Inside the 'doomed paradise' in the path of Hurricane Milton: As the clock ticks down to the moment of dread, the Mail's GREG WOODFIELD reveals how Florida is bracing for an 'inevitable apocalypse'

One of the first sounds of an approaching hurricane isn't the wind roar.

It's the constant noise of drilling to fix plywood sheeting over vulnerable windows and doors of the homes and businesses in the path of destruction.

For me, the earliest sound of a neighbour's desperate DIY mission to save their house in my small Tampa community happened as early as four days ago.

Because if Hurricane Helene – which claimed 227 lives across multiple states just two weeks ago – was a terrifying wake-up call to the power of nature, everyone here believes the current 160mph Category 5 Hurricane Milton is the inevitable apocalypse.

Tampa Bay, an area of astonishing beauty and wildlife and home to 2.5million people, has the atmosphere of a doomed paradise awaiting obliteration in one of the most terrifying weather events for Florida in 100 years.

Many hurricane-hardened Floridians have a habit of believing that the reality won't be as bad as the forecast, despite 161 people killed in 2022's Hurricane Ian which wiped out bohemian Fort Myers Beach before the horror of Helene.

Not this time.

We're all in awe of Milton, which has reached speeds of 180mph after forming in the Gulf of Mexico and has a 'worst-case' storm surge of an unsurvivable 15ft.

Even local TV meteorologist and hurricane guru Denis Phillips, an unflappable presence in keeping anxious viewers informed over the years, has looked stunned by the figures. Never one to cause any panic, the ABC Action News expert has admitted: 'There's no candy coating this. It's a beast.'

Phillips' constant, and sometimes continual, updates are treated with reverence. And when you're living under threat of a hurricane that could smash your beautiful home to pieces in seconds and/or kill you, you listen.

But it's a rollercoaster. Every twitch in the expected track of Milton brings either hope or more anxiety.

Additionally, in every hurricane you try to become an expert in 'spaghetti models', which TV experts use to explain the predicted path of a storm. The brightly colored lines from different weather agencies often vary in a confusing, squiggly mess. With Milton, there's little variation.

Minute details and swings matter. A difference of one mile could mean having a home by the weekend, or not. In our tight community, we all know that. We all fear that.

Hoping the track will veer suddenly away and smash into somewhere different brings its own feelings of guilt.

Instead of our house potentially being seriously damaged, our precious things lost forever… that could happen to someone else. Someone who equally doesn't deserve to lose their property or life.

Hurricanes in Florida generally bring people together. My conversations with strangers in the past few days have always ended with the solemn words 'stay safe'.

No one wants to be hit, but nor do they want any other Floridian to suffer because they know the often deadly consequences.

For my elementary school teacher wife and myself, Milton needs to head a lot more South. Historically, that's what hurricanes directly approaching Tampa Bay generally do.

Yet Milton is proving largely obstinate, even if it has just given the tantalizing shimmy in the 'right' direction as I write. We're slightly north west of the bay and currently the path of the eye is below us, which is good. If there is a good.

And we're told that despite its ferocity, Milton is a 'small' hurricane, with a truly catastrophic destructive swath confined to a width of maybe five to ten miles.

Apparently, we're also told, outside the killer band the wind strength is tropical storm to low hurricane strength. That's 73mph to around 90mph. We'd definitely take that.

Then there's wind shear, which slows down a hurricane. Milton is forecast to hit wind shear before making landfall. So let there be wind shear, please let there be wind shear.

But this is a Florida hurricane. And I know from experience that it can suddenly twist, turn and get stronger within hours of expected landfall to devastate a community that wasn't expecting it. Anywhere within the wide 'cone of uncertainty' remains fair game for a catastrophic direct hit.

Every directional snippet has a bearing on our mood, but oddly not our resilience. A hurricane with the power of Milton, due to make landfall late Wednesday local time, gives you the drive to survive.

Millions have rightly fled the area, clogging interstate highways heading north. We've also left our home after much agonising. Although we're riding out the hurricane in a recently-built Tampa hotel that promises to remain open.

Like so many, we ummed and aahd about what we should do. That is despite being veteran hurricane escapers, most notably when we lived in downtown Miami and Irma looked like a direct hit in 2017.

We joined the exodus of more than six million on the road and ended up in Texas, because you just don't know where will ultimately be safe. Ironically, a weakened Irma winged the Tampa Bay area.

This time we fooled ourselves that we'd ride out Milton at home, until the predictions became so dire there appeared no choice. Most of our neighbours reluctantly made the same decision. As we drove away to the hotel this evening, the majority of houses were eerily shrouded in darkness.

In the end the decision was simple. We have done our best to bullet-proof our four bedroom house against hurricanes since buying it three years ago. That's life in Florida.

Yet I've covered hurricanes as a journalist and seen the awesome power. This one might rip off our roof like the lid of a sardine can, leaving us to cling to each other just to stay alive if we'd stayed. Then the whole place could blow apart.

There's no boarding up windows for us as ours are supposedly hurricane resistant. Time will tell. But my thoughts have even wandered to the strength of the walls, let alone how the roof or windows might fare.

As one of life's natural worriers, Hurricane Milton has given me a whole new set of material to work with.

So it's been days of focused preparation as the dreaded time nears. Everything outside must come inside or become a potentially lethal projectile. Tables, chairs, plants, a TV fixed to an outside wall in the pool area.

Deciding what to take with you is harder. It's a sobering moment when that realisation hits you. The moment you select everything you need if everything else is lost.

Loaded in the car were boxes containing birth certificates, a marriage certificate, intimate letters, car documents, insurance papers, our Social Security cards, educational certificates, treasured photographs from our own childhoods and those of our children. In fact album after album, as most were taken before digital cameras. There's also the jewelery and watches, more for sentimental than monetary value.

Everything precious and essential if we need to start again.

Then there is the house itself. I have taken videos outside and inside. Essentially for insurance purposes should the worst happen and I need to prove we actually own what we might have to claim for.

Yet it quickly hit me that I was also capturing a memento on my phone. Will it be the last record of a house that might never look exactly the same again. Or a blueprint for rebuilding. Who knows?

That tree in the front that we've always admired. Will that survive? And the towering beauties in the nature preserve that border our lawn and which have given us such joy?

However, wistfulness is the enemy right now. Action is the key. As the clock ticks down to the moment of dread, my cellphone continues to sporadically emit klaxon warnings as another text comes through from local authorities regarding mandatory evacuation zones.

Anyone who ignores an instruction to leave if they're in one is on their own if the worst happens. There's no rescue, just the possibility of death. Local sheriffs suggest writing your name in indelible ink on your arm so they can ID your body quickly.

Residents in massive areas of the neighbouring cities of Clearwater and St Petersburg have been ordered to leave, along with those living on the barrier islands that were swamped by Helene.

In Tampa, where everyone has been ordered out in a substantial part of the city liable to be hit by storm surge, there's an unreal calm. The roads, usually clogged with traffic, are eerily empty. The escapers have escaped. Those left are fine tuning their preparations.

Downtown is a ghost town. The iconic Columbia Restaurant in the historic Ybor City district, a colorful grande dame of a Spanish diner with a national reputation, was clothed in plywood boards along with a nearby 7-11 store. Hurricanes are no respecters of status.

Lines for gas have slowed, largely because so many stations have simply run out. Right now, it's like gold. I saw one tanker being escorted by large black police SUVs front and back, their lights blazing.

Meanwhile, the growing nervousness is compounded by the fact that street after street in coastal areas of Tampa, Clearwater and St Pete are still cluttered with large piles of household debris salvaged from homes flooded by Helene. It's feared these will be picked up by Milton and thrown around like confetti, or smashed into buildings by storm surge.

Everyone has entered that hunkering down stage. More than 6,000 people who couldn't afford a hotel are already in shelters in Hillsborough County, which covers Tampa.

The wait is heavy. And once that wait is over and Milton has done its worst, it will be time to assess for the survivors. Will we and our close neighbours have homes to go to? By Thursday, we'll have an answer.