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His job: protect 1.1-million people

From hurricanes to oil spills, Larry Gispert is the one who prepares Hillsborough County

By TOM ZUCCO
Published May 30, 2005

for disasters.

TAMPA - He has a statue of the Three Stooges on his desk, kinks in his neck from his football days at Brandon High, and a roomy 1993 Ford Crown Victoria with 200,000 miles on it.

Larry Gispert grinned and pointed to his 6-foot-2, 285-pound frame. "Did you expect anything else?" he asked.

Gispert also has a recurring nightmare. In it, hundreds of people are killed when, for the first time in almost 80 years, a major hurricane makes a direct hit on the Tampa Bay area.

It happens during his watch, and for the rest of his life, he asks himself over and over what he could have done to save those people.

"And I won't be able to live with it," he said.

For the past 12 years, Gispert has been manager of Hillsborough County's Office of Emergency Management. His job is to plan how the county responds to disasters, anything from tornadoes and hurricanes to oil spills, sinkholes and acts of terrorism.

He waits for something horrific to happen. And prays it never does.

He's the burly guy who was all over the local TV news last summer, begging people in evacuation zones to leave, and going over once again what should be in a hurricane kit.

"The Chamber of Commerce doesn't ask me to speak at any events," he said. "What makes this place paradise also makes it dangerous."

If he had his way, he wouldn't allow anyone to live or work within a mile of the Gulf of Mexico or Tampa Bay.

"Only parks and beaches," he said.

He was born in Mobile, Ala., raised in Tampa, and says exactly what he means. He has been married to his wife, Shirley, for 34 years and they have a 24-year-old daughter.

He gave Shirley a gas-powered generator for a present last month. Had it been another time, she might have been disappointed. But she was thrilled. Twice last summer, the couple lost power for several days.

He's 56 and could retire in February. But he said he'll probably stay on five more years.

Because, he said, of what he knows. And because he approaches his work like a protective parent who has 1.1-million children - the population of Hillsborough County.

He is, in a way, perfect for this job. He is perpetually tapping his hands, running his fingers through his hair or rubbing his eyes. He doesn't apologize when he drops a profanity into his conversation. Because people listen, he said, when they sense you mean business.

Last summer, business was good.

Florida has never seen four hurricanes in one year, and three of them passed through Polk County, just next door. "You can still see blue tarps on people's roofs," Gispert said.

The Tampa Bay area was largely spared. There were downed trees, flooding and power outages, but the highest sustained winds last summer were clocked at about 43 mph.

"In the big scheme of things," Gispert said. "It was nothing."

But he was quick to add the "if."

If Hurricane Charley had hit the bay area, he said, the storm surge could have raised the water level by as much as 16 feet, putting some areas under water.

Gispert repeatedly warned residents about that, but as Charley approached, an estimated 40 percent of the people who live in evacuation zones didn't leave. And most of them probably knew they should.

"Why? Because of their worldly goods," Gispert said, shaking his head. "But really, what is a color TV worth?"

The deck always seems stacked against him. The shallow waters of Tampa Bay, the size and diversity of the population, and the number of elderly combine to make Hillsborough County especially vulnerable to hurricanes.

Last year's storms could make his mission this year more difficult. Everybody, he said, thinks they experienced a hurricane.

"They didn't."

He also has to compete with other county agencies for limited tax dollars. His budget this year is $1-million - slightly less than a dollar per person.

Gispert and his staff of 11 spent most of last August and September holed up in the one-story brick fortress that is the Emergency Operations Center on E Hanna Avenue. They directed people to emergency shelters, distributed water and ice, and lived on sandwiches and adrenaline.

"We did make a difference," said Gispert, who earns about $90,000 a year.

Now he's on the speaker circuit again, meeting with civic and social groups. His message?

He pointed to a poster on his office wall. It's a photo of a group of penguins diving off an ice floe into the water.

The caption reads: Evacuation? Don't ask why. Just do it.

[Last modified May 30, 2005, 01:38:11]