Can you hear it now?

Ready or not, here it comes: June 1 marks the official start of “hurricane season.”

The NOAA – which stands for National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, for those who hate acronyms – predicts that 2025’s hurricane season may rough up Florida over the next six months.

Such a forecast isn’t something I’ve worried about since exiting Florida circa 2007, after residing in Key West for two sun-splashed, nautical years.

During that stretch in the Conch Republic, I endured only one tropical storm with moderate flooding, plus a wind-whipped downpour that culminated in an apocalyptic feel around the Southernmost Point.

When the sheets of rain and formidable winds subsided, an eerie calm was pervasive around the island.

One could see a pair of hardy souls bicycling around, a few guys trekking toward the Gulf, stray dogs and a smattering of peckish chickens.

Even so, I hadn’t experienced such a surreal and quiet stillness since visiting the Grand Canyon or New Mexico’s Very Large Array observatory.

Just prior to the aforementioned tropical storm making landfall, most residents and tourists headed to Miami and cities farther north. However, some jaded Conchs stayed put. When I asked one KW bar owner why he didn’t evacuate, the man replied, “I’ve seen worse. Besides, my business is insured.”

Despite my affinity for Key West’s charms, my preference favors being high and dry. Give me terra firma or give me death.

Never had to worry about hurricanes – or tornadoes for that matter – in the landlocked Southwest. I roasted during Arizona summers, particularly when my car’s temperature surged to 120 degrees. All I saw on the horizon were dust devils and cacti, not cyclones.

The glorious Central Coast confines of Santa Barbara – where I worked for five exciting years – had high prices, not high tides. Naturally, the Pacific’s cooler waters aren’t conducive to hurricanes, though mudslides have wreaked havoc there.

As I relocated to the Mountain West, snow was the order of the day. Last May, on my maiden visit to Wyoming, flurries speckled the landscape mere minutes after I crossed the border. No wonder my stint in the Cowboy State wasn’t much longer than a fortnight.

Having grown up in the Midwest, my family became accustomed to tornado “watches” and warnings. Any Ohioans worth their salt know the difference between those words — just like Floridians know the difference between an alligator and crocodile: The latter says, “See ya later” and the former replies, “After a while.”

Speaking of our beloved Sunshine State, the NOAA estimates there’s a 60% chance of an above-normal hurricane season, which justifies their call to action: Be prepared.

Easier said than done, for those of us who want to simply crack open a cold one while watching golf, Wimbledon and baseball.