Tropical System Dorian

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After raising alarms for much of the Southeast coast, Hurricane Dorian finally made landfall Friday morning, its eye passing over Cape Hatteras, N.C. at 8:35 a.m. ET, the National Hurricane Center says. Its maximum sustained winds were near 90 mph — making Dorian a Category 1 storm when it hit.

Despite making landfall, Dorian won't linger the way it did to devastating effect in the Bahamas. It's moving northeast at 14 mph, the NHC says in its 9 a.m. ET update.

Dorian is extending hurricane-force winds for up to 45 miles from its center; tropical storm-force winds extend outward for up to 220 miles. Raising the risk of flooding, northeastern North Carolina is forecast to get an additional 3-8 inches of rain, with isolated totals of 15 inches possible.

Parts of North Carolina and Virginia remain under a hurricane warning — but in a sign of the storm's predicted path over the open Atlantic Ocean, the only hurricane watch now in effect is for Nova Scotia.

A tropical storm warning is in effect for a broad area of the Eastern Seaboard, from parts of the Chesapeake Bay to Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, Mass.

"The center should move to the southeast of extreme southeastern New England tonight and Saturday morning, and then across Nova Scotia late Saturday or Saturday night," the NHC says.

That said, the storm's path has at times proved elusive to forecasters, who originally predicted that Dorian would make its landfall in the U.S. on Florida's central eastern coast on Labor Day. Instead, the hurricane lingered for days offshore, drenching parts of Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and North Carolina with its rain bands.

Indeed, Dorian has spared the U.S. mainland the worst of its fury, after obliterating buildings and inundating towns with water in the Bahamas, where it made landfall as a Category 5 hurricane over the weekend.

At least 30 deaths are blamed on the storm, and hundreds of people are missing in the country as rescue and relief crews struggle to assess the damage, recover the dead, and reach people who need help.

Hurricane Dorian begins its race towards Atlantic Canada on Friday with its current track projection bringing it into the Maritimes during Saturday and Saturday night. Hurricane warnings have been issued for central and eastern Nova Scotia while tropical storm warnings cover Fundy National Park, Moncton and Southeast New Brunswick, Queens County PEI and Prince County PEI. Hurricane-force winds, torrential rains and storm surge will accompany this powerful cyclone.

Hurricane Dorian is currently a Category 1 storm and will gain speed Friday as it moves away from North Carolina and heads for Nova Scotia

Centre of the storm looks to make landfall just east of Halifax, Nova Scotia
Heaviest swath of rain expected from southwestern Nova Scotia through PEI, and southern New Brunswick

Hurricane force winds move over Nova Scotia Saturday afternoon

The Weather Network's chief meteorologist Chris Scott says that Hurricane Dorian will likely be the worst tropical system to hit the Maritimes since Hurricane Juan in 2003.

"Dorian will not rival Juan for the extreme damage it caused, especially in Halifax. However, Dorian will be a larger storm, affecting most of Atlantic Canada as it will take on characteristics of a nor'easter. Strong winds will affect the entire region including PEI, New Brunswick and Newfoundland," explains Scott.

Since Dorian will be transitioning from a hurricane into a nor'easter, the impact will be felt far away from the centre of the system, unlike Juan where the damage was more confined to a swath along and east of the storm track. However, the exact track of Dorian will be quite important for Halifax in particular as a track just to the west would place the strongest winds of the storm right through the Halifax metro area.

"Hurricane Juan was a special storm, and we may not see one like it again for a hundred years. The track is what made Juan so unique," says Scott.

Most hurricanes, including Dorian, track southwest to northeast through Atlantic Canada, however Juan moved due north allowing it to hit the Nova Scotia coast flush as a full-on category 2 hurricane, and was moving fast enough to maintain strong winds right through PEI.

Juan's track was the worst possible scenario for Halifax, as the metro area took a direct hit from the eastern eyewall of the storm where the strongest winds were located.

Hurricane Dorian will not have the extreme damage of Juan - but thanks to an injection of jet stream energy, Dorian will be a large and powerful hybrid-storm which could make it the 2nd most damaging storm in recent memory.

Officials are warning residents to have their storm preparation done by Friday evening at the latest as heavy rain bands will begin to spread into the Maritimes early Saturday morning. The Canadian Hurricane Centre warns of "severe impact" as downed trees, power outages, and flash flooding are all major threats throughout the weekend.

According to Weather Network meteorologist Dr. Doug Gillham, Dorian will make landfall across east or central Nova Scotia (east of Halifax) on Saturday evening, but the impacts will be widely felt throughout much of Atlantic Canada.

"The impact of the storm could be comparable to Hurricane Earl in 2010, which resulted in close to one million people being without power across Atlantic Canada. However, it looks like the track of the storm will be east of Halifax, which means that the strongest winds will be east of the city rather than through Halifax," explains Gillham.

Much of Atlantic Canada will experience tropical force winds of 90-110+ km/h, while hurricane force gusts of 120+ km/h are expected in many coastal areas.

"Wind impacts will likely be enhanced by foliage on the trees, causing broken branches and tree falls, resulting in power outages, blocking of roads, and other type of damages," warns the CHC.

Nova Scotia Power activated its Emergency Operations Centre on Friday, which comprises of a support team of roughly one thousand people that will help plan and manage its storm response.

“Our preparations include bringing in several hundred power line technicians from Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Ontario and Quebec,” said Karen Hutt, President and CEO of Nova Scotia Power. “As well, we will have forestry crews, planners, damage assessors, engineers, supervisors, communication experts, and customer care representatives at the ready."

The Canadian Hurricane Centre warns that rainfall will be a major factor with Dorian as "torrential rain may lead to flooding."

Widespread rainfall totals of 50 to 100 mm are likely, with localized amounts of 100 to 150+ mm, which could produce some flash flooding, especially in areas that have recently seen similar rainfall amounts with tropical remnants from Erin. The highest totals are expected for Nova Scotia and the Gulf of St. Lawrence region.

"This combined with the severe winds may result in damage due to falling trees," the CHC says.

Some rough and pounding surf will also occur in parts of Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Large waves could build to nearly 10 metres over the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia on Saturday night.

Waves of fives metres or higher will impact north facing coasts of the Gulf of St. Lawrence and could cause dangerous rip currents as they break along some of the coastlines.

"We have high confidence for brutal surf and coastal storm erosion through Saturday afternoon and continuing into Sunday," adds Weather Network meteorologist Tyler Hamilton.

Storm surge warnings have been issued for coastal Nova Scotia and are stating that higher than normal water levels with very large waves are expected near the coast. Storm surge is most likely to be a concern Saturday evening and overnight.

Halifax has issued a voluntary evacuation ahead of landfall.

Dorian just officially declared a very intense Post-Tropical system. Centre of Dorian currently just south-southwest of Halifax, and its centre will make landfall over next couple of hours.

1. Summary of basic information at 6.00 p.m. ADT.

The center of Post-Tropical Dorian was located near latitude 43.9 N longitude 63.9 W or about 80 km south-southwest of Halifax. Dorian now an intense Post-Tropical cyclone with maximum winds estimated at 85 knots...155 km/h and central pressure at 953 mb. Dorian is moving northeast at 26 knots...48 km/h and should make landfall over the next one to two hours.

2. Summary of latest information.

Over 300,000 without power, reports of many trees down, a large construction crane has collapsed in downtown Halifax, and some storm surge flooding in several Atlantic coastal areas including Halifax Harbour. Peak wind gust of 140 km/h at mouth of Halifax Harbour in the easterlies ahead of Dorian this afternoon. Yarmouth airport reported northwesterly gust to 130 km/h late this afternoon.

Some offshore buoys reported wind gusts as high as 150 km/h and peak waves over 20 metres.

Hurricane DORIAN on Great Abaco Island in the Bahamas... By far the most intense cyclone I’ve witnessed in 28 years of chasing. Holy crap.

I caught the very last flight onto the island on Saturday—just before the airport shut down. I was going to ride out the storm in Treasure Cay but bailed at the last second when I noticed the hurricane's eye was heading almost due W and would likely pass S of there. In the wee morning hours—and with the wind already howling—I hastily packed the car and headed 20 mi SE back into town.

FRONTSIDE

I rode out DORIAN—a nuclear-grade Category 5 with sustained winds of 160 knots (185 mph/295 km/h)—in Great Abaco’s main town, Marsh Harbour. I was with 10 others—two families and three dudes—in a shuttered, boarded-up classroom in a solid-concrete school on a hill. (If you want the exact details, it was the Central Abaco Primary School—coordinates: 26.5392N 77.0803W.)

I thought I was playing it safe—I thought wrong. The power of the storm blew my mind.

The winds slowly increased Sunday morning, reaching a jaw-dropping climax a little after 12 noon. The peak winds were unlike anything I’ve witnessed—way beyond what I saw in MICHAEL, PATRICIA, MARIA, and even HAIYAN.

The inner eyewall was a complete, 100% whiteout. Peering through a crack in the shutters on the downwind side of the room, I couldn’t see cars parked 20 feet away. And many of the wind’s most spectacular feats seemed to happen in this blizzard-like “cloak of whiteness.”

The peak gusts struck the walls with the power of a thousand sledgehammers. There were two toddlers with us, and we wrapped them in blankets and put them under a table to keep them safe. My ears hurt and I had a throbbing headache. Water forced through every crack in the ceiling and walls, flooding the room. The boards had blown off the windows, and five of us were pressing furniture against the cyclone shutters on the upwind side of the room to keep them from blowing in—because if they did, the room would become a shooting gallery and we’d be in deep sh*t.

In the roaring darkness, one of the mothers remarked that she no longer trusted the room to hold. I said, “We’re fine. I have 100% confidence we’re safe.” This was a lie. I was beginning to wonder. And I was right to, because we later found out many rooms in the school were torn open, with debris raining down on screaming victims inside. In fact, we were the luckiest room in the entire building.

Just after 1 pm, the roar of the wind diminished. It seemed to be calming down, and we could see it getting brighter outside. We forced the door open—it had been wedged shut by flying debris—and crept out into a windy apocalypse…

EYE

Much of the building was destroyed. The cars outside had been tossed in every direction and mutilated (yes, mutilated). The landscape had been scrubbed bare. I didn't get a stadium eye at my location—it was bright, milky, misty, windy.

The school's courtyard was buzzing with activity—hundreds of folks trying to decide what to do. Bahamians know hurricanes, and everyone was crystal-clear on our situation—that we were in the exact center of the storm and only halfway through it. Bottom line: the shelter was no longer safe and the horrible winds would soon return. Folks were wild-eyed. Fighting back emotions, the shelter supervisor celebrated that no one on the premises had died. Another woman chanted, again and again—with great passion—“God is great. God is great."

My barometer hit a low of 913.4 mb—way lower than I've ever seen it.

We had to act fast. Out of the 11 people in my room, three of us still had sort-of-functioning cars. (Miraculously, mine was almost undamaged—just a small crack in the windshield.) We decided to relocate to the Bahamas Government Complex—a huge, sturdy office building about a mile away.

I was tortured by this decision, as it meant I'd have to gather up my instruments and stop collecting data during a truly momentous meteorological event. In fact, I almost said "f*ck it" and stayed in the damaged building so I could continue collecting data. But, three of the dudes in my group were counting on me for their ride to safety. The moral thing to do was drive them—and so I did.

We piled into the three cars and hauled ass—a caravan snaking around the wreckage in the roads. The sky was murky and threatening. The whole way I shuddered at the thought of getting caught out on the road in those terrible Category-5 winds.

When we got to the government complex, it was a scene to behold: people frantically converging on the monumental pink building from every direction—all of them victims who’d just had near-death experiences. Many from the nearby, poorer Haitian neighborhoods had swum to safety when a gargantuan storm surge swept away their homes; residents from the more upscale communities had abandoned their houses after the wind smashed them to pieces.

DORIAN's calm eye literally saved lives, because it gave people a chance to relocate from destroyed shelters.

The government complex had taken a beating, but most of the damage was cosmetic. The walls had stayed up and the roof had stayed on—and that was all that mattered to the hundreds of human souls squeezing into its dark, steamy hallways just as the storm started up again.

BACKSIDE

The backside winds rapidly returned with a truly awful whistling sound at about 2:30 pm. I watched through impact glass as palm trees bent way over, and then everything turned white again—to the soundtrack of an angry tea kettle.

The corridors and cubicles of the government complex were dark, steamy, and overrun with people—young people, the elderly, infants, poor people, wealthy people, the healthy, the injured. My friends from the shelter and I stuck together—after what we’d been through together, we were now family—and we found a storage closet that we decided was home. Space was limited. The children were put on top of file cabinets. I had a small spot on the floor in the corner—large enough to sit with my legs bent.

Even deep in the building, I could still hear DORIAN’s angry, Cat-5 whistle. It just seemed to cut through all the other sounds. You couldn’t escape it.

AFTER

I don’t remember exactly when the worst of the hurricane passed.

But late in the afternoon, you could venture out into the courtyard if you stayed close to the walls. That said, more than a couple of times sudden hurricane-force bursts knocked people to the ground, badly injuring one dude.

By nightfall, the danger had passed, though heavy rain and strong winds continued. The scene inside the government complex had grown unpleasant. The heat, the smells, the screaming of children, the cramped conditions were enough to give the most Zen person acute claustrophobia. And there was no plumbing.

So, sometime around midnight, I carefully tiptoed across the sea of sleeping refugees—finding tiny spaces between mothers and children to put my feet—and made my way into the cool, stormy night… and to the car.

THE CAR

It was a cheap little car. But somehow it had gone through the core of a Category-5 hurricane with just a small crack in the windshield—this while cars all around it had been thrown, torn open, even mangled.

At this point I decided the car would be my home until I escaped the island. And once I made the decision, I cleaned and organized it. The project lifted my spirits. I had no idea how many days I’d be there, and I wanted to feel like I was in control—not spiraling into a black hole. So, the space became sacred—and I made rules. There was a place for water, a place for food, a place for clean clothes, a place for dirty clothes, a place for technology, and a place for me to sit and sleep. There was a bag for garbage. I took an inventory of my supplies and estimated that, with strict rationing, I’d be OK for five days—hungry but not starving, thirsty but not dehydrated.

This might sound sad, but I felt like a king. I felt blessed to have this tiny, clean space that was mine, and enough supplies so I didn’t have to ask for help.

I put the driver’s seat all the way back and slept deeply to the sound of pounding rain. I woke up to a grey, stormy day, ready to face whatever the universe threw at me.

THE DAY AFTER

By the light of day, I went back into the government complex, which was a buzzing beehive of human activity—teeming with hundreds of hurricane victims. I obviously stood out as a foreigner, being one of the few white dudes there. But folks were universally friendly. They wanted to talk, to tell their stories.

And the stories were all incredible—especially the ones coming from folks who’d escaped the nearby low-lying shantytowns knows as The Mudd and The Pigeon Pea. The whole area had been swept clean by a mammoth storm surge. Many had to swim to safety, sometimes dragging or carrying injured relatives. Some watched loves ones get swept away. There were reports of grisly deaths from flying debris, the details of which I won’t go into. Almost everyone I talked to had seen bodies or knew of family members or friends who’d perished. Every escape tale was epic. A Haitian dude, Shaquille, even joked as he told his story, “This should be a movie.”

Another blessing of having a functioning car: I could be useful and help people. I spent most of the afternoon as a free taxi service. I drove an injured dude to the nearby medical clinic—a small facility with a heroic staff doing their best to treat hundreds of injured victims. Then I drove a couple to their destroyed home in the Central Pines neighborhood so they could salvage their belongings. Then I returned to the medical clinic to pick up the injured dude and bring him back to the government complex. And so on.

Marsh Harbour was devastated. Despite the Bahamas’ excellent building codes, DORIAN’s extreme winds tore off roofs and smashed walls. Cars weren’t just moved—they were thrown across streets and crumpled. Trees were reduced to sticks. . I went down to The Mudd to inspect the massive surge aftermath, but much of the area was still inundated and it was hard to get near it. Everything looked dead, lunar, apocalyptic. Heavy rain and gusty winds all day added insult to injury for victims who’d lost everything.

By evening I was exhausted. I parked the car outside the government complex, ate a meager dinner, and spent the hours of darkness drifting in and out of sleep. It was still stormy but improving slightly—and that meant more people were walking around at night. Not wanting to attract attention, I observed a strict dusk-to-dawn blackout, avoiding all use of devices that gave off light. I didn’t need to make it obvious I was alone in my car all night.

THE NEXT DAY

The day after the hurricane was about gratitude. Folks were grateful they’d survived.

The next day, however, felt different—darker. Taking a short drive to check the road to the airport—it was still completely inundated—I saw crowds looting a furniture store. And back at the government complex, folks seemed impatient for help and for answers.

Forty-eight hours after the core of the hurricane smashed Marsh Harbour, squalls *still* brought gales and heavy rain. It felt like we’d never escape this damn cyclone and see the sun again.

I went back into the dark government complex and made my way to the storage closet that had become our group’s “home.” Only one of the families remained. The mother seemed tired, frustrated. I didn’t have extra supplies, but I also wasn’t in a dire situation—so I gave the father a couple of bottles of water—worth their weight in gold by this point.

My goal was to get off the island and back to civilization, to show the world what had happened—the extent of the catastrophe. And I got lucky that day. I did get off—on a military chopper that had extra room.

Once I landed in Nassau and reconnected with the world, my phone went absolutely nuts—nonstop chimes and beeps.

It was at that point that I realized how much folks had freaked out about multiday silence. I saw all kinds of speculation—whole newspaper articles about what might’ve happened to me. I heard reports I’d died. I was apparently on a missing person’s list—something which seriously bugged me because 1) I was never missing and 2) this takes attention and resources away from victims. Typically after a big hurricane like this, communications fail and I’m incommunicado for a few days. It happens every time—my silence doesn’t mean I’ve died—and I wish folks wouldn’t assume the worst.

RETURN

The next day, a photojournalist friend hired a helicopter to bring him to Great Abaco so he could cover the story for the TV networks. He had an extra seat and invited me to come. I felt I was tempting fate to return to Marsh Harbour so soon after escaping—but I decided to go.

The third day after the storm was sunny and hot. DORIAN had finally pulled away and I could get a good look at the damage—which is epic in its scope and severity.

The commercial center of town—a waterfront neighborhood that once had shops, hotels, and restaurants—is now just piles of rubble. Even solid-concrete buildings were swept away by the winds and storm surge, leaving only bare concrete slabs in some places.

Even more shocking are The Mudd and Pigeon Pea—the low-lying, poorer neighborhoods near the government complex. This whole area of the city was swept clean. Almost nothing is standing—barely a house. The scent of death hangs over the wreckage—it’ll be a while before they recover all the bodies.

HELP

The Abaco Islands are in *dire* need of help. And I mean dire. This is the worst devastation I’ve witnessed since Super Typhoon HAIYAN in the Philippines back in 2013.

As with HAIYAN, I’m thinking to take a more active role in the recovery—and I’m considering my options. One possibility is fundraising to help rebuild the Central Abaco Primary School (where I rode out the first half of the storm). That’s just one idea.

In the meantime, if you’d like to help out, here’s a guide to some relief organizations you can donate to: https://www.bahamas.com/relief

In the coming days, I’ll be posting more images, a meteorological discussion of my data and observations, and a video of my experience. This was one of the biggest chases of my career—perhaps *the* biggest—and it’s gonna take me a while to tell the whole story. More soon!