earlier that day, he had gone to home depot with his crew: shelly, his wife of 42 years, and caleb johnson, a longtime friend. he and johnson loaded up two-by-fours to rebuild the roof that sheltered animals at southern fresh farms, a non-profit educational farm in fort myers. shelly remained in their dodge ram pickup and turned down fox news to answer concerned calls.

she texted a friend coping with the destruction from hurricane ian that pounded the west coast of florida at the end of september. the storm had subsumed her friend’s home in floodwaters. still, he had made the time to check in on the farm. shelly responded with several hearts, and her blue eyes glistened like morning dew. as messages asking to donate surged, so did her tears.

back at their farm, robert leaned over the cherry picker bucket lift, hammering each timber one slab at a time. a-rat-a-tat-tat, an echo of the woodpeckers on the oaks surrounding them. johnson and jake stevens, another friend of the mcmahons since his childhood, stood nearby, the two swapping turns directing the crane and clamping down the wood. manure encircled them, musky, but they didn’t seem to mind. the pair joked that they were dating. stevens had come by with a pack of ale the night before, and “not many people show up with a cold beer for no reason,” johnson said. johnson’s wife, michelle, swept away glass shards by the farm’s central market, where visitors sit on wooden benches and buy harvested crops. the three of them, in cream cowboy hats, guffawed like father and sons.

hurricane ian trampled over 5 million acres of agricultural land in florida. the storm ranks among the top storms in u.s. history. for small, family farmers, the recovery is a long season, a brutal winter, fruitless. they face flooding, scattered debris and long-term crop losses. sea water deposited salt in some soils, parching the plants, making them impossible to nurture back to life. 

southwest florida’s barrier islands are familiar with the walloping winds and waters. in 1926, a hurricane choked sanibel island farmland. farmers gave up seeding fruits and vegetables like tomatoes on the island.

the loss is also palpable for fruit orchards, especially the state’s citrus industry, which leads the nation in growing oranges for juice. hurricane ian uprooted the trees, and with them, years of growth. once oranges tumble to the soil, they cannot be sold.

the mcmahons, 15 miles from the beach, were far enough from the bay that salt didn’t inundate their five acres. robert and shelly moved onto the land in 1980, the year they married. in 2014, they stacked rows of pots in vertical towers, tall as longleaf pine saplings. lettuce, tomatoes, peppers and green beans sprouted from those towers, with some, like hops and watermelon, embedded in the earth. a spaghetti tube wove through the lined containers, irrigating them with compost. the mcmahons scattered seeds of education in the soil, welcoming students to learn agriculture. they became an agritourism park and offered paper cups of chopped carrots and kibble to feed the livestock and fish. the livestock shuffled in the grass, the chickens squabbled. the hens were too old to lay eggs, but they cracked up the guests.

in that first weekend after the storm, robert prioritized the roof over replanting. he did so to shelter the animals from rain. the goats, donkeys, sheep, chickens and cows braved the category 4 hurricane, except henry, a bulking mass of 2,200 pounds. the steer’s hoof, matted by mud, had cracked under his weight and the sloshing waves. he was on medication from blue pearl, the only pet hospital that was open in the storm’s aftermath. shelly and robert had bought him when he was only an hour old, 30 pounds. they saved him from the butcher block and coddled him with gatorade and milk replacement, after he left his mother. he had laid his spotted head on shelly’s shoulder, dwarfing her. he snoozed in her lap. now, henry’s eyelids hung heavy, as though to conceal the fractured farm.

the five acres, once orange with marigolds and sunflowers beaming up at the sun — gone. the mcmahons had planted the flowers just days before ian. but the storm drowned them in its current. perhaps the marigolds, called flor del muerto in latin culture, foretold the death to come. 

the arrival of hurricane ian

as the swirling winds approached at 8 a.m. on sept. 28, robert and shelly huddled at home with their daughter and son-in-law and their two children, aged 13 and nine. forecasters had predicted the storm would hit tampa bay, so the mcmahons didn’t bother to shutter the windows. they didn’t do too much to prepare. they left the farm in mother nature’s palms. 

but then the storm swerved south. and mother nature didn’t spare them.  

robert said he recalls looking out the windows and saw the roof insulation trickle down, like fluttering snow. the wind rustled, tousling all the crop towers, round and round. the children played games on their ipads and sat idly by.

they lost power at 11 a.m. still, robert assured everyone everything would be all right. as the grandfather, he said he felt the paternal tug to protect, later recounting that he said, “we’ll get through this,” to his family. 

robert said that he thought the roof might upend as the wind roared, louder than a groaning tractor. he told everyone to grab their shoes and a flashlight. 

“why?” blake, his grandson, asked him. 

“just put your shoes on. let’s be ready,” robert said. 

he remembers clenching his boots and the kids their tennis shoes. no thoughts of other possessions flashed in his mind, only getting his family to safety.

hours went by. time wavered, flickering unsteadily. robert said he felt helpless as time passed, only able to watch as the roofs atop the market and animal shelter blew away.

finally, at 2:30 a.m. the hurricane bands receded.

at first light, the family walked outside. shelly wept. hurricane ian had wiped away everything they had built. within hours, their livelihood – lost. the hydroponic crops, the lettuce a week away from harvest, smothered and withered. the seminole pumpkins, which had crept up a wire trellis, hung brown and shriveled. the golden sunflowers, once on fire under the sun, submerged and floated away.

at the time, shelly thought they were “screwed.” 

she figured the farm and upcoming seventh-annual fall festival were over. every year, the mcmahon’s welcomed vendors and locals to the farm where they sold animal feed, pumpkins and vegetables in woven baskets and offered hay rides. the festival raked in much of the family’s profit. she had no idea how they would survive without their fruits and blooms.

they spent three nights in darkness without power. shelly had collected oil lamps for years, one of the many memorabilia and handmade creations stashed in the home. now, they had utility. she lit them in the darkness, cradling the orbs aglow.

over the next week, her fears were extinguished. dozens of folks from neighboring areas arrived, some bearing only the clothes on their backs. they had lost everything themselves, but they had come to help the mcmahons rebuild. the farm meant so much to them over the years, especially during the pandemic. an alcove, a nature trove brimming with vegetables, chirping birds and mangoes. those gleaming sunflowers blazed in their memories.

changing climate

robert remembers when the surrounding neighborhoods, like paseo, were sleepy areas. his father first bought the land in 1978. daniels road, now six-lane daniels parkway, was still one-lane and dirt. their mailbox was in town. at the time, the farm had some cows and a couple of horses. 

robert mcmahon sr. farmed most of his life, tending to mums and gladiolus with his wife, lillian, in iona, florida decades before. they were truck farmers, driving the crops to the packing house, and didn’t live on the land. across the river near paseo, the family later leased the land and grew red potatoes. their farm was on the upland; no wetlands drained. with the sprawling housing developments built since, hurricane floods clog the homes, robert said, rather than sloshing through.

“do i go along with the climate change thing? i don’t know. i’m not that guy,” robert said, as he dragged a hoe across the soil, digging up weeds. “all’s i can tell you is what i’ve seen in my 63 years of being here, and what i see is development, what i see is concrete, what i see is asphalt, what i see is roofs. and to me if you want to blame something, that’s the thing to blame.”

gravel slabs, spread by human machines, harbor heat. and he’s felt the blaze of hotter days on his nape since his childhood, even since the ‘90s.

david zierden, state climatologist, said that the number of hurricanes has not changed, as many climate change deniers point out. the intensity has. the heating atmosphere, increased sea surface temperatures and sea level exacerbate the storms.

“the rising global sea level is getting close to about a foot now in the last 100 years,” he said. “so now you’re adding a foot more to the potential storm surge.”

rapid intensification, as seen with ian, has also risen, zierden said.

“we can’t say that hurricane ian would not have happened without climate change, but we could certainly see the fingerprints,” he said.

the climate, of course, is not the only thing changing for florida’s farmers. brad hawkins, a fellow farmer who robert said will one day run southern fresh farms, comes from a multi-generation farm family. his father helped robert back when he grew solely red potatoes. hawkins said he searches for answers on google, such as solutions for ravaging rabbits. as a kid in the ‘60s, robert gathered with farmers at a southern restaurant on weekends at 5:30 a.m., where they sat at a big table, ate breakfast and shared what they knew. lee county is not the same, robert said. everyone knew a farmer back then, with six to seven million farms in the u.s. from 1910 to 1940. now, there are about two million. 

robert and shelly have felt the farming struggles in their relationship, each ding to their livelihood. they met in high school, shelly at cypress lake and robert at riverdale, when robert hosted a toga party. shelly arrived in sheets and said she immediately knew that she wanted to speak with him when she saw him at the door. from there out, he became her partner, her protector. she laughed with johnson’s wife, michelle, saying she only got drunk a handful of times and never smoked. she had no need. she was content with life with robert on the farm. she grew up, after all, going to her grandparents’ illinois farm and was accustomed to dirt under nails. 

the mcmahons are the kind of family who wake up with the sun each day and sometimes crave chicken gizzards from a gas station. they call themselves rednecks proudly. they are entwined with their land, as sure as the mycelia woven below. they certainly were not the kind to be stopped by a hurricane.

hacking losses and sowing seeds – recovery

a wooden gazebo, once washed up from the swirls of hurricane charley, still stands. robert found it toppled over on sanibel island while cleaning up from that 2004 tempest. the arches have overseen weddings and birthday parties. and it survived hurricane ian.

but their pond and a mango tree did not. after a couple years of growth, it had finally begun bearing fruit. 

the first steps were to scrap the losses and hack the fallen trees like the mango, just as farmers once took to the woods with a trusty backhoe. clearing and cleansing the land prepares it for new plantings.

the first weekend after hurricane ian, robert and shelly debated a facebook post asking for volunteers to help. they decided against it, not wanting hundreds to show up. already in a gofundme campaign, they had raised $21,050 by the first week of october. that’s how beloved they were in their community.

shelly and her daughter amy swept debris in the marketplace. they wore rubber boots, chicken proof for when the birds pecked at their feet. they knew rain could return. but they hoped that it wouldn’t and drown the delicate seedlings.

michelle rode a golf cart over to the animals and huffed along, carrying a hefty bag of “sweet feed,” as good as any southern tea. she dumped the protein-rich grains into bowls like she would for any beloved pet.

“this is what we do,” robert said, and he opened the gate. one bullock, bob, shoved him with his head in greeting. bob then mulled over his bowl, and food scattered everywhere, his black hide, dark as subversive sheep fleece. he’s “full of piss and vinegar,” robert said.

robert worked on the roof the rest of the day, cracking jokes and smiling, while shelly struggled not to cry. her gratitude shone around her like the glow of her oil lamps in her home. 

by the end of the day, the mcmahons said they felt good about the progress they had made. the animal roof offered ample shade, the market floor was almost safe to hobble barefoot on. so the next morning, they departed the farm to chip in elsewhere.

they helped neighbors lug furniture, tarnished by mold to the street corner. they had already been collecting clothing donations and taking them to the beach and the churches nearby. 

the next day on the farm, a handful of volunteers arrived. they devoted themselves to the battered plants. the hydroponic crops, with four pots per tower, were skewed to the side or uprooted. water could not flow through. two men, one an elementary school teacher in sperry water shoes, another with his hair tied back in a bun, lifted them. the two stood on chairs, hammering the poles deeper into the soil. sweat dribbled down their faces in florida’s warm fall air. 

robert bought everyone wendy’s burgers for lunch. they also snacked on “monkey meat,” a scramble of bologna and mayonnaise spread on white bread. shelly said she and the kids grew up on the sandwiches. she intended to continue the tradition.

the fall festival was just a week away. even though they had come a long way, they had nothing to sell in the market. but they had an idea. they decided to purchase fruits and vegetables at the local market and ship pumpkins from north carolina too. they were determined to hold the festival, even though their farm was laid bare.

the day before, shelly raised the american flag in a ritual, her head tilted in awe toward the star-crested banner, as though gazing at the constellations themselves. “we’re raising the flag, baby,” her best friend, diane stevens, with similar short stature, said. shelly yanked the metal wire and the flag up, up, up. stevens sang “god bless america,” the chorus ringing alongside the rustling of the flag. when it reached the top, waving in the wind, shelly raised her arms triumphantly, her face splayed in a wide smile. 

but by night time, stress furrowed shelly’s brow. she hadn’t known this day would come; she didn’t think it would. 

“what else do we have to do?” she shouted at amy. 

“i don’t know,” amy said. 

they ran back and forth. “i feel like we are not even close to being ready for tomorrow,” shelly said.

“we always feel like that,” amy said in a reassuring tone. 

 in response, robert said, “what we get done, we get done.”

the fall festival

by 8 a.m., food trucks piled in, dozens of people they had known for years. stuffed animal making stations, apple butter and jelly merchants, friends who wanted to make a couple extra bucks frying doughnuts. shelly and robert allowed anyone in. they especially wanted those who had lost a lot from the hurricane to make some sales. admission was free for everyone, as always.

the kettle corn aroma, nutty and dusted with caramelized sugar, wafted about. children squealed, swinging in the playground. scorched sizzles of steak arose from the grill. robert flipped burger patties as deftly as he drops seeds.

“they’ve been here before,” shelly said, pointing at a family donned in rubber boots, their feet sinking in and sticking to the soggy soil saturated from rain. ‘course shelly knew almost everyone, and dished out “honey” and “sweetie,” as often as she sold cups of carrots to families. she set aside a dozen eggs for a past pet sitter. she whispered to teresa guilday, robert’s sister and fellow cashier, about a woman who taught kindergarten. she remembered a little girl who once drew her a minnie mouse picture when she was in diapers. shelly still keeps the picture, as she does with most sentimental items. the table was stacked with mementos, including a cloth pumpkin her mother sewed and a photo of her and robert, when her silver locks were ginger and voluminous in true ‘80s fashion.

each time someone came by that table, they exchanged hurricane stories. 

“i was a puddle here 17 days ago,” shelly said to one passerby.

frans kox, who owned a flower store on sanibel island, told her about the wreckage he faced: 17 feet of water assailing his home, only a few inches from their front door. he told her his street looked like a river, water churning through. every bloom drowned. 

shelly told him that she and robert lost 90 percent of their crops.

“i cry every day at what we accomplished and all the people who came to help,” she said to kox. 

true to word and form, shelly’s eyes welled with each embrace and conversation, her puffy cheeks flushing to a deep, tomato blush. “stop it,” guilday said to her, lightly slapping her on the arm. “they’re happy tears,” shelly said. 

the festival, envisioned as a weekend affair, stretched for three weeks. the winter season quickly approached. the productive christmas season was in the seeds tucked in the cooler, in the balsam trees and pine scent — a cold winter’s night, the rustling of their wreaths and dangling lights. shelly would cook five made-from-scratch meals again for the community with santa claus visits throughout december. 

robert and shelly had planted sunflowers the week before the festival with hopes of seeing their barren field blossom once more. palms to earth with their community, hope budded in their souls. and in the fields where they planted the flowers, little tendrils circled the soil, teeming beneath.

katie delk is a 2022-2023 florida climate institute fellow reporting a series of articles about the impact of climate change on florida’s farmers—and how they are adapting.

rising sea levels and flooding are growing problems in virginia, and hurricane ida just showed us the devastating impacts. according to the national climate assessment (nca), increasing temperatures in virginia, sinking landforms, and changing ocean currents are causing sea levels to rise significantly higher than the global average. these extremely high levels have caused flooding all across the state. in my neighboring town of norfolk, “sea level rise has led to a fourfold increase in the probability of exceeding nws thresholds compared to the 1960s,” according to the nca.

virginia beach, alexandria, and richmond are especially prone to flooding because they are coastal cities. in my hometown of chantilly, virginia, we had two floods within the last month. it feels like it’s becoming a trend that every week we’ll face another natural disaster. according to the national climate report by the national centers for environmental information, some of the wettest locations this month included virginia, with precipitation totals 150% to 200% more than normal. virginia is becoming the new flood hotspot.  

the frequent road closures and risks to infrastructure, transportation and ecosystems are some of the immediate effects we’ve witnessed due to flooding, according to the nca. the nca said that the national oceanic and atmospheric administration (noaa) measured as much as “1 to 3 feet of local relative sea level rise in the past 100 years in low-lying areas of the southeast.” this causes “critical levels” of high tides and daily risk to all areas of life, including to businesses and neighborhoods. i can remember fear consuming my body as i got ready to drive, get on a bus, or even metro, because of how dangerous the weather conditions were. i remember having to find alternate routes because roads were closed and streets were evacuated. one too many times i have heard a tree fall in my sleep, only to wake up and realize it’s actually on the road. roaring winds are a default noise to my ears, though they make it sound like my house is on the verge of collapsing. it’s a normal day when i’m begging my windshield wipers to go faster to keep up with the torrential downpour.

according to the intergovernmental panel of climate change (ipcc), sea levels are forecasted to rise about 55 inches by the year 2100. to contextualize, a process that should have taken 400 years with natural levels of warming has now been accelerated to 79 years. according to the noaa, sea levels are currently rising “about one-eighth of an inch per year.” growing up an athlete, i remember waiting for the calls and emails announcing that after school activities were canceled due to inclement weather. by the year 2100, my grandkids may get that call nearly everyday. 

the nca projects that this flooding will become more serious, disruptive, and costly as its frequency, depth, and inland extent grow with time. but not all hope is lost. while norfolk is known for its floods, sealevelrise.org states that they have allocated over $1 billion of proposed projects to protect against flooding by 2035. similarly, virginia beach and hampton roads have set aside money for stormwater projects and sewage systems respectively.

there are other steps we should be taking now to prevent more flooding in the future. reducing carbon emissions would address the problem at the source, because fewer carbon emissions means less warming. protecting our wetlands is another step we should be taking. these wetlands provide natural areas for the water to be stored. maybe, if we take these steps and others—while taking climate change seriously—virginians won’t have to purchase a boat in the near future just to get around town.

—

editor’s note: check back each day during cop26 for more pieces in planet forward’s climate hits home series.

“i think what i didn’t have in my last role was being able to engage with people,” jenkins said, reflecting on her transition from an environmental consulting firm. o’brien, also a former consultant, echoed this sentiment.  “i loved that there was a community partner aspect to the work,” she said. 

jenkins now works as a natural infrastructure project manager at the nature conservancy, and o’brien is a ph.d. candidate in the department of civil and environmental engineering at northwestern university. they are partnering together to study the hydrology of the indian boundary prairies, a cluster of five grassland regions that form a rare natural oasis just south of chicago. 

the nature conservancy’s work focuses on maintaining the prairies as a natural habitat for biodiverse species, with big bluestem, little bluestem and indian grass attracting monarch butterflies and various migratory birds. but the prairie edges—where tar and asphalt were dumped during the construction of the road that continues to leach metal and salt into the soil—may be beyond restoration. jenkins and o’brien are exploring if the prairie boundary could be dedicated as a space for stormwater collection to help mitigate flooding in the region. 

to evaluate sundrop prairie’s water storage capacity, the pair collect data from wells installed throughout the prairie. a sensor in the well reads the underground water level, which indicates how much water is absorbed by the prairie that would otherwise be displaced. “it basically tells us, ‘if the prairie wasn’t here, how much water would be in someone’s backyard or on the street?” o’brien said.

this data also gives them an idea of how much more water the prairie might be able to take on. “what we need to do is get the prairie to work even harder than it already is,” jenkins said. 

o’brien and jenkins also analyze the water’s conductivity, which serves as a measure of how much salt and metal is in the water from contact with surrounding roads and industry. the conductivity trends allow them to see how far into the prairie interior this “urban runoff” effect persists, which can help to identify areas of the prairie that are connected by water flow paths.

understanding how the waterways intersect is critical in determining if diverting stormwater to the periphery could distress the prairie as a whole. “if we are going to think about ways to encourage more or less stormwater onto the site, we have to think about any unintentional negative impacts on the rest of the prairie,” jenkins said.  

the team also takes this holistic approach when considering how to maximize the benefit of the prairies for the local community. “we’re not just looking at the prairies in isolation—it’s all in the context of what’s happening around us,” jenkins said.   

to learn about the needs of their neighbors, o’brien and jenkins are developing a survey for south suburban residents on their experiences and perceptions related to flooding. in addition to informing their work, the responses help them to gauge people’s understanding of stormwater management and ensure that their communication with the public is accessible. 

jenkins and o’brien hope that through a combination of innovative environmental engineering and dialogue with the community, they can help to combat the flooding that disproportionately impacts the area south of chicago. “this problem, it’s not just a nuisance, it’s a public health problem,” jenkins said. “when you understand that these residents are affected by flooding on a regular basis, you can’t help but be moved to try to figure out a solution.” 

every year, the santa ana winds bring chapped lips, dry hands, and wildfires. the hot wind fuels the flames, spreading fires up and over mountains, close to towns, and threatening homes and businesses. it was typical that the fire would be out within about a week, leaving scorched, blackened earth behind. it’s not until recently that fires rage on for weeks at a time, causing extended evacuations, widespread structure damage, and threatening the lives of many.

in the fall of my first year at college in d.c., my hometown saw some of the worst fires to date: the woolsey fire of november 2018. i had recently moved across the country and i was worried for my family. as the fires got closer to our home, i got the call that they would have to evacuate. 

for two weeks, my mother, father, sister, and two dogs were living in the cabin of a small boat that my family keeps. it was two weeks of worry and anxiety. there was a vacuum of information in our area, as no one was there to report on what was happening. we truly did not know if we would have a home to go back to. 

fortunately, firefighters quelled the flames and were able to stabilize the area. my family was able to return home, though they had no running water, electricity, or cell reception, as the infrastructure had been damaged in the fire. our neighbor, however, was not as fortunate, and their home burned, leaving only the chimney behind. even now, almost two years later, that empty lot is a constant reminder of the damage that can be done. 

the week after my family returned home was thanksgiving, when i flew home to smokey skies and a neighborhood that looked extraterrestrial. trees were blackened and barely standing. fences melted and scorched. hills white with ash. 

the woolsey fire ravaged my community for 56 days, destroyed 1,643 structures, including homes and businesses, and damaged another 341. wildfires create a horribly unique refugee situation within these communities, as many are rendered homeless and must choose to rebuild or relocate.

the 2020 fires are the state’s 2nd, 3rd, and 4th largest fires and have burned over 3 million acres in california and killed at least 24 people as the fires spread along the west coast. this summer, california set record-breaking high temperatures, reaching up to 130 degrees f in death valley, according to noaa. year after year, california’s fires grow in size and bring even more extensive damage to buildings, homes, families, and communities. 

california, as well as oregon and washington, are experiencing the direct impacts of climate change. in the words of california gov. gavin newsom at this summer’s democratic national convention, “if you are in denial about climate change, come to california.” 

as reported by the new york times, newsom said, “california is america in fast forward. what we’re experiencing right now is coming to communities all across the country.”

nationwide, states have experienced record-breaking temperatures. summer 2020 is ranked as the fourth hottest for the u.s. — the second hottest for the entire northern hemisphere — and is the driest one-third of summers on record for the u.s., according to data from noaa. 

california should be viewed as an example to the rest of the country as to what will happen nationwide if we continue on our current course. change is needed, and it is not an individual effort, as we see in the california fires, but rather a collective one.

we watched waves pour over our front yard, our mailbox looking like it had been mistakenly plopped down in the middle of the ocean. waves hit the windows on our second-floor deck, water rushed past our windows, and i began to wonder if we might float away, too.

when the storm had mostly passed, the neighborhood began to come out of hiding to check on each other and fulfill our curious natures. the massive jersey barriers – made of concrete and bolted down with steel – had been pushed across the street onto our lawns. our backyard was covered in inches of sand, and there were starfish lying prone in the driveway. the ocean we all loved so dearly came closer than ever before to pay us a visit, and maybe to give us a warning.

the following year we evacuated for hurricane sandy and returned the following day to find that the sand beneath the state road had been washed away, leaving the road suspended in the air. the granite blocks in front of our house had dropped into the ground as it opened up, and i remember staring at the hole where my front yard used to be and feeling that we were in over our heads in more ways than one.

for me, growing up in a beach house in a town that comes alive in the summer was paradise. but it will soon be paradise submerged.

the seawall

at a neighborhood meeting in may 2018, i lingered at the back of the room, letting my parents and their neighbors contend with the reality of their disappearing property. familiar faces leaned over the map held by a state civil engineer who seemed too young to be in charge of saving a neighborhood.

the state of connecticut is building a $5.8 million seawall on the state road that stands between the long island sound and my neighborhood, which consists mostly of old beach cottages set back less than 50 feet from the place where land gives way to water. the state is aiming not to protect houses but to protect route 146, since it was severely undermined when hurricane sandy washed the land out from beneath it.

the u.s. army corps of engineers estimates the long island sound will rise 6.24 inches higher in the next 15 years; the road is only three feet above the current high tide mark, so it’s no wonder the state is starting to worry.

the people who built my house and others like it in the 1920s looked at an undeveloped beach and saw only opportunity. then the deadly hurricane of 1938 and countless other hurricanes and nor’easters hit the town with growing intensity, but beachfront houses continued to pop up on my street like elaborate sandcastles just waiting for the tide to come. perhaps unsurprisingly, the desire for beachfront property remains constant even as the beachfront creeps ever closer. 

we severely underestimate the power of the ocean, just as we underestimate the impacts of a changing climate. whether the year is 2018 or 2033, a category 3 hurricane like hurricane katrina or hurricane irma would flood my family’s entire property with a layer of 11 feet of water, while another category 1 storm like hurricane sandy would dump five feet of water on us. nor’easters and hurricanes become more extreme as they’re fueled by increasing ocean temperatures and they reach further onshore due to sea-level rise, meaning we can expect more starfish in the driveway every year.

climate change and the resultant sea-level rise is the most significant reason we need a seawall, but rarely was the phrase “climate change” uttered at that neighborhood meeting. there’s a major cognitive distance between sea-level rise as an abstract concept and a sea-level that could reach our driveways in less than a century.

but in 2019, the town of branford did something amazing — something that surprised me. the town invested $1 million in a new coastal resiliency fund as a way to save for the future climate costs like repairing washed-out roads and bridges. quietly, without any fanfare, branford made a commitment to its future and acknowledged the threat of climate change in a major way.

the sandcastles

i have this apocalyptic vision in my head of fish swimming by the stop sign where i once waited for the bus, of my childhood bed floating through sunlit water long after my parents have fled for higher ground. there’s no violent destruction or fear in my vision because i’ve grown up with this reality. maybe the next hurricane will knock the house down, but in my head, my childhood home stays in the same place as the ocean overtakes it, a symbolic reminder that the land was never ours to begin with, and that humans have majorly screwed up.

in some ways, i believe my drive to become an environmental journalist stems from my life experiences of reckoning with the rising sea. it’s hard to grow up with hurricanes as a character in your life story and not develop a curiosity about the climate. i’m not trying to save myself – seawall or not, i believe it may be too late for my neighborhood – but i want to help turn our trajectory around for other people, if i can, or at least help people adjust to the new world we’ll be living in.

i’m most concerned about people who are far less privileged than i am: people who live in places like the bahamas or puerto rico and have no way to escape the fury of a hurricane. people who have played little to no role in carbon emissions still must watch the sea approach them, suffering the crash of a wave that began on shores far away.

while i may one day lose my house and my neighborhood, other people will lose their jobs, families, and lives. entire countries will be wiped off the map. every island you’ve ever vacationed on could be just decades away from being a memory that geographers point to, identifying the spot where land and lives used to be. not all sea-level rise is equal in effect, and compared to other people in the world, my story is far from a tragedy.

people like my family and neighbors got lucky, living in the middle of a new england beach postcard, and then because of the choices we made, our luck ran out. but maybe we can prolong the daydream for a little longer…

and so we’re building a seawall, which will hold off the storms and seas for some time. but if there’s anything i’ve learned from playing in the sand, it’s that human constructions are trivial compared to the power of the ocean. we’ve seen that with the destruction of levees in new orleans, piers in new jersey, and entire towns in the bahamas. there is plenty we can do to become more resilient in the meantime, like building seawalls and lifting homes onto stilts, but the reality for places like branford is that people will one day have to move away.

high on a cliff over the branford river, there’s a big, sandy-colored mansion complete with turrets and crenellations that we jokingly refer to as “the sandcastle.” but the irony is that that house will survive far longer than the houses on my street. the real sandcastles are houses like mine; hastily constructed too close to the sea with the optimism of a child building sandcastles and believing they’ll be there forever. i long for the days when i, too, thought that the rising sea would never reach me.

this podcast expresses the binding relationship between wildfires and their effect on the community such as their drinking water. steve is a community member in colorado and shared his firsthand experience about what happened back in 2018. these concerns tie closely with people’s civil right and should not be taken lightly because the serious issues that interconnect the community members and natural habitat in which we live in.

the wildfires in colorado create barriers to overcome, and journeys that withstand unfathomable measures. the emergency personnel along with family and friends who work together to create a fluid transition toward safer grounds shows the strength that is awarded with overcoming obstacles.

steve has lived through a traumatic experience where he guides the audience through the events he went through, the panic he endured, the plan he had to make, and the circumstances as well as solutions to these problems. the wildfires created an environment that not only caused many to relocate, but to become uprooted onto unfamiliar grounds in which they had to forcibly adapt.

the worst part about his experience was the uncertainty of the future and what it holds. families, the economy, and the environment were put against a fight that they could not win without losing some, if not a large portion of the most precious things in life. how to educate and inform his family, as well as himself was of importance to figure out how to continue onwards to safety.

economically, there were hotel vouchers and food tickets that were given to victims. that resonates with the audience. the people play a victim role but should also understand who truly helped to progress the issue toward such combative stages. for example, a simple natural part of the earth, water, was adversely affected by the occurrences of the wildfires. the direct impact during the wildfires could not be changed at that point in time, so proper safety concerns were addressed by steve during the interview. he mentioned to understand the relationship between communicating about current events and how it affects anybody, especially if they live in fire-prone areas. he admits that this should be considered when looking toward progressive steps of making sure future endeavors do not take up space that make cause harm. in a way, it is pre-conceived knowledge that members of society should consider when building the new infrastructure; the true foundation that people base their livelihoods on.

these foundations should expand in an environmentally friendly direction and provide and educate people as to what they should consider when they occupy parts of the world. the carbon footprint that they leave not only affects everybody within these areas of devastation, but for the neighbors who have to accept the newcomers having to migrate into their space; bringing along various traditions that now mix together for a cocktail of culture. this unification of people is good to help force proper communicative techniques to take place and quite literally show that it can directly and indirectly affect you and your loved ones; even strangers!

what there is to take away from this is, that you cannot predict the future fully, but you can help contain and protect the valuable resources that we were given at the start of life on earth and help to maintain and sustain it for future people. the best way to do this is through sharing information of how truly devastating these natural disasters can be, especially for a person like steve. there is a lesson to be learned; not everybody can see that they are affected by earth, but they can affect earth. to show them this is to show them how their everyday choices can alter backyards near and far, and for generations to come.  

from president donald trump controversially tossing some paper towels into a crowd to organizations offering relief, there has been a large effort to give aid to puerto rico. one of the organizations that has helped rebuild puerto rico is the american society of civil engineers, or asce. not only is the asce helping to rebuild puerto rico but they also are updating their infrastructure to last around 50 to 100 years and be able to handle hurricanes with the same wrath as maria according to their standards. 

during the asce-led briefing, the main topic was updating puerto rico’s infrastructure to last and withstand deadly tropical storms in the longworth house office building on capitol hill on sept. 24. the moderators of the briefing called on a joining of forces between the federal government and the asce.

going into the briefing informing people of the asce 7 hazard tool which informs people on how to deal and be prepared for harsh conditions like hurricanes, ice storms, blizzards, and other types of inclement weather was a big point to get across. since the document’s last update in 2017, it now has information on hurricane-prone areas, as well as wind debris.

leading the briefing were multiple high ranking members of the asce: executive director tom smith; héctor colón de la cruz, who is the head of puerto rico’s infrastructure report card; otto lynch, who is the president and ceo of power line systems; and josefa torres-olivo, who is the district iii director of the rural community assistance partnership.

later in the discussion the republican congresswoman of puerto rico jenniffer gonzález-colón to reinforce what was being presented by the asce.

smith described some financial benefits that can be seen when it comes to reinforcing and strengthening communities to be better prepared for disasters.

“according to the national institute of building sciences, every dollar spent on pre-disaster mitigation and preparedness saves 6 dollars in rebuilding costs after a storm,” smith said.

smith also describes what the asce-7 was and just how in depth the document that the asce has presented with their standards is, and just how many people have put the time and dedication necessary to put something like this together.

“asce-7 is an 800-page document,” smith said. “we have hundreds of engineers who work on this document analyzing infrastructure and how it has performed across the world and testing it in labs.”

throughout the briefing, asce pushed their standards and explained how that can benefit areas that deal with numerous types of harsh storms.

lynch discussed how the bahamas updated their infrastructure according to the asce guidelines.

“i’ve been told by more than one source that every pole on that line survived hurricane dorian. that’s a category 5 storm that stayed over the island for 36 hours. follow these!” lynch said, as he shook a copy of the guidelines in his hand.

colón de la cruz would go on to explain puerto rico’s infrastructure strain, the aid it is receiving from congress and a new problem facing puerto rico’s reconstruction.

“congress allocated $42.5 billion for reconstruction purposes,” colón de la cruz said. “as of may 2019, only $15 billion has been delivered to puerto rico. it is important that the american government and puerto rico work together to deliver a more resilient infrastructure.” 

“looking forward in specific infrastructure energy was a headline, the energy blackout but we are also facing a new emergency,” colón de la cruz said. “last year the epa estimated that we only have 5 years left of capacity remaining in our landfills excluding the amount of debris that is going to be a part of the reconstruction efforts. it is also important to mention that only half of the landfills are compliant to epa standards.”

torres-olivo would go on to stress how resources like clean drinking water have been affected by hurricane maria for an area that already struggles to distribute clean water to people living there.

“the reality is that in an island topography and an infrastructure cost investment it is not feasible to perform in for the entire island,” torres-olivo said while describing how difficult it is to distribute water. 

rep. gonzález-colón would not speak until later in the briefing, however she still took advantage of her time. calling on both the federal government and the private sector to work together to help areas like puerto rico.

“one of the biggest challenges i have as a member of congress is that i don’t even have the correct data,” gonzález-colón said. “i rely on the private sector and i rely on ngo’s to gather that information.” 

gonzález-colón also went on to state how important improving puerto rico’s infrastructure will be and she expressed her confidence in the asce guidelines to accomplish that.

“we need to use the american society of civil engineer’s standards,” she said.

asce has the means of doing that.

“this is the only way for people to know what is going on back home,” gonzález-colón said.

yavuz ozeren, a research scientist at ncche, said, “the models that we have are broadly grouped into 1d, 2d and 3d models, from simple to more complicated. the 1d model investigates the parameters in one dimension and go up to 3d. they become more expensive as they go up and are used in various ways to simulate the flow of water,” yavuz said. 

the center does flood simulations through a web-based system that agencies use before and after natural disasters. the most recent simulation was used in puerto rico, after hurricane maria. 

the simulations, which are all automated, simulate the dams. the agencies log in, find a dam, input a scenario, and analyze the data. the results are measured in water depth, arrival time, and other statistics that help prepare for specific natural disasters.

yavuz described two major projects he is currently working on. “when a dam fails, there are a lot of contaminants, muds and materials from mining,” he said, “these all begin to flow downstream differently from how water normally flows.”

“we test the pond and the mixture,” he said, “there is a gate that we use to pull the water quickly through. the materials flow down onto the gate, then we collect the data and analyze it. it is very simple to control how much water and mixture we have.”

the second major experiment involves erosion and water issues in the mississippi delta. yavuz said, “related to water issues in mississippi and arkansas, farming in the lower mississippi delta flood plain relies on groundwater resources for irrigation.” the farmers in the delta put in wells and pump water out, but over the last year or so, groundwater levels have been sinking. soil conservation services use reservoirs and build levees filled with water to store during winter months and to use during the summer. 

the ncche is looking for ways to protect and extend the lives of these levees. “we have been testing how much erosion will cause certain conditions by bringing in materials from the delta, so that we can estimate the guidelines and how long the levees will last,” ozeren said.

these experiments show that although the ncche is primarily a research institution, they are dedicated to helping people. the center is 100 percent self-sustaining and does not receive any funds from the university. they conduct all individual projects at the national sedimentation laboratory, located off campus. in their experiments and field work, all models rely on real-world data from controlled experiments in the field.

to learn more about the ncche and their experiments, visit ncche.olemiss.edu. 

rising extremes of droughts, floods or food shortages can reduce a country’s political stability and cultural tolerance, warned scientists at the american association for the advancements of science conference in boston this weekend.

as global temperatures continue to rise, these and other environmental threats are expected to increase.

“what you have here is a model where different forms of ecological threat are producing stronger cultural institutions,” but stronger in the sense of more regimented, said joshua conrad jackson, a psychologist at the university of north carolina, chapel hill. “that could carry over into intergenerational changes in cultural institutions.”

if a parent raises a child in a time of high ecological threat, they are likely to raise that child with stricter rules and regulations and tightened cultural norms, jackson said.

a team of social scientists and climatologists presented their preliminary findings from surveys historical cultural and climate records. they found that higher rates of ecological threat generally lead to stricter, more intolerant cultural norms in a society and higher rates of violence.

jackson, with michele gelfand at the university of maryland, found that ecological threats like food deprivation,  pathogen prevalence, and natural disasters lead to higher pressures to marry, more moralizing religions, and autocratic leadership.

other researchers discussed the ability to detect the influence of past environmental changes on culture, and whether these changes affected a country’s political stability.

eric jones, an environmental anthropologist at the university of texas, found that after events such as a natural disaster, people tend to band together for at least a short period of time. but if the ecological event is chronic or repeated, like a drought that lasts for years, there is “less to give” and less sharing and redistribution within the community, he said.

in prehistoric societies, ecological changes led to periods of political upheaval and violence, said timothy kohler, an archaeologist at washington state university. after periods of extended drought in ancient communities like the pueblo in the southwestern united states, kohler found evidence of high rates of violent trauma on the bones and skeletal fragments in communities that had high rates of societal inequality.

it is especially difficult for communities to adapt to environmental change when their population grows because there are fewer available natural resources, he said. many historians point to more contemporary events such as the droughts that created the dust bowl during the 1930s, when an estimated 40 percent of the population fled oklahoma family farmsteads.

leadership can topple as well.

“climate events bring an end to regimes of relatively high inequality, but also are accompanied by violence. we need to be concerned with the degree of inequality as well as population density if we want to avoid violent outcomes,” kohler said.

kohler wrapped up the panel by discussing the implications for the future, where population and ecological threats are expected to increase.

“thinking ahead to a world with 25 percent more people than we have now in 30 years or so, you could borrow a term from the 1960s — is this going to be a more uptight world than the world we live in now?”

it was caused by a nearly decadelong series of disastrous windstorms in the southern plains. you may know it as the dust bowl.

on nov. 11, 1933, massive dust storms swept across south dakota. history.com reports that within two days, dust from the storm had reached albany, n.y. — more than 1,500 miles from where the storms originated. in 1933, there were 38 storms in total, according to pbs’ american experience. that was more than double the 14 that occurred in the region the previous year.

over the next year, the dust storms spread, and the drought became the worst in u.s. history, with more than 75% of the country affected. on april 14, 1935, a “black blizzard” developed, resulting in the most damage from any storm in the history of the dust bowl. it is now known as “black sunday.”

while the situation became dire in the plains, washington was simultaneously dealing with the great depression. franklin roosevelt took office in 1933 and congress worked quickly to push through the emergency banking act of 1933, which stabilized the bank industry. in the months leading up to black sunday, a series of farm- and drought-related actions followed, including the taylor grazing act, the frazier-lemke farm bankruptcy act and the drought relief service. a week before black sunday, the emergency relief appropriation act was approved by fdr, which along with funding created the works progress administration, employing 8.5 million people — and offering an opportunity for those hard hit by the dust storms.

soil erosion was the enemy, with experts estimating 850 million tons of topsoil lost in the southern plains to the storms over the course of 1935. the soil conservation service, established in april 1935 as part of the u.s. department of agriculture, developed techniques that have become standard practice for farmers, history.com said.

slowly, the plains were rehabbed by “changing the basic farming methods of the region by seeding areas with grass, rotating crops, and using contour plowing, strip plowing, and planting ‘shelter belts’ of trees to break the wind,” american experience reports. by the fall of 1939, the rains finally came again, ending the seemingly endless drought — and years of anguish. 

(image at top: machinery and a car are partially buried in dallas, s.d., in 1936, in the dust bowl. / united states department of agriculture)