Growing up in Bermuda, hurricanes were never something I feared in the way outsiders often imagine.
They were serious, of course, and everyone respected them, but for my family they also carried a sense of great adventure.
I have been very fortunate when it comes to hurricanes. I never experienced catastrophic personal damage or moments where I truly feared for my life.
Instead, most of my memories involve the aftermath: cleaning up fallen branches, helping neighbours clear driveways and spending long days without electricity while everyone tried to adjust.
In Bermuda, storms become a shared experience – no one goes through them alone.
One of the hurricanes that stands out most in my memory is Hurricane Fabian in the early 2000s.
Anyone who lived in Bermuda during that time remembers it. Fabian was one of the island’s deadliest storms, and it left a deep mark on the community. For me, though, the strongest memories are not of the storm itself, but of the long, exhausting aftermath.
At the time, I was living in St George’s. After the hurricane passed, the Causeway was damaged and unsafe, meaning we were effectively trapped in ‘God’s Country’ for days. If you worked anywhere west of the airport back then, there was no going to work for a while for you.
I vividly remember walking out to the western edge of Ferry Reach, where we lived, looking across at Coney Island, and thinking that – if push came to shove – I could always swim to the other side.
The nights were uncommonly tedious; without power or air conditioning, the heat became unbearable. I remember lying awake in the darkness, sweating, unable to find enough comfort to ever fully fall asleep. The air felt heavy and suffocating.
Humans adapt
After several nights of little sleep, every day blurred together. It felt like living inside a haze for almost two weeks. Everyone was exhausted all the time. You would wake up tired, move through the day tired, and somehow still struggle to sleep again at night.
Daily routines became physical work. We had to climb down into the water tank to collect water for washing and cooking. Meals were cooked outside on a gas barbecue set up on the porch. Even simple things like bathing or making tea required planning and effort. At first, it felt inconvenient, but after a while it simply became normal. Human beings adapt quickly when they have no other choice.
Another thing I remember about Fabian was the emotional atmosphere afterward. Everyone seemed drained, moving slowly, just trying to get through each day until life returned to normal. Yet even during that difficult time, people helped one another constantly. Families shared food, checked on neighbours, and worked together to clean up debris. Hurricanes in Bermuda have a way of reminding you how connected everyone really is.
Another storm I remember vividly was Hurricane Emily in the late 1980s, when I was in high school. Again, the aftermath became the memorable part. Electricity was out across the island for weeks. School technically reopened at some point, but attendance was almost optional because everyone was dealing with the same struggles at home.
When students did show up, nobody cared about uniforms or appearances anymore. People came dressed however they could because there were no washing machines running, no irons, and often no proper showers. We were all washing with dipped tank water; doing the best we could. It created a strange sense of equality. Everyone looked tired, rumpled, and sunburned, but nobody judged anyone else because we were all living through the same conditions.
Simpler living
Despite the inconvenience, I also remember a surprising sense of freedom during those times. Normal routines disappeared, and life slowed down completely. Without television, computers, or constant distractions, families spent more time together. People sat outside talking for hours. Children played games outdoors until dark. Neighbours visited one another more often. In the wee hours, when it was too hot to sleep, and no internet to doom scroll to, I picked up a book and read with the aid of a flashlight. In a very real way, hurricanes force people to reconnect with simpler living, and that’s not a bad thing.
Of course, I do have hurricane memories that are not about ‘hardship’. When my son was a newborn – in late 2014 – another storm passed through Bermuda. I remember taking a picture of him asleep during the height of the wind and rain. I posted it online with the caption, “Was there a storm?” because he slept peacefully through the entire thing without a clue about the chaos outside.
Another memory that makes me smile happened after a more recent storm in St George’s. The Causeway was closed again, so we could only explore our parish. Once the weather calmed slightly, we drove around St David’s just to assess the damage and see how the area had fared. Trees had dropped fruit everywhere across the roads. Avocados, coconuts, oranges – they were scattered all over the place.
We ended up filling an entire garbage bag with avocados we found lying in the street. It felt almost surreal, driving around collecting ‘street fruit’ after a hurricane. But moments like that capture Bermuda perfectly. Even after a storm, people find ways to turn hardship into adventure.
When I think about hurricanes now, I do not immediately think about destruction. I think about family. I think about survival, adaptation and community. I think about cooking outside, sharing stories by lantern light, checking on others, and finding laughter even when life becomes uncomfortable.
Hurricanes have taught me that people are more resilient than they realise – and that human connection will always be more important than personal comfort.
In Bermuda, storms are not only weather events; they are shared experiences that bring people together. For my family, hurricanes became times of bonding, adventure and learning how to live humbly for a while.
I’m not the only one with memories like these. Across Bermuda, countless families have their own stories of candlelit dinners, sleepless nights, cleanup crews and unexpected moments of joy after the wild winds have become gentle breezes once again.
