never hunkered down in a hurricane.

We were watching the forecast by the hour. We watched as it went from a possible CAT 2 to an almost certain CAT 3. The outer bands were spreading east and would most certainly hit Port St. Joe.

The night before we were to leave, Marion was talking to our host. Her solution. She offered to put sand bags over the front door.

“You can still come and go through the back door,” she suggested.

“There’ll be a lot of heavy rain and wind,” she advised. “But you should be okay.”

I’ve seen sand bags before. When I was a kid we used them to try and dam up ankle-deep water in the creek. It didn’t work very well.

Before we went to bed the weather folks were calling for 6 feet of water at our beach house front door.

By morning, the morning we were to depart, we got a message from the Airbnb folks telling us our reservation had been cancelled. Mandatory evacuations were in place. Power outages were to be expected.

Suddenly, the decision had been made for us.

Our host thought we cancelled. We assumed she cancelled. But however it got cancelled, we found ourselves with bags packed at 6am and nowhere to go.

Marion is a remarkable scrambler who does not get unnerved when the plan runs off the rails. She has the mentality of an NFL quarterback. Put a phone in her hands, with the internet at her disposal, and she’s up to the challenge.

She called an audible.

“Omaha. Omaha. Hut.”

Maybe it was the spirit of Peyton Manning.

“Rocky Top. Rocky Top. 42. Hut.”

So, where do you go when a hurricane puts the kabosh on your plans? Evidently, you run to the hills of Tennessee.

Within an hour we had a new plan.

Several God-nods came our way. I don’t know how else to explain our turn of events. No last minute human heroics could have pulled this off.

One. The mandatory evacuation met the conditions of our trip insurance. The fine print in the contract is very specific. Marion will work on getting the rental money back later.

Second. Marion looked all over the place for a last minute spot to go. We needed room for 7 adults and 6 kids. Not too terribly far away.

Impossible, right?

Wrong.

This lodge at the Indian River Marina was sitting empty as if it was waiting on us to find it. Plenty of room. Perfect for the kids. We are grateful to be by the water and not under water.

There was one personal hitch for me. I packed for this trip on Tuesday and left the house on Wednesday. At that point we were still headed to Port St. Joe. I had beach clothes. I was not gonna drive back home to change my wardrobe.

Everybody else had time and opportunity to rethink and repack for the mountains.

So, 52° is a bit chilly in a pair of shorts. I’m glad I packed a couple long sleeved Ts for a cool morning walk on the beach. Or, possibly a very cool morning on the deck above the marina. Coffee in hand.

Bobby did throw in an extra jacket for me in case I need one. They felt sorry for the old man.

Sometimes plans change for a reason. And sometimes that change turns out to be the better plan.

That’s just how life works. Nobody threw their hands up. Nobody said anything about our trip being ruined. Everybody went with the flow.

The latest reports say that our beach house should expect up to 9 feet of water. I don’t think the sand bags would’ve helped. We would have been evacuating right after getting down there.

For sure, our prayers are with everyone in the path of Isaias.

I just hope the Georgia/Alabama game doesn’t get cancelled.