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ALONG THE CAROLINAS COAST – Two weeks after the storm that hit Florence, dozens of coastal communities have been flooded – flooded homes, demolition of buildings, uprooting of trees and cutting of roads – anger and devastation continues whole neighborhoods still submerged and streets totally impassable.
In Socastee, South Carolina, a small town west of Myrtle Beach, many people continued to navigate their neighborhoods by boat at the end of the weekend, with the Waccamaw River reaching a record high before spreading their community and fill their homes with several feet more dirty water.
About 80 kilometers to the north, in Lumberton, New Brunswick, Patricia Fox, 56, a single mother who lost everything in Hurricane Matthew two years ago, once again counted everything she lost. While her daughter slept in their four-door sedan, where they both slept these days, she worked silently and alone. Wearing a mask to cover her nose and mouth, she carried her things, now stained with mold, and dropped them on their lawn.
In the Carolinas, states that have been hit again and again by hurricanes and tropical storms – where this time at least 45 people have died, thousands have been displaced, more than 1,000 remain in shelters, and the damage should exceed several billion dollars – Florence remains far from over.
A hurricane monster and a decision: stay or leave?
The air from the end of the summer crossing the Carolinas creaked under an electric charge of haste and fright.
The sun was still shining on the beach bars and crab shacks, but all TV channels were listening to weather reports reporting the hurricane monster heading towards them. Her forecast trajectory turned north, then south, as if she could not decide which city wrecks first. The beaches were already deserted, cedar wood houses clasped and closed with plywood panels over the windows.
Millions of people were wondering if they should stay and risk leaving or even leaving and possibly spending weeks as refugees. They left work early to pick up their grandparents in small, flood-prone cities. They ran into supermarkets and emptied the shelves of bread, milk and batteries. It was as if all the state of North Carolina was counting.
Then the sky darkened. The trees are twisted and the throbbing ocean is loaded on the ground. Some people have banded together to make fun of the upcoming storm with hurricane-defying parties. Some danced in the rain.
Others, stuck in their cars on flooded roads, stuck in roofless caravans, had never been so alone.
The wind howled and the waters began to float in the neighborhoods. Here it is.
Few cities have been spared
The water just would not stop.
Florence landed on Friday, September 14 as a Category 1 hurricane and crawled inland as slowly as three miles an hour, releasing approximately 8,000 billion liters of rain in North Carolina. Storm surges have pushed rivers into historic city centers, housing estates and apartment complexes. People rushed to their roofs and in boats and helicopters.
On the roads, the drivers went to empty service stations to escape the incessant rolling of the drum on their roofs. At home, they saw water crawl like a burglar on their stairs and through their front doors. The state has become a constellation of islands, each city being cut off from its power lines, felled trees and drowned roads. Fatigue and despair took hold as people searched in vain for food, gasoline and electricity while almost every storefront was dark.
People like Juleon H. Dove, in New Bern, NC, who had taken refuge on the second floor of her family's mortuary business, listened to the water rushing downstairs and looking out the window as she slowly engulfed her. the neighboring houses. Or Thierry Sullivan, from Chocowinity, NC, who used his phone to film unrecognizable streets, the "entire city" underwater, he said in a video posted on Facebook.
There were of course towns that dodged the worst, and the people there celebrated under the drizzle and roasted the Waffle House and other open restaurants whose windows shone like beacons.
But the names of other cities have become synonymous with sodden destruction by the water of Florence: Wilmington; Lumberton; Jacksonville; New Bern.
It's time to rebuild
When the rain finally stopped, people slipped out of the cocoon of their homes to see the shattered, sodden landscape that was their new reality.
Power lines and 30-foot trees covered the roads. The roofs of the neighbors were collapsed. The lawns were covered with trash and branches. National Guard truck convoys crossed the city and boaters crisscrossed the streets. Some people cried while examining the damage. Others were silently passing through their homes and beginning to suck water.
Maikke Brandis, 33, owner of a bar that chose to weather the storm, told Wilmington, in the northwest, that so many trees had been destroyed that it would take years to rebuild the canopy of the city. Joey Canady, 54, a Baptist pastor who did not evacuate to care for his aging parents, walked the flooded Hampstead church, determined to rebuild, but with determination.
Yet, as people swore to bounce back, there were worried questions about each of their choices, such as a new storm gathering force at sea. Would rebuilding ruin them financially? Was it wise to stay in the same house – even in the same city – that had been devastated by two powerful hurricanes in two years? Would the Carolinian governments face climate change now or adopt policies to limit development in areas torn apart again and again by floods?
These questions remain – and will remain so for many more months and years.
First, however, with no response, they grabbed brooms and mops, chain saws and iron bars. They had to go to work.
Jack Healy is a national correspondent based in Colorado. He is interested in rural areas and living outside the "City Limits" signs in America. He has worked in Iraq and Afghanistan and graduated from the University of Missouri School of Journalism. @jackhealynyt • Facebook
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