The Hurricane Hunters

by Ivan Ray Tannehill

The main hope for greater savings in the future is that the solution of some of the mysteries of the hurricane will enable the forecasters to send out accurate warnings much farther in advance. In such an event, it will be possible to protect certain kinds of property and crops which are being destroyed at present. Heavy equipment can be moved and certain crops can be harvested in season, if plenty of time is available. These precautions are time-consuming and costly, and the advance warnings must be accurate in detail. And it will help to make sure that no hurricane different from its predecessors will come suddenly and catch us off guard and cause excessive loss of life. Now and then we have one which is called a “freak.”

One thing we have become increasingly sure of and it will stand repetition. No two hurricanes or typhoons are alike. Scientists may find some weather element that seems to be necessary to keep the monster going, and then are frustrated to find that not all tropical storms have it. If some can do without it, maybe it is not necessary, after all. And yet all of them fit a certain direful pattern; there is nothing else that resembles these big storms of the tropics. Like the explosion of an atom bomb, with its enormous cloud recognized by everyone who sees a picture of it, the hurricane has well-known features—unlike anything else—but of such enormous extent that no one can get a bird’s-eye view of the whole. Putting together what we know by radar, upper air soundings, aircraft penetrations and millions of weather observations in the low levels, we can draw a sketchy word picture. Looking down from space, we could see it as a giant octopus with a clear eye in the center of its body, arms spiraling around and into this body of violent winds around the eye—all of the monster outlined by the clouds which thrive as it feeds on heat and moisture. We feel sure of that much.

The birth of the THING has not been explained. There are plenty of times when all the ingredients are there. Nothing happens. Observation and theory flourish and swell into confusion. No scientist can say, “Everything is just right; tomorrow there will be a hurricane.”

Why it moves as it does is another grim puzzle. Ordinarily, the great storm marches along with the air stream in which it is embedded, changing its path with the contours of the vast pressure areas which outline the circulation of the atmosphere, but too often it suddenly changes its mind, or whatever controls it, or shifts gears, and comes to a halt, or describes a loop or a hairpin turn. Nobody can see these queer movements ahead of time. Going out there in an airplane to look the situation over does not help in this respect. It is a vital aid in keeping track of the THING and protecting life and property, but it ends there.

Where does all the air go? When the big storm begins out there over the ocean, air starts spiraling inward and the pressure falls, showing that the total amount of air above the sea to the top of the atmosphere is lessening, even as it pours inward at the bottom. For a hundred years scientists argued that it must flow outward at the top, that at some upper level the inflow of air ceases and above that there must be a powerful reversal of the circulation. Here again we have frustration. Going up with one of the investigators, we get the facts. Strangely enough, this is one of the men who want to get into hurricanes, who come down to the coast to look, and who finally “thumb a ride” with the airmen into the big winds. A brief of his story will illustrate.

This story begins with the big Gulf hurricane of 1919. It came from the Atlantic east of the Windward Islands, moved slowly to the northward of Puerto Rico and Haiti and thence to the central Bahamas, a fairly large storm threatening the Atlantic seaboard. Then it took an unusual path, generally westward, with increasing fury. It was a powerful storm as its central winds ravaged the Florida Keys and took a westward course across the Gulf. It happened shortly after World War I and there was little shipping in the Gulf. The slow-moving hurricane, now a full-fledged tropical giant, dawdled in the Gulf and was lost; that is, lost as much as a monster of its dimensions can be, but its winds were felt all around the Gulf Coast and its waves pounded the beaches as it spent four days out there without disclosing the location or motion of its calm center.

Warnings flew all around the coast and the week dragged to an end with the people extremely tired of worrying about it and the weathermen worn out with continuous duty. Saturday night came and the center seemed to be no nearer one part of the coast than another. Late at night, an annoying thing happened. It was customary in those days for the forecaster, in sending a series of messages from Washington, to stop them at midnight and begin again early the next morning. It was the rule that no reports came in between midnight and dawn. The clerk sending the last message added “Good Night,” to let the coastal offices know that there would be no more until morning.

In this case, the forecaster ended his advisory with a notice putting all Gulf offices on the alert and the clerk added “Good Night.” And so the offices received a message ending with these words: “All observers will remain on the alert during the night. In case the barometer begins to fall and the wind rises, Good Night.” This created a furor in coastal cities on the West Gulf and it was several weeks before the criticism subsided. By Sunday morning, however, the gusty wind had not risen much and there was no great fall in the barometer, so the weathermen had no answer at daybreak. Soon afterward, however, the weather deteriorated rapidly at Corpus Christi, and hurricane warnings went up as big Gulf waves pounded over the outlying islands into Corpus Christi Bay and the wind began screaming in the palms.

Around noon the worst of it struck the city. The tide mounted higher than in any previous storm of record, except in the terrible Galveston hurricane of 1900. Much of Corpus Christi was on a high bluff above the main business section, but the latter and the shore section to the north were low. It was after church and time to sit down to Sunday dinner when the final rise of the water began to overwhelm everything. The police, sent out by the Weather Bureau, were knocking on people’s doors and telling them to get out and run for high ground. But these low sections had survived a big, fast-moving hurricane three years before, without nearly so high a tide, and most people thanked the police but determined to stay and eat. This decision was fatal in the North Beach section. The road was cut off and nearly two hundred were drowned.

Down on Chaparral Street lived a man named Clyde Simpson, with his wife and seven-year-old son Robert. The boy’s uncle and grandmother were there also. They were about to sit down to a big platter of chicken, and the boy had his eye on a pile of freshly fried doughnuts. They had been out standing with other nervous people to look at the great waves roaring across the beach, but after a little the storm waters had forced them back and covered the streets. Now the water was rising fast. Several houses had come up off their foundations. A large frame residence on the opposite side of the street floated across, and, while they held their breath, missed them by a few feet, struck the house next door, and both collapsed. The elder Simpson said it was time to get out, dinner or no dinner.