by Bill Evans
Iniki
September 1992
Category 4 (144 miles/125 kt)
Rick
September 1985
Cateogry 4 (138 miles/120 kt)
Fabio
August 1988
* * *
* * *
These Were “Bigger Than A Pineapple” Over Hawaii!
YEAR
HURRICANE NAME
1992
Iniki
1982
Iwa
1959
Dot
1957
Nina
1871
The Kohala Cyclone
* * *
The Hurricane Hunters
“Dude, are you nuts? You’re going to take a perfectly good airplane and do what? Fly it through a hurricane? You’re one taco short of a combo plate!”
There’s a group of pilots called Hurricane Hunters, who have flown directly into some of the most violent hurricanes in recorded history. The 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron is a U.S. Air Force Reserve group that is based in Biloxi, Mississippi.
The 53rd began flying in 1944, and they have shown that flying into hurricanes is safer than you might think. Altogether, only four planes have gone down: three Air Force craft in Pacific Ocean typhoons and one Navy plane in an Atlantic hurricane. Sadly, all thirty-six men aboard the four aircraft were lost. That’s not to say that other planes haven’t been badly shaken, and there have been a few injuries. On August 23, 1964, Hurricane Cleo shook a Navy Super Constellation so hard the Navy decided to scrap the airplane after looking at the damage!
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
The Hurricane Hunters fly directly into hurricanes—that’s right, not over or around, but through. They bore in from the outer edge all the way to the eye at the storm’s center and out the other side. They gather information about the strength and makeup of the hurricane for forecasts and research—and to save lives. This vital information is sent back to the National Hurricane Center, where forecasters will use the data as the basis for forecasting where the hurricane is expected to travel and how strong it might become.
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
The dropsonde station
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
The Weather Reconaissance Squadron flies planes with a six-person crew: a commander, a co-pilot, a flight engineer, a navigator, a weather officer, and a dropsonde operator. A dropsonde is a weather-sensing canister attached to a parachute. This instrument, dropped from the plane as it flies through the storm, falls all the way through the hurricane to the ocean below. As the canister falls, it radios back information on temperature, humidity, and winds inside the storm. The WC-130 aircraft also has instruments to record wind speed inside the hurricane, as well as radar to see the thunderstorms.
Another group, the NOAA Hurricane Hunters, also does surveillance, research, and reconnaissance with their own specially equipped aircraft: a WP-3D Orion and a very cool Gulfstream IV SP jet. The jet can get to a storm quicker than the WP-3D Orion turboprop planes that are the Hurricane Hunters’ primary aircraft, thereby sending information back faster. The Gulfstream IV is flown over the tops of hurricanes and around a storm’s sides. It records the steering winds so a storm’s path can be better predicted. Flying this jet into a hurricane would be dangerous, as the wind turbulence inside the hurricane would disrupt the jet’s engines. That’s why turboprop planes are used to penetrate a hurricane.
Even today’s supermodern satellites cannot give us all the data necessary to forecast where a hurricane will go and when it will hit. Especially vulnerable would be oceangoing ships, which are too slow to outrun a hurricane. The only way to collect information about wind speed and the barometric pressure inside a hurricane is to fly a plane through it.
The rising or falling of the barometric pressure in a hurricane determines the strength or weakness of the storm. If the pressure is falling, the storm gets stronger and if the pressure is rising, it gets weaker. That data is necessary to accurately predict a hurricane’s strength as well as its movement.
The Hurricane Hunters fly in the northern Atlantic and the northeastern Pacific. They have also been asked to fly into typhoons on occasion. The typhoons of the Pacific have been recorded as the strongest storms on earth. Dude, can you say “air sickness bag”?
* A True Bill Evans Weather Story *
My Flight with the Hurricane Hunters—or, How to Keep from Blowing Lunch!
I have to admit that I am an adrenaline junky. You qualify for the “adrenaline junkies club” if you are a person who loves to ride every ride at the amusement park, bungee jump, parachute, scuba dive with sharks, or fly in stunt planes. I’ve done all that stuff and even flown with the Blue Angels. Before each experience, I get very nervous, or, basically, scared. Fear is good, it keeps you focused!
My favorite thrill ride of them all is flying with the Hurricane Hunters. Why? Because this ride combines the science of meteorology (which I love) with nature’s most awesome force—a hurricane. The ride is one part science lab and one part the Aerosmith ride at Disney World!
Imagine if you could ride a roller coaster during a hurricane: it would be strange, dangerous, and not very smart, but awesome if you’re crazy and know the ride operator. There’s something about flying into a Category 5 hurricane with winds of over 160 mph that strikes a certain fear in you, making your heart pound in your chest.
Our flight originated from Biloxi, Mississippi, the home of the Hurricane Hunters. Our flight commander was young, blond, rugged, calm, and had a fearless swagger to go along with his eyes of blue steel. He was everything you wanted in a leader. He had flown bombing missions for the Air Force in the Gulf War with Iraq. He looked every bit like a Top Gun pilot. I didn’t ask, but he must have had one of those movie names like “Striker,” “Lightning,” or better yet, “Hurricane.”
He reminded me of the actor Val Kilmer, whose character in the movie Top Gun was named “Iceman.” Looking at him, I immediately thought of yelling out Tom Cruise’s famous line from that movie, “I feel the need, the need for speed!” I was incredibly nervous, but remained calm in front of him because at that moment I realized I was about to make a complete fool of myself.
Commander Iceman gave you the feeling that you could trust him with your life. That was a good thing because I was scared to death. My prior experience with hurricanes came from reporting on them from a nice, climate-controlled studio, not having a personal encounter with the single greatest natural force on Earth.
As a reporter, I had struggled to stay on my feet during several storms that were at tropical storm strength, with winds of around 65 mph. But that would be nothing when compared to the experience of being inside a craft that was planning exploratory surgery inside a hurricane, especially when I thought about the scale of what I was about to attempt. The very large WC-130 turboprop I would be flying in was about the size of a pinhead when compared to the gargantuan size of a hurricane.
I knew that no human can stand up in hurricane-force winds (74 mph). And though I knew the Hurricane Hunters flew their tiny, fragile planes through these killer storms all the time, I knew just how dangerous that was. I was petrified. We were about to fly through one of the strongest hurricanes in the history of the North Atlantic in a pea-size tin can.
I asked Commander Iceman, “What should I eat before a flight like this?” He said, “Bananas.” I said, “Why bananas?” Iceman coolly replied, “Tastes the same coming back up.”
Yes, We Have No Bananas
Hurricane Mitch formed off the African coast on October 10, 1998. Commander Iceman cruised westward through the Atlantic for a time in some unfavorable conditions until he reached the Caribbean Sea, south of Jamaica. Unfavorable wind shear high above the Atlantic had kept Mitch disorganized, but the conditions of the Caribbean were to his liking. Soon the upp
er-level shear was gone, Mitch’s thunderstorms grew stronger, and he was on his way to stardom. Mitch was 295 miles south of Jamaica on the 24th when he grew rapidly from a Category 1 hurricane to a Category 5 hurricane.
By the 26th, Mitch’s winds were up to 180 mph, and gusting to 200 mph, making Mitch the seventh-strongest hurricane of all time.
And we were about to fly right into it!
We strapped ourselves into bench seats in an area in the back of the WC-130 and got ready for takeoff. All of a sudden, the back end of the plane opened, and I could see the runway. The flight engineer, a young woman who was talking into a headset, was standing on the door that had dropped down, opening the entire back of the airplane. I asked her, “What’s going on?”
“This is how we back the aircraft away for takeoff,” she said. “I tell the commander how far he can back up the aircraft.” I thought, gee, no rearview mirror for the Iceman?
Are We There Yet?
Are We There Yet?
Are We There Yet?
It was going to be about a ten-hour flight—four hours flying time each way to and from the storm and about an hour exploring Mitch’s insides. The waiting was the hardest part. I was excited, anxious, nervous, and scared—all rolled into one. I was working hard to keep it together. In contrast, the flight crew was calm and very cool.
I looked out the window at the beautiful sunshine and the gorgeous waters of the Gulf of Mexico and kept thinking that soon, all you-know-what would be breaking loose! I was still amazed at the thought that we were purposefully flying into one of the strongest hurricanes ever.
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
Who ever first came up with that idea? Well, it was the result of a bet!
A surprise hurricane that struck Houston, Texas, during World War II in 1943 marked the first intentional flight into a hurricane.
In the summer of that year, British pilots were being trained in instrument flying at Bryan Field in Houston. Using instruments to fly airplanes was new to the military; before, they would just look out the cockpit window. But what do you do if you’re fogged in? You look at the instruments—the air speed indicator, the horizon, and the altimeter, to name a few—and fly the plane. Commercial pilots had been flying that way for a while, and now the military was learning to use their techniques.
As the hurricane approached, the British pilots saw that the Americans were evacuating their AT-6 Texan trainers in the face of the storm. They began teasing and taunting the Americans about the construction and air-worthiness of their planes. They basically said, “Dude, your planes stink and you’re chicken! Betcha won’t fly one of your fine American planes in that storm!”
Lead instructor Colonel Joe Duckworth took the bet. He was smart and cool, like Commander Iceman. Duckworth wasn’t a swashbuckling, devil-may-care World War II flyboy. He was a former airline pilot who knew how to use instruments to fly and was teaching the Army air forces how to fly through bad weather.
Duckworth and his navigator, Lt. Ralph O’Hair, took one of the trainers, flew directly into the eye of the storm, and returned safely. Word of what they had done spread around the base, and the base’s weather officer, Lt. William Jones-Burdick, decided he wanted to fly into the storm. He took over the navigator’s seat, and Duckworth flew through the storm a second time. This proved that hurricane reconnaissance flights were possible. The British pilots lost the bet and had to pay for everybody’s dinner!
Holy Moly! There He Blows!
The beautiful sunlight was fading fast. In the distance, we could see Mitch. Mitch looked mad, very mad. He was a very tight, compact hurricane, with an eye 22 miles wide. The calm blue sea that I had been looking at just minutes earlier now appeared to be boiling.
Commander Iceman told me that hurricanes that are spread out over many miles are not so bumpy. It’s the tightly wound ones that give you the rough ride.
Okay José! We were headed toward the Yucatán Peninsula of Central America, where Mitch was going to crash-land with full Category 5 force.
“Everybody tighten your seat belts, we are going to pay Mitch a visit,” was the word over the headsets from Commander Iceman. He sounded so calm and soothing, as if we were on one of those tourist flights around the Grand Canyon.
We were not going to fly through Mitch once, oh no, we were going to fly through six times! On our first pass, we would fly from the southwest part of the storm through the eye and out through the northeast, as if drawing a line through the storm from lower left to upper right.
What a doozy of a ride it was! The bumping and dipping starts out gently and becomes greater as you near the eyewall, which is the strongest part of the storm. We would be passing right through the strongest part of Mitch’s 180+ mph winds in the upper right, northeast quadrant of the hurricane. Boo yah!
Turbulence was causing our WC-130 to drop up and down with great force. You know how when you are on a commercial airplane and it bounces up and down a bit on takeoff or midflight? Imagine that times ten! My jaws were banging, teeth were rattling, stomach was swishing…oh, that breakfast….
My fillings were being knocked out of my head. Nobody told me this ride would require a mouthpiece!
I noticed that the crew was calm and collected, just going about their business. Did I see a card game break out in the cockpit? They’re way too cool up there.
The weather officer was taking readings from the instruments connected to the aircraft, measuring temperature, humidity, and flight-level wind speed. There are all kinds of cool instruments attached to the aircraft and there’s radar in the nose cone.
WC-130 radar display
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
Today’s planes are equipped with highly sophisticated sensors to precisely detect hurricane winds. Sensors on the wings pick up radiation from sea foam caused by surface winds. The difference of a few miles per hour can be critical in determining a storm’s damage potential.
The dropsonde operator was putting the small tubes called radiosondes into the large tube that ejects them from the bottom of the airplane. Radiosondes are lightweight digital radios that use GPS for positioning and wind-finding. The computer display immediately showed the information that was coming back from the radiosondes as they fell through Mitch before splashing into the water and cutting off.
On the computer, I could see that Mitch was a bad boy, with winds of 180 mph and gusts to 201! Dozens of radiosondes were deployed during our half-dozen or so passes, sending back crucial information that would hopefully save people’s lives.
The ride was rough times ten—bouncing around, lightning flashing everywhere, lashing rain—until we hit the eyewall. Once we punched through, conditions were completely different. The air was calm and the weather was clear. I looked up and saw blue sky above us and the other side of the eyewall in front of me. What a ride!
Inside the eye of a hurricane
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration/Department of Commerce
Soon the calmness was over as we entered Mitch’s strongest part, the northeast quadrant.
Holy cow! The engines just made some kind of wowing, whirling noise as we hit the large intestine of Mitch. It’s as if the airplane is in the hand of a small child, zooming us around, up and down like a toy!
Looking out the window at the left wing tip, I saw a bright ball of blue-white light, like fireworks, a giant sparkler.
It’s St. Elmo’s fire!
St. Elmo’s fire forms on aircraft wing tips, antennae, the tail, nose, and propeller blades. It has also been seen atop ship masts, tips of trees, tops of power poles, grass blades, and has even been seen glowing on the tips of the horns of cattle. It’s rare and only happens when the atmosphere is superelectrically charged, as in a storm like Mitch. It’s heatless and nonconsuming, and can last for minutes. It’s beautiful, but scary.
Ancient Mediterranean sailors believed Elmo to be the
ir patron saint. Many people believe that the appearance of St. Elmo’s fire is a guiding hand during a terrible storm. They believed that the ghostly, dancing flame is a sign that the storm is weakening or ending.
Iceman’s cool voice comes over the headset, telling me that it won’t hurt our aircraft. He also said St. Elmo’s fire can sometimes be heard singing on the aircraft’s radio, a frying or hissing sound running up and down the musical scale.
Iceman then added, in his smooth, resonant baritone, that it’s actually a sign that lightning is about to strike the plane.
What!?!
Blammo! You guessed it! Lightning just zapped the plane. We took a big dip.
Hey, we just took Mitch’s best shot and we’re doing fine…except for my stomach. Whoa! If only they had this ride at Disney World! They could call it the “Whirl and Puke.”
I don’t know if St. Elmo’s fire is a good sign or not; it was certainly quite the show and a big hit with the crew.
Minutes later, we exit the upper right of Mitch to smoother air and our first pass is complete. Oh boy! Only five more times to go!
Five passes through Mitch later, my face is green and my hollowed eyes are rolled back in my head. How do these people do this for a living? Would someone please come and put me out of my misery?
Mitch tossed me around like a wet dishrag. I had the great pleasure of filling three hefty airsickness bags. I tossed not only my big breakfast, but lunch and dinner from the day before. I launched things I had eaten in previous decades. I threw up my great-grandmother’s meat loaf that I ate in 1967. I was soaked in sweat right through my flight suit.
To top it off, Iceman resonates through my headset, “You did great; you only passed out for about ten minutes.”
