Even though the ocean tried to kill us, I still want to live by the sea
Every hurricane season in New Brunswick reminds me of how I lost my home in the Bahamas
This First Person article is written by Tara Pyfrom, who lives in New Brunswick. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
Either you are lucky or you are unlucky. When you live at the ocean's edge, by birth or by choice, you live with the consequences of annual hurricanes. As someone who falls into the former category, being born at the water's edge does nothing to make the reality of our warming planet any easier to bear.
For six months every year, between June 1 and Nov. 30, my family and I watch the ocean and the weather forecasts. We know the meteorologists' names like they are our educated friends around a dinner table. Words like millibars, eyewall and wind shear are just as much a part of our vocabulary as school, weekend and dinner time. Memories of Andrew, Katrina, Sandy, Floyd, Frances, Jeanne and Matthew leave goosebumps on our necks and quickened heartbeats in our chests.
We wait on bated breath as these storms grow from infancy to toddlerhood to angry teenagers. We know the appearance of an empty hole at the centre of the infrared image means a psychopathic adult will soon be hell-bent on destruction. We know there's no way of avoiding the hell that's coming. It can feel like doomsday, and we have zero control over the where and when.
Until 2019, my family and I were living in Freeport, Grand Bahama — the northernmost island in the Bahamas.
We had already successfully weathered more hurricanes than we could name, but that year, Hurricane Dorian slammed into the islands of Abaco and Grand Bahama before moving on to Nova Scotia. Dorian pushed a wall of water over the island so monumental that mere adjectives don't begin to describe it. Ultimately, areas of Grand Bahama saw over seven metres of storm surge and sustained wind of 295 km/h with wind gusts of over 350 km/h. For reference, two-storey houses are about six metres high, and an EF-5 tornado (the strongest classification of a tornado) has winds of upwards of 320 km/h.
With water rising and no way to escape, my wife, our six-year-old daughter and I as well as our five dogs swam around inside our home as it rapidly filled up like a fishbowl.
Eventually, we were forced to retreat to our attic crawl space. Soaked and running on adrenaline, I was terrified we would drown there, trapped in a watery grave above our home. By some miracle, the ocean did not follow us there. Instead, we remained imprisoned by the storm surge in our attic for 24 hours. It felt like we were waiting for death, and I repeated to myself, "Please let the roof hold."
Our home in the Bahamas was built to withstand the worst that any hurricane could throw at it. The roof held, saving our lives in the process. We survived, but precious little of our lives remained after Dorian. During the storm, the interior of the house experienced a washing machine of ocean water. Very little was salvageable. Our belongings were broken or covered in grey ocean mud and sewage. Engineering assessments determined that the house was no longer structurally sound and could not be repaired.
The island's potable water source was also contaminated by the ocean water that penetrated the water table. Many utilities on the island had to be rebuilt or replaced.
In the aftermath, my family and I evacuated to Florida.
We gave up on life at the water's edge after Dorian, feeling we didn't have what it took emotionally to rebuild our home, knowing another storm could come and blow it all away again. Instead, we chose to immigrate permanently to Canada immediately following Dorian in 2019, running from the monsters that seem to grow, in size and frequency, with each season.
But we couldn't bring ourselves to leave the ocean behind entirely, so we settled in Atlantic Canada. After surviving a Category 5 hurricane in a developing country, contending with weaker Category 1 or 2 storms in Canada sounds more manageable. My wife and I couldn't imagine living our lives in the middle part of any country where the ocean was only reachable by a long flight. We are ocean folks by nature and genetics. We grew up having memories and experiences that made us who we are because of the ocean's proximity. It is too important to who we are as people, both individually and as a family, to ever leave it behind in our daily lives.
But those same feelings of fear rear their ugly head every year. As I watched news coverage of Ian, there were images of people floating inside their flooded homes during the storm. My knee-jerk reaction was, "You were lucky. At least the water didn't reach your ceiling." While we had no damage to our home during Fiona, we lost electricity for 18 hours. This brought up considerable repressed trauma and anxiety.
The Bahamas rebuilds after these monster storms, though with each direct hit, rebuilding becomes slower and more costly. Florida rebuilds. Nova Scotia and P.E.I. rebuild. It is not about if another storm like Fiona, Ian, or Dorian will strike again; it's when. Global warming and its effect on the climate are real; hurricanes like Dorian are becoming stronger because of it.
The United Nations estimates that as much as 40 per cent of the world's population lives within 100 kilometres of the coast. Will we likely be personally impacted by a major hurricane while living in Atlantic Canada? Probably. My wife and I know we haven't escaped them entirely, but we feel we are in a more stable position with Canada as our home now. With global warming, the Bahamas and other low-lying places will always be at greater risk for superstorms than much larger, mountainous countries like Canada. So in some sense, I feel safer.
Either way, we know all too well that, eventually, climate change will be on the doorstep of everyone on Earth.
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Here's more info on how to pitch to us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
