The hurricane and the bee

The bee during the 'eye of the hurricane' interlude as Hurricane Nicole traversed the island

The night before Hurricane Nicole arrived I went outside onto the front porch to feel the fresh breeze blowing across Bermuda.

It was October 12, and by the following morning the island would be in the grips of the hurricane. Nicole was a Category 4 hurricane, although was to weaken to a powerful Cat 3 by the time she reached the island's shores.

From the light that shone through the open door behind me I spotted a shape on one side of the small wall that bounded the porch area. At first I guessed it was a tree frog, but on closer inspection I realised it was a bee. A bee that had perhaps lost its way, or run out of energy, and now was resting for the night far from the safety of its hive.

The bee was motionless, no doubt sleeping. As I went back indoors, I wondered if the insect would survive the night and find its way home before the storm hit.

The following morning, as hurricane winds started to build, I again checked how things were on the front porch. The wind was blowing from the east, which meant the porch was sheltered, providing a vantage point to watch the trees bending and the rain lashing. And there on the wall, although now perched on the flat top, was the bee. It was still motionless, but had moved during the night. For the time being it was protected from the ravages of the hurricane by the lee of the cottage, so long as it did not try to fly away.

The next time I checked was around midday as the eye of the hurricane passed over the island. During the eye the wind subsided; there was an hour or so of perfect, but slightly eerie stillness. The bee appeared to have survived the first half of the hurricane, but it was not moving.

I studied it for signs of life and concluded that it had perished after its night in the open, and its morning exposed to the elements of the hurricane. Then one of its small antenna moved a fraction. It was still alive, but must have been at its weakest. Could it be revived?

In a bid to assist, I mixed some water and a sugar cube in a cup to create a sweet liquid. Using a teaspoon I poured some of the liquid in front of the bee. The liquid quickly spread around on the surface of the wall, going around and beneath the bee.

Suddenly aware of the liquid, the insect started to move and drink the sweet solution.  The bee was no longer inanimate, it was walking around. Another small teaspoon of the sweet drink was poured on the wall, and again the bee responded to the helping of liquid energy.

I went indoors for a moment, and when I returned the bee had gone. It had flown away.

Would it now be able to complete its journey to the hive and safety before the second half of the hurricane? The eye of the storm moved away and the wind howled from the opposite direction. Had the bee still been on the porch it would not have survived the battering that came during the next few hours.

Now, many weeks later, as I walk through the garden I occasionally catch a glimpse of a bee or two, and I wonder if one of them might be the 'hurricane bee' that tenaciously held on during the storm.

BELOW: A short video of Hurricane Nicole, including the bee during the eye of the storm:

Power of a hurricane

When Hurricane Joaquin brushed the island earlier this month, it brought winds gusting at 100 mph and slightly higher. They howled across Bermuda for more than 12 hours, reaching their peak after nightfall.

Joaquin was a Category 2 hurricane, just below 'major hurricane' ranking, but packing a powerful punch. The storm's winds became a significant factor as daylight bade a premature farewell, and grey clouds frantically raced above.

Alone in the centre of the garden the mature avocado tree was forced to dance to the tune of Joaquin. Shaken by the wind, with each new blast more forceful than the last, the branches were tossed back and forth almost to the point of breaking (see video).

A large branch hangs down from the
avocado tree after being snapped by
the fierce winds of Hurricane Joaquin

Nightfall arrived early, extinguishing the storm's day-long twilight. I was able to take a kitchen chair outside and sit under the small porch, near the back door, protected from the relentless southerly winds by the cottage's sturdy walls.

In that oasis of shelter in the midst of the hurricane's fury, I watched the avocado tree being mercilessly ravaged in the wind. At any moment it seemed it might buckle against the force of nature.

How small we are, I reflected; how transient are we, and our homes and surroundings in the face of nature's mightiest forces.

On cue, the lights went out. A transformer box on a nearby utility pole sparked in defiance, like a silent firecracker or a camera's popping flashbulb. Twice, three times, it fought back before submitting to the unrestrained hurricane forces sweeping the island.

With only candles and a flashlight for illumination, it was time to turn in for an early night. From my bed within the window-shuttered cottage, I drifted to sleep listening to the howling of the storm.

A bird box was left at an acute angle after being
pummeled by the winds of Hurricane Joaquin

In the grey light of morning the damage was surveyed. Two sizeable branches had snapped from the avocado trees, while lesser branches and twigs were strewn across the ground. A hefty flowerpot had been shifted and tilted, but on the whole none of the damage was on the scale of that done by Fay and Gonzalo, last year's two direct hit hurricanes.

The centre of Hurricane Joaquin stayed 60 nautical miles or more to the west, and so we were spared a much fiercer pounding. However, the storm was a timely reminder of the power of nature in the raw.

Hurricane tree is no more

The toppled tree after last year's two hurricanes, and the now empty site

A sprawling tree that once provided some cool shade at the corner of a road on the outskirts of Hamilton has gone. It had a dominating presence on St John's Road, where its rich foliage provided shelter from the sun and the rain.

I've no idea how old the tree was, but it had seen a good few decades and survived many storms before it was finally toppled by the two hurricanes that scored bull's eye hits on Bermuda last October.

The first, Fay, did the most damage, although the arrival six days later of the more powerful Hurricane Gonzalo worsened the situation for the grand tree.

Surprisingly, despite being all but uprooted, it continued to grow even at its post-storms acute angle. The red letter box that once sheltered beneath the mighty tree's boughs was displaced by the trauma of the hurricanes and in the interest of safety was removed soon afterwards. Dealing with the tree was a far bigger task, and for seven months it appeared the tree might remain as a living reminder of the force of nature wrought by Fay and Gonzalo. However, as I rode past on a recent journey home I noticed the corner plot had been cleared of all signs of the tree. The land looked naked and exposed without its once-towering sentinel.

Although I've never been a pedestrian strolling along the pavement beneath its shade-giving branches, the tree felt like an old friend on account of seeing it on a daily basis for almost 10 years while riding my scooter between home and work. And on a number of occasions I've run beneath the fringes of its shade during road races that skirted this distinctive corner.

What will become of the corner plot remains to be seen. But it would be fitting if another tree is given the chance to grow there and become an equally magnificent landmark.

Storms wreck 'contemplation bench'

Above is the current state of the makeshift bench at Coney Island, the one I dubbed 'the secret bench' back in the summer of 2008 when I wrote about it in a Microdot Island newsletter.

Back then it was one of my favourite spots to go for some quiet time to sit and watch the ocean and contemplate ideas and life in general. It was there that I did a lot of my planning for Eating Clouds - including taking a photograph as I lay on my back on the bench (which is an old railway sleeper). The photograph was of clouds drifting across the blue sky directly above.
At that point I'd already decided on Eating Clouds as the title for the book and I needed an image for the cover. The photo I took that day was used on one early proof-only copy of the book, but was later replaced by Lucy Hollis' stunning panorama shot from John Smith's Bay.

I can still remember the wonderful, whispering sound of the breeze through the thin needle-like leaves of the tall casuarina tree that overlooked the bench, and to which the bench was secured by a rope.

In July 2008, this is how I described the spot: Living on a compact little island of 21 square miles means it isn’t the easiest thing to find some peace and quiet away from it all….unless you know the secret of Coney Island. This little dead-end hideaway, linked to the main island by a small bridge, is little more than a nature reserve in all but name. Here, tucked away behind some trees, is an old railway sleeper that doubles up as a bench on which a morning coffee, banana bread and the newspaper can be savoured while stretching out and gazing at unbroken views of the blue ocean, or lying on my back on the sleeper to watch clouds float by high above the branches of the casaurina tree that whistle softly against the breeze.

A picture of the bench as it looked in 2008, with my take-away coffee, banana bread and morning newspaper resting on top, can be seen at the bottom of this blog post.

For many years it was my place of choice to go for my morning coffee and relaxation, but I frequented it less in recent years in favour of another spot - a hillock that overlooked the ocean - closer to where I used to stay. Nevertheless, I still paid occasional visits to 'contemplation bench' when I wanted a little change of scenery, or to reconnect with the place.

Sadly, the storms that struck Bermuda this month have all but destroyed the bench. Tropical Storm Fay, which was a direct hit on the island (and many believe was as destructive as a fully-formed hurricane), toppled the casaurina tree to which the bench was attached. The bench looked pretty much finished at that point, but a few days later Hurricane Gonzalo also made a direct hit on the island and threw the toppled tree back up and over so it now faces the opposite direction. That additional damage further wrenched the earth from around the bench.

What will become of the bench? Nature may take its course and claw it back into the undergrowth; a parks department crew may tidy up and remove the fallen casaurina, or the toppled tree may be left where it fell and possibly become a new, natural bench over time.

Yesterday I visited the bench. As I sat there on the wreckage I hoped that the secret spot would recover and, in some shape or form, continue to be a secluded place where curious wanderers might stumble upon it and find they can comfortably sit and contemplate the world, as I did so many years ago.

Below: The bench in July 2008 (with coffee, banana bread and newspaper)