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Photo by: CHRIS CHMURA / TBO.com
A unique souvenir to remember this once in a lifetime experience in a storm's eye.
10:08 a.m.
Like the first day on a new job, I’m inundated with hellos and handshakes by a dozen and a half people dressed in bright blue jumpsuits. I instantly notice how their experience level is proudly worn on their sleeves, quite literally. Some of crew have patches that reveal how many “penetrations” they’ve achieved. One read an impressive “50+ Penetrations.” Later, I learned there’s a guy in the squadron with a 400+ patch.
10:13 a.m.
10:14 a.m.
Today, the flight will collect data for both The National Hurricane Center and long-range research projects by zig-zagging through newly-named Hurricane Rita as it wobbles between Key West and Havana.
10:22 a.m.
10:26 a.m.
10:34 a.m.
10:44 a.m.
People are still milling about as the plane rolls down the taxiway, checking this and fastening that. It was almost strange for me to be walking around at that time. I felt like an airline flight attendant should have been yelling at us for it.
About the only similarity between a commercial plane and this research aircraft is the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign above the aisle. You’d think it’s implied, but I guess you never know. It came on just a few seconds before we took to the seemingly endless runway at MacDill Air Force Base.
10:52 a.m.
Our initial flight plan involves a leg to Fort Myers, a swing to the southwest over the gulf, and then a route southeast into the storm. From there, the scientists will help decide where the best observations can be found.
Before reaching the storm, there’s a lot of activity in the cabin. Computers are powered-up to calibrate instruments, and in what I can only describe as a confident example of their airworthiness, some of the crewmembers actually ate their lunch during the 45-minute flight to the Straits.
I’m free to roam up and down the narrow aisle, and technician Terry Lynch encourages me to play with TV monitors that display live data. “You can’t break these,” he assured me.
11:10 a.m.
11:35 a.m.
11:41 a.m.
It’s much like the thing at the bank drive-through that rapidly sucks money paperwork from teller to customer. The order is simple: “Drop,” over the intercom. As the ‘dropsonde’ disappears behind us, it instantly starts sending back data about air pressure and wind speed.
Just then, the first tube is dropped near Key West. The island city is just below us, but there are far too many towering clouds around us to see anything.
11:45 a.m.
Although I expected the cabin to get very dark, it’s still quite bright as we barrel through enormous white clouds. There isn’t much to see out the window or even in the cabin right now. However, I couldn’t help but chuckle (again) at the yellow “fasten seat belts” sign to my right.
At more than 200 mile and hour, the bumps don’t faze the crew at all. Everyone stares at computer monitors to catch the very latest readings. Numbers are updated every second, and it’s somewhat tough for a civilian like me to follow the constant calculations.
Mainly, the crew is focused on a black and white wind speed indicator, looking for the maximum.
11:49 a.m.
As the second tube falls, instrumentation surprisingly records winds of more than 100 mph at the surface, making the storm a Category 2 hurricane. This is a remarkable finding because it was only a few hours ago that Rita was upgraded from Tropical Storm to a minimal hurricane. It’s now clear the crew is observing an emerging threat to the Gulf coast.
The rocking back and forth continues, though I’m surprised at how well the plane handles this tropical turbulence. And then, just like that it’s calm. It’s not quite clear like in textbooks, but this is the hurricane’s eye. Winds diminish, the rain stops, and I can see a partially curved shape to the clouds off in the distance.
11:59 a.m.
Breaks in the clouds give us a terrifying peek at the pounding sea below us. It’s a hypnotic view, like watching boiling water in slow motion. I’m no longer the only one looking our the window. “You see the sea state? Wow,” exclaims NOAA scientist Mike Black. Listening to the intercom is like hearing a 9th inning World Series play-by-play for weather junkies. I love it.
12:01 p.m.
Getting there is part science, part guesswork. The flight director calls for a variety of sharp turns, twisting the plane left and right until wind readings are nearest to zero.
12:04 p.m.
12:06 p.m.
A couple of times I feel the plane losing altitude, dropping rapidly through the clouds. It’s impossible for me to write legibly. The pilots quickly recover and bring the P-3 back to 8,000 feet. Maintaining the same altitude is important to ensure all observations can be compared each other.
Over the intercom, there’s chatter about the turbulence, the radar, and the storm’s intensity. “The southeast side is certainly stronger,” said Black. My stomach concurs.
12:12 p.m.
The violent weather slowly subsides, and eventually the fasten seat belt sign is turned off just before 12:30.
12:28 p.m.
12:31 p.m.
12:32 p.m.
Shaking their heads and conferring on the intercom, staffers on the left are carefully reviewing the data they’re just gathered. Some of them are using a computer chat program to communicate with other analysts.
A little farther forward, is the flight director’s station. He’s unfurling a huge map to plot where we’ve been and where we should go. Above his desk is a satellite phone. I can’t believe it works in a hurricane. So, a little later I’ll call The News Center.
The navigator sits on the right. He has an impressive flat panel monitor which displays the plane’s position on top of dynamic aviation maps. I’m going to be glued to this and the radar for the rest of the flight.
1:05 p.m.
We’re making incredible time. While I was exploring the cabin we’ve already made another left turn to head back toward the eyewall.
1:09 p.m.
1:13 p.m.
With nothing to look at out the window, the flight crew concentrates on their avionics and the wind speed indicator. Again, everyone is looking to locate the peak winds for another drop.
1:15 p.m.
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He seems gratified that the crew’s work has played such a pivotal role.
1:17 p.m.
1:23 p.m.
1:24 p.m.
I’m amused when the crew openly groans at the flight director’s suggestion they’ll have to head home soon. It’s clear they’re in their element, and enjoy the work.
1:40 p.m.
The receiver looks like a car phone from the late 1990s, but it’s remarkably clear once I’m connected. The good news is I can get through; the bad news is there’s no one answering. So, I simply leave my report in the office voicemail system and hope for the best. This technology simply dumbfounds me. I could never make fire with two sticks, much less a phone that operates in a plane, in a hurricane, via satellite. It’s simply amazing.
1:51 p.m.
2:11 p.m.
2:17 p.m.
2:22 p.m.
2:26 p.m.
2:27 p.m.
The Miami air controller reported the new, lower pressure at Key West for pilots Silah and Strong to adjust. After doing so we had to climb 400 feet. The crew also notified the scientists aboard so they could fix their measurements, if needed.
2:35 p.m.
2:53 p.m.
2:59 p.m.
Pilot Tom Strong assures me this was a gentle mission compared to others that have left observers like me nauseated. The bumps he says, are even “more violent in Midwest thunderstorms.” I didn’t know NOAA chases those too.
3:11 p.m.
3:21 p.m.
3:24 p.m.
As the plane’s door opened, the crew’s boss came aboard for a quick debriefing. He dished out orders for the next day, fielded a few questions, and gave me a red and white patch which reads “1+ Hurricane Penetrations.”
Now I can proudly proclaim, “I rode through a Hurricane Rita and all I got was this lousy patch.” In all honesty, I can't wait to start a collection.
Special thanks to NOAA’s Aircraft Operations Center at MacDill Air Force Base for the opportunity to fly this mission.
Walking up to its battleship grey exterior, a couple dozen bright red decals near the P-3’s tail convince me there’s nothing to worry about. This plane has endured dozens of powerful tropical systems, and has a hurricane sticker for each storm it’s observed. While this day was very much unique for me, it’s just another day on the job for this crew. With that, I climb aboard.
After dumping my backpack and overnight bags (just in case), I had to sign away my life by releasing Uncle Sam from any liability if something went wrong. It’s a federal formality, for sure, but a little unnerving nonetheless.
With my paperwork complete the crew assembles near the rear stairs, which fold up like the ones from home attics, to get a briefing from the flight director, the pilot, and the navigator. Everyone is reminded of the emergency exits, other lifesaving equipment, our mission goal, and flight plan.
A look at the galley resembles a college dorm room: a microwave and a coffee pot.
For the next few minutes I try to get my newsgathering gear (camera, notepad, laptop, etc.) together in the somewhat confined space that’s mine for the next few hours. I’d over-packed, but in my defense here’s a glimpse at what NOAA suggests observers bring along:
-A jacket in case the cabin temperature drops
-Long pants
-Hefty shoes
-An overnight bag (if the plane gets diverted)
-A Passport (in case we end up in another country)
-Money for transportation (Because, if it’s one-way you’re on your own to get home)
Surprisingly, I’m hardly jarred as the four turbo-prop engines start. And, the noise is probably quieter than my family’s noisy 1995 Jeep. There’s really no reason to use the fluorescent earplugs in my pocket, but I’m keeping them as a souvenir anyway.
If the holster labeled “barf bags” doesn’t do it, the hefty metal seat belt/harness combo in your bright orange seat will: This may be a very rough ride. Inside the plane, crewmembers take their stations surrounded by closets full of computers and other data-gathering devices.
Take off was smooth. The four-prop P-3 glides off the runway at MacDill Air Force Base a couple minutes ahead of schedule. I realize there’s no turning back now, and my stomach sinks a little.
All the way up front, I enter the flight deck. Pilot Tom Strong sits on the left, with co-pilot Mike Silah to the right and a flight engineer perched between them to monitor the plane’s four turbo-prop engines. Overhead, and just below an emergency escape hatch, hangs a pair of over-sized fuzzy pink dice. Later I’ll get to ride up here for a while.
On approach to Key West, the warm green tint of Florida Bay is speckled with white sea foam created by monstrous waves. In an area that’s usually calm for boaters, the sea appears angry, even from 8,000 feet above. Pilot Tom Strong estimated some waves may be 40 feet tall.
I’m jolted left and right a few times while buckled in to my bright orange window seat, next to technician Ray Tong. He’s poised to drop an instrument tube into the storm so scientists can get winds readings from the surface.
This is where the turbulence begins. At barely an hour after take-off, a gentle rocking I’d grown accustomed to quickly evolves into more of a continual shudder as rain began racing across the windows and wind readings spiked. A jolt or two startle me, and I’ll admit I grab the seat bottom more than once. This is the main event: We’re entering Rita’s narrow, but remarkably intense eyewall.
By comparing furious radar sweeps against their instrument readings, the pilots and scientists try to judge where the weather is worst. When they think they’ve reached Rita’s top winds, they hurriedly order another drop.
It took about 10 minutes to fly through the eyewall. I really thought it would be longer, and worse on my stomach. As it runs out, I got very lucky. This was a tame ride.
Now, the plane is weaving through the eye looking for Rita’s lowest winds. Once over that spot the crew can mark the storm’s center.
They find it, and aim for another pass through the eyewall. With that course comes a warning from the cockpit: “You may want to buckle up.”
Here we go again. Everyone is in position as we’re pounded by a thunderstorm on the outer edge of the eyewall. A stroke of lightning off the left side flashes through cabin. This is definitely worse than the first pass.
Although the scientists want to fly the full diameter of the storm there’s now a political boundary in the way: Cuba. Instead of flying due south, they’ll have to settle for a southeast route parallel to the Cuban coast. We must stay 12 miles offshore to avoid an international incident.
I’m not sure if I should get up just yet because I have no idea what kind of weather is ahead. So, I stay put. Mike Black strolls by and tells me, “it’s a Category 2 now.”
He’s pretty sure of his footing, and heads back toward the small galley under the tail.
With a deep turn to the left and a rare break in the puffy white clouds, a small island just off Cuba comes into view. They’ve probably been over it a hundred times, but the crew still sneaks a peek. It’s absolutely beautiful, with what looks like pristine white sand that’s never been touched. I’m glad I stayed seated.
We’re headed north, toward Miami, and now we can hear other planes and air controllers on the radio. I figure it’s probably now safe for me to move about the cabin. From my seat just behind the wing I walk forward a few feet.
Then, with just a few more steps forward, I’m back in the cockpit while the plane is in flight. There’s talk about Duke University sports as I arrive, and perch myself just behind the pilot.
Twenty miles south of Marathon (in the Keys), we again see impossibly tall waves over Florida’s fragile coral reefs. Pilot Tom Strong jokes, “You like windsurfing?” Turbulence is picking up again. The crew is going to let me stay up front as we fly through Rita’s eyewall again.
After one serious jolt, Mike Brown says, “it’s definitely getting its act together.”
And, for the next several minutes that’s abundantly clear.
Although we’re in a plane, in a hurricane, near Cuba, researcher Mike Black can still see updates from the National Hurricane Center in Miami via satellite. The findings NOAA43 just transmitted about Rita’s intensity have prompted a special, unscheduled advisory from forecasters. Black reads it over the intercom.
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>000
>WTNT63 KNHC 201711
>TCUAT3
>HURRICANE RITA TROPICAL CYCLONE UPDATE
>NWS TPC/NATIONAL HURRICANE CENTER MIAMI FL
>115 PM EDT TUE SEP 20 2005
>
>DATA FROM A NOAA PLANE INDICATE THAT RITA HAS
>REACHED 100 MH WINDS AND IS NOW A CATEGORY
>TWO HURRICANE ON THE SAFFIR/SIMPSON HURRICANE
>SCALE. THIS WILL BE REFLECTED IN A SPECIAL
>ADVISORY AT 2 PM EDT.
>
>FORECASTER AVILA
>
>
With the plane in the middle of a bold patch of red on the weather radar, the winds reach well over 100mph and a drop order is given. Within a minute or so we’re back in the eye.
For the past six minutes the pilots have been trying to find the storm’s center by turning the plane into calmer winds. When they see a reading of .9kts, they call it the center, and proceed for another penetration. Rita’s current latitude and longitude are now compared against the last plot to see where Rita is moving. The flight director calculates it is 260 degrees (almost due west) and 13kts.
Pass #4 already! During this run there’s a lot of chatter about how the storm has changed, and what it may be up to. I’m a little concerned because co-pilot Mike Silah has repeatedly tried to get a radio check from air controllers in Miami, but has failed. I’m sure we’re safe, but I’m wondering why that is.
By now, the seat belt sign is off again and I’m confident enough to walk around.
Right around the corner I remember the satellite phone and my boss who’s expecting me to call it.
We’ve just flown past Havana (to the west) and through the weaker outer reaches of the storm. Navigator Pete Siegel plots a reverse course taking us over the same area we’d just explored. I’m sure researchers will do much with two sets of wind, rain, and radar samples from the same area over just a few minutes. It might help them better understand how these monsters can so rapidly evolve.
Moving back through the eyewall (our fifth penetration today and my third ride in the cockpit), the ride is bumpy but still tame. Over the intercom the weather experts are noticing the storm’s eye is somewhat ragged, and more elliptical than circular. They hint that’s possible a sign Rita is strengthening again.
The storm center seems a little clearer than the last two times. On radar, it looks like a splotched, not quite round, human eye. After the navigator takes a turn locating the storm center, he directs the pilots north, through the eyewall one last time, over Key West, and back to MacDill AFB.
Just as we pass through the eyewall edge, a final drop is ordered. It’s been almost three hours since our first pass, and it’s entirely possible the storm could be completely different by now. It feels the same, by Mike Brown seems more convinced Rita is gaining significant strength, and fast.
Finally, as we pass to the east of Key West, Miami air traffic controllers respond to co-pilot Mike Silah’s call. With a brief test, the “center” determines a remote radio receive site must have been knocked-out. Thankfully, there’s a back-up and very few airplanes willing to fly near Rita.
This is the most vivid illustration of how rapidly the storm changed during our flight. Because the plane’s altimeter gauges altitude by sensing air pressure, it must be reset or “corrected” based on observations at the surface below the plane. In this case, the pressure had dropped so much during our flight that the altimeter was off by about 400 feet.
More than 80 miles north of Rita’s eye, the instruments still show tropical storm force winds at the surface. Black takes note of the storm’s larger size, saying there’s “a broad wind field.” It’s not only stronger, it’s bigger.
Near Fort Myers, we cross back over land. It’s more cloudy than when we left, and it looks like it’s been raining. I’m not the only one who notices either.
As we’re passing Sarasota and descending to land at MacDill, we experience the most violent turbulence of the flight. Amazingly, it’s a small band of showers (probably part of Rita’s feeder bands) that gives my stomach a jarring twist for the first time today.
We’re cleared to land on Runway 4.
A delicate touch down, and a smooth taxi. Total flight time was about 4 hours, 27 minutes and 40 seconds, according to my wristwatch.
Again, I’m amused.
Before the pilots stop the P-3’s props, other crewmembers have already ditched their blue military-like jumpsuits for shorts and T-shirts. One engineer’s shirt perfectly sums up this spectacular breed, “NOAA: No Fear.”