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Los Angeles Times
10-08-2025
- General
- Los Angeles Times
Salvaging a crumbling California coastline required some radical thinking
When the fires this year upended Los Angeles and put into question what it even means to return to normal, I was reminded of a chapter in 'California Against the Sea' that had expanded my own understanding of what it takes to truly adapt our built environment — and to reimagine the places that we have come to love and call home. This chapter, which opens with a radical shoreline reconfiguration just north of San Francisco, came not without controversy, but it provided a glimpse into what compromise might need to look like for so many communities struggling to keep up with climate change. Rather than hold the line with increasing futility, here was a humbling example of what can be possible when we transcend the throes of politics — and when we choose to set aside our differences and think beyond just reacting to the same disasters time and time again. Since the book was published in 2023, the bridge described in the following excerpt has been completed, and the creek is finally free. Accommodating nature in this way called for some tough and unfamiliar changes, but go out to the beach today, and you can see the marsh starting to recover and the entire ecosystem gently resetting with the rhythms of the sea. So much of the climate debate is still framed around what it is that we have to give up, but does it have to be this way? Rather than confront these decisions as though it's our doom, can we embrace change and reconsider each effort to adapt as an opportunity — an opportunity to come together and build more bridges to the future? Excerpted from 'California Against the Sea: Visions for Our Vanishing Coastline' by Rosanna Xia. Reprinted with permission from Heyday Books, © 2023. A few winding turns past Bodega Bay, about an hour north of San Francisco, relentless waves pound against a stretch of coastline in dire need of re-imagining. Gleason Beach, once reminiscent of a northern version of Malibu, is now mostly just a beach in name. Sand emerges only during the lowest of tides. Bits of concrete and rebar are all that remain of 11 clifftop homes that once faced the sea. A graveyard of seawalls, smashed into pieces, litters the shore. Here along the foggy bluffs of the Sonoma coast, the edge of the continent feels more like the edge of the world — a window into the future if California does not change course. These wave-cut cliffs, a brittle mélange of ancient claystone and shale, have been eroding on average about a foot a year, exacerbated since the 1980s by a hardened shoreline, intensifying El Niños and, now, sea level rise. With the beach underwater, the seawalls destroyed and so many homes surrendered, the pressure is now on Highway 1 to hold the line between land and sea. Year after year, residents have watched the waves carve away at the two-lane road — their only way to get to work, their only way to evacuate, their only way to reach all the rocky coves, beaches and seaside campgrounds that make this coast a marvel. So, with every storm and every knock from the ocean, officials have scrambled to save the highway, pouring millions of tax dollars into a vicious cycle of sudden collapses and emergency repairs. From 2004 to 2018 alone, state transportation officials spent about $10 million in emergency defenses and failed repairs. In 2019, almost half a mile had to be reduced to one lane. This lifeline for the region now hangs inches from the edge. The once spectacular coastline had seemingly morphed overnight — an apocalyptic transformation, decades in the making, seen with stark clarity now that orange caution tape and makeshift traffic lights mark what's left of the shore. 'This is what unmanaged retreat looks like, and it is quite frankly a hot mess of septic systems, old house parts and armoring that have fallen into the intertidal zone with no real mechanism for cleaning it up,' Sonoma County supervisor Lynda Hopkins declared. 'If we don't start planning ahead and taking proactive measures, Mother Nature will make the decisions for us.' With the realities of climate change looming ever closer, California transportation officials agreed it was time to try something different: make peace with the sea and move the crumbling highway more than 350 feet inland. They knew nailing down the details would be fraught, but, if done right, this would be the first radical effort by the state to plan for a reimagined coast — a coast that could support California into the next century. It was the rare managed retreat proposal that intentionally sought to both raise and relocate critical infrastructure far enough from the shore to make room for the next 100 years of rising water. Compromise wasn't easy. Officials studied more than 20 alternatives that tried to balance safety codes, traffic needs, fragile habitats, public access to the coast and other competing requirements that were tricky to meet given the topography. There were also all the nearby property owners who needed persuading, not to mention a skeptical, conservation-minded community that was averse to saving a human-altered shoreline with more human alterations. They ran into every argument and counterargument that have tugged, pulled and paralyzed other communities. At its heart this project, like so many attempts along the California coast, called for a reckoning over what was worth saving — and what was worth sacrificing — and whether it was possible to redesign a treasured landscape so that it survives into the future. 'It seems daunting; it's a lot of change to cope with, but it's also an opportunity for communities to think about, 'What are the coastal resources we want to have access to fifty, one hundred years from now?'' said Tami Grove, who oversees transportation projects for the California Coastal Commission and spent years reconciling all the emotional meetings, the disagreements, the many stops and stalls and hand-wringing compromises. 'It gets lost, sometimes, when people are worried about everything that we're going to lose to sea level rise — but there are things that we're going to be able to choose and enhance and design into the future if we start planning now.' In what many described as a major coup in government bureaucracy, the California Department of Transportation (Caltrans), the coastal commission and county leaders set aside their differences to come up with a new solution together. By November 2020, they had hammered out a plan to relocate almost one mile of the highway — most notably with a new 850-foot-long bridge spanning Scotty Creek, a degraded stream that, choked for decades by the highway's current configuration, rarely reached the ocean anymore. Rather than agonize over how to restore the landscape to some former, unobtainable baseline of 'natural,' officials unanimously agreed that this bold re-imagining of the coast was the best way forward among no perfect options. The concrete bridge (a monstrous overpass or a reasonable compromise, depending on who's talking) will at least allow Scotty Creek to flow freely into the ocean again — making room for more red-legged frogs, Myrtle's silverspot butterflies, and the passage of steelhead trout and coho salmon. Officials reasoned that elevating the highway would avoid paving over what's left of the wetlands, which were already in desperate need of healing. By rerouting traffic onto a bridge, these drowning habitats would have the space to recover and migrate inland as the sea moved in. State transportation officials also agreed, as part of the $73 million project, to pay $5 million to help clean up the mess of abandoned homes and failed road repairs. An additional $6.5 million will go toward wetland, creek and prairie restoration. Some of the old highway will be converted into a public coastal trail, and visitors will have access to a new parking area, as well as a beach that was once limited by private property. Caltrans also set aside money to negotiate and acquire land from three private properties, including oceanfront portions of a historic ranch that will be most impacted by the realigned highway. Once completed, much of the open space will be transferred to Sonoma County to manage on behalf of the public. This all came as a shock at first for Philip and Roberta Ballard, who own and live on the ranch, but they said they've come to understand the necessity of this project. The bridge still feels way too big — especially for this rural stretch of paradise that first captured their hearts more than two decades ago — but after years of meetings, questions and debating each trade-off, the retired couple decided to turn their energies toward making sure Scotty Creek got restored as part of the deal. The creek, the largest watershed between Salmon Creek and the Russian River, has needed help since before they purchased the ranch, they said. In a past life, steelhead trout and coho salmon thrived in this stream. The once-abundant fish disappeared after the concrete culvert, installed in 1952 to support the highway, blocked their ability to migrate between fresh- and saltwater. The brackish habitat drowned over the decades. Then the creek, swollen after a series of big storms in the 1980s, flooded the lower plain. The stream banks were denuded of vegetation and the riffle crests obliterated as the choked stream tried to reach the sea. Since 2004, the Ballards, both professors emeriti of pediatrics at UC San Francisco, have been piecing together ways to restore the creek, one small project at a time. Full restoration would require grading and reshaping the riverbanks, bringing back the native vegetation, improving water flow and re-creating the pools that once provided shelter to juvenile fish. The $6.5 million that Caltrans promised as part of the final deal will go a long way, they said, to nursing this entire ecosystem back to life. 'A lot of our efforts have gone into trying to make the best out of something that is necessary,' Roberta Ballard said. 'We've arrived at feeling reasonably good about getting the best mitigation we can get for this region and getting something reasonably positive out of it.' When we don't understand and don't allow for the ocean's ways, we end up with homes perched on crumbling cliffs and seawalls still making a stand. Guided by a few mere decades of history and a narrow understanding of the California shore, many today know only how to preserve the version of the coast they learned to love. Rather than imagine a different way to live, we cling to the fragility of what we still have and account for only what we consider lost. Even remembering how wide a beach used to be, or how the cliffs once withstood the tide, glorifies the notion that resilience is measured by our ability to remain unchanged. We fail to see how we've replaced entire ecological systems with our own hardened habitats, and then altered the shoreline even more once the shore began to disappear. Neither replicating the past nor holding on to the present is going to get us to the future that we need. Learning from the recurring cycles of nature, listening to the knowledge gained with each flood and storm, adapting and choosing to transform — this is what it means to persevere. Change, in the end, has been the only constant in our battle for permanence. Change is the only way California will learn how to live with, not on, this beautiful, vanishing coastline that so many people settled and still wish to call home. Stefan Galvez-Abadia, Caltrans's district division chief of environmental planning and engineering, is now attempting with his team to design a prettier bridge at Gleason Beach, one more fitting for the rural landscape. They've studied the arched columns of Bixby Creek Bridge on the Big Sur coast and other popular landmarks that have become iconic over time. They've conducted surveys on what color to paint the bridge — some shade of gray or brown, for example, or a more distinct hue like that of the Golden Gate Bridge. Donne Brownsey, who served as vice chair of the Coastal Commission at the time, remarked that the project reminded her of a concrete beam bridge in Mendocino County that spans the mouth of the Ten Mile River, just north of where she lives in Fort Bragg. 'It was a new bridge, it caused a lot of consternation, but I didn't know that the first few times I went over it — I would look forward to that part of the drive, because I could see the whole estuary to the west, and I could see the rivershed to the east,' she said. 'You don't even really see the bridge anymore because the swallows now all nest there, and it's just part of nature.' The bridge at Gleason Beach, facing similar design constraints as the Ten Mile Bridge, also has to be massive — a counter-intuitive twist to what one might think it means to accommodate the environment. Engineers had at first tried more minimal options — a shorter bridge, thinner columns, a less intrusive height — but many were not large enough in size or distance to outlast the coastal erosion projected for the next 100 years. And to give the wetlands enough space to grow back, the highway needed to be elevated at a landscape-wide scale. Despite so many years of seminars and talks about climate change adaptation, turning an abstract concept like managed retreat into reality has been a delicate exercise in compromise, Galvez-Abadia said. There were few case studies to turn to, and each one he examined dealt with an increasingly complicated set of trade-offs. 'You don't have many choices when it comes to sea level rise,' he said, flipping through almost two dozen renderings his team had tried. 'Whichever way you choose, you're going to have some kind of impact. These are the difficult decisions that we will all have to make as a region, as a community, for generations to come.' As he filed away his notes and prepared to break ground, he reflected once more on all the years it took to reach this first milestone. The process wasn't easy. A lot of people are still frustrated. Even more are disappointed. Many tough property negotiations still lay ahead, but he hoped, at least, to see the wetlands and creek recover beneath the bridge one day. If the native plants reemerge, the salmon return, and there still remains a coast that families could safely access and enjoy, perhaps this new highway — however bold, however different — could show California that it is possible, that it isn't absurd, to build toward a future where nature and modern human needs could finally coexist.
Yahoo
03-05-2025
- Climate
- Yahoo
La Niña is dead — what that means for this year's hurricanes and weather
When you buy through links on our articles, Future and its syndication partners may earn a commission. After one of the strongest El Niños on record ended in 2024, meteorologists predicted La Niña — the counterpart to this climate pattern — would follow. Signals of a slowly developing and "unusual" La Niña strengthened over the winter, but began to falter in recent months. By March it was dead. So what happened — and how might that impact this summer's weather and the coming Atlantic hurricane season? El Niño is a seasonal shift in Pacific Ocean temperatures that can suppress hurricanes, change rainfall patterns and bend the jet stream. Its cold-water counterpart, La Niña, tends to do the opposite: feed Atlantic hurricanes and elevate wildfire risk in the West. Together, they form the El Niño-Southern Oscillation (ENSO). ENSO refers to seasonal climate shifts rooted in Pacific Ocean surface temperature changes. Changes in wind patterns and currents can draw cold water from the deep ocean, where it interacts with the atmosphere in complex ways. Even small deviations in sea surface temperatures can tilt global weather over the coming months toward hot and dry — or rainy and cool — depending on the region. "It's an incredibly powerful system," said Emily Becker, a University of Miami research professor and co-author of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's (NOAA) ENSO blog. "El Niño and La Niña conditions affect rainfall, snow, temperature, the hurricane season, and tornado formation. They've been tied to fluctuations in the financial markets, crop yields, and all kinds of things.' "Scientifically, we care about it because it's really cool," she told Live Science. "But practically, we care because it gives us this early idea about the next six to 12 months." Scientists monitor a narrow strip in the Pacific Ocean near the equator. A 0.9-degree-Fahrenheit (0.5-degree Celsius) rise or fall in average surface temperature there, sustained for five overlapping three-month periods, can signal the onset of El Niño or La Niña, respectively. However, the "average" is a moving target, based on a 30-year baseline, from 1991 to 2020, which is becoming outdated as the climate warms. "We're always playing catch-up," Tom Di Liberto, a former NOAA meteorologist and ENSO blog contributor, told Live Science. ENSO-neutral patterns occur when surface temperatures hover near the long-term norm. But neutral doesn't mean benign — it may just mean the forecast is trickier. Instead of asking why La Niña was short-lived, the better question might be whether it happened at all. While ocean surface temperatures this winter dipped below average, they didn't stay that way long enough: By mid-April, NOAA forecasters revealed that a full-fledged La Niña event had failed to develop. Why not? "Trade winds play a big role," Muhammad Azhar Ehsan, a climate scientist at Columbia Climate School's Center for Climate Systems Research, told Live Science. He explained that weakening trade winds in the eastern Pacific likely kept cold water from rising to the surface — a key step in forming a robust La Niña. But the story may not be over. When the 30-year temperature baseline is revised to include more recent, warmer years, future analysts might reclassify this winter's La Niña in the historical record, even if it didn't qualify in real time. Without El Niño or La Niña tipping the scale, forecasting gets harder. These patterns sharpen the blur of seasonal predictions, adding crucial information about how the weather might drift from the usual script. Without them, when ENSO is neutral, they're left squinting into the future with little more than historical averages and climate trends. "Without an El Niño or a La Niña, a range of other factors drive seasonal weather," James Done, a project scientist at the NSF National Center for Atmospheric Research, told Live Science. "These are less well understood, and the strength of the relationships is weaker. It's very complex." Still, forecasters generally agree that this summer will likely be hotter than normal. "Surprise, surprise," Done said, "we have a background warming trend." El Niño usually suppresses hurricanes, whereas La Niña and neutral conditions let them run wild. With a warm Atlantic and ENSO expected to stay neutral, that could mean a busy season. "El Niño tends to increase vertical wind shear, and vertical wind shear tears apart hurricanes," Phil Klotzbach, a research scientist and hurricane forecast expert at Colorado State University, told Live Science via email. "Consequently, [without El Niño], we anticipate relatively hurricane-favorable wind shear patterns this summer and fall." Others offered optimism. Ehsan said a cooling trend in the Atlantic from February to March could signal a quieter Atlantic hurricane season. However, scientists say old rules of thumb become less reliable as background conditions change. "Last year was a weird one," Di Liberto said, referring to La Niña. "All signs pointed toward a horrible hurricane season, but it wasn't the worst-case scenario it could have been." 2023 didn't follow the script either. "We had an El Niño in 2023 but still saw more storms than usual," Done said. "So, there's a big debate: Does El Niño still kill off hurricanes, or are oceans now so warm that it changes the relationship? It's an open question." In an April 10 statement, NOAA representatives wrote that El Niño or La Niña conditions likely won't turn up this summer and that ENSO-neutral conditions are expected to last through October. As summer fades to fall and winter, the chances for La Niña rise, but the most likely scenario is still ENSO-neutral. That said, scientists caution against putting too much stock into springtime ENSO forecasts. "Spring is a messy time for forecasting," Di Liberto said. That's because ENSO conditions primarily form during winter and fade into the spring, offering fewer reliable signals. "June is usually when things get more confident," he added. No one knows how climate change will affect ENSO patterns, but scientists are concerned about the warming oceans and atmosphere. "Warmer air holds more water. It's fundamental," Becker said. "That's a factor in why we're seeing some hurricanes deposit unbelievable amounts of rain — it's partly due to the higher moisture capacity of the atmosphere." RELATED STORIES —How strong can hurricanes get? —Here's why storm surge during hurricanes can be so catastrophic —Birth of a hurricane: What meteorologists look for as they hunt for early signs of a tropical cyclone forming Warm waters can extend a hurricane season or fuel storms farther north. Once envisioned as coastal threats, storms are increasingly driving inland. For example, Hurricane Helene devastated Appalachian communities hundreds of miles from the sea in 2024. "You're making a better and bigger sponge, and it gets wrung out somewhere," Di Liberto said. "And communities have to deal with incomprehensible amounts of rainfall and flooding." However, our understanding of hurricanes is incomplete, Done said. Our observational record extends back less than 160 years — just a blink of geologic time. Scientists who have studied the geologic record of ancient cyclones have found evidence of stronger hurricanes making landfall in the distant past, often tied to periods of climate change. If the present is the key to the past, the past nods back: Earth has seen worse — and with oceans warming fast, scientists warn it may only be a matter of time before historically unprecedented storms strike again.
Yahoo
22-04-2025
- Climate
- Yahoo
It's Been 10 Years Since The Last Truly Quiet Hurricane Season. Here's Why That Was The Case.
Busy, high-impact hurricane seasons have been a common occurrence in recent years and the predictions for 2025 expect that theme to continue. But quieter seasons occur with the last one happening 10 years ago because of a hurricane foe called El Niño. (MORE: El Niño Unlikely This Year. Hurricane Season Expected To Be Active) -What's Average? Over the 30 years from 1991 through 2020, an average of 14 storms formed each season, seven of which became hurricanes and three of which became at least Category 3 wind intensity. About one to two of those hurricanes usually make landfall in the U.S., according to statistics compiled by NOAA. -Recent Years: We understand if it seems like every hurricane season lately has been busy, active, destructive, awful or whatever adjective you'd like to use. After all, three of the last five hurricane seasons have generated at least 20 storms. The least active season in these five years was 2022, but it was right on par with average, producing 14 storms, eight of which became hurricanes, including Ian's devastating Category 4 landfall in Florida. Last year, the Atlantic produced 18 named storms, five of which made landfall as hurricanes in the U.S., including major strikes from Helene and Milton. -2015 Was Last Truly Quiet Season: Just 11 storms formed that year, four of which became hurricanes, and only two strengthened to Category 3 or stronger. That was also the last year we didn't have a single U.S. hurricane landfall. -El Niño Played A Major Role: One of the strongest El Niños on record helped squelch activity in 2015. This periodic warming of the equatorial eastern Pacific Ocean tends to produce stronger wind shear and sinking air over the Caribbean Sea and adjacent areas of the Atlantic Basin. Those suppressing factors can weaken or rip apart a tropical cyclone. The increased wind shear in 2015 contributed to the demise of five storms in the heart of that season. Unfortunately, we don't expect El Niño to be a strong hurricane-suppressing factor in 2025. -Part Of A Three-Year Quiet Stretch In 2014, six hurricanes formed, but only eight total storms developed that entire season. That was the least in any year since 1997. The 2013 season was even more strange. Fourteen storms that year were exactly average. But, only two managed to become hurricanes, tied for the fewest in any hurricane season in the satellite era (since the mid-1960s). El Niño wasn't a player in tamping down activity in 2014 and 2013. The culprit for those less active seasons was a combination of increased wind shear and/or dry, stable air that seemed to dominate the Atlantic. -Other Inactive Seasons Recently: Some other quiet seasons this century included 2009 (nine storms, three hurricanes during a weak to moderate El Niño) and 2006 (only 10 storms the year following the record 2005 season). During the cool phase of a 20- to 40-year oscillation of North Atlantic Ocean sea-surface temperatures known as the Atlantic Multidecadal Oscillation, less active hurricane seasons were common in the 1980s and early 1990s. Eight of the 15 hurricane seasons from 1980 through 1994 produced less than 10 storms. -Quiet Seasons Can Still Be A Danger: Immediately following another strong El Niño, only four named storms formed in 1983, the least in any season in the satellite era. However, one was Category 3 Hurricane Alicia, which ransacked the Houston metro area with destructive winds and storm surge flooding. 1992 was a similar story with only seven storms, but one of those was Hurricane Andrew's Category 5 strike on South Florida. The three "quiet" years in the 2010s still managed to produce three storms that were deadly and/or destructive enough to be retired from future use in name lists: Hurricane Ingrid (2013), Tropical Storm Erika (2015) and Hurricane Joaquin (2015). It only takes one landfall to have a damaging impact, whether it's the nation's only landfall or one of many in a given hurricane season. Whether an active or quiet season is forecast, you should be prepared every year. Jonathan Erdman is a senior meteorologist at and has been covering national and international weather since 1996. His lifelong love of meteorology began with a close encounter with a tornado as a child in Wisconsin. Extreme and bizarre weather are his favorite topics. Reach out to him on X (formerly Twitter), Threads, Facebook and Bluesky.
Yahoo
19-02-2025
- Climate
- Yahoo
Type of nor'easter: Miller Type A storm system explainer
Nor'easters are powerful storm systems that impact the Eastern Seaboard with a combination of northeasterly winds, heavy precipitation and coastal flooding. These storm systems, which typically occur in the autumn and winter months, form when cold air over the continental United States clashes with warm, moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf Stream. The resulting event can produce blizzard conditions, hurricane-force wind gusts, severe weather and significant coastal erosion. Meteorologists classify nor'easters using the Miller classification system, named after researcher J.E. Miller, from the 1940s. Originally, only two types of storms - Miller Type A and Miller Type B – were used for identification purposes, but in the early 2000s, forecasters expanded the system to include three additional types, creating five distinct categories: Type A, Type B, Type C, Type D and Type E. Each type of nor'easter has unique characteristics and impact zones that can lead to devastating conditions, with widespread power outages and billions of dollars in damage. What Is A Nor'easter? This event happens when a strong polar jet dips southward and meets a low-pressure system that develops in the Gulf of Mexico or southwest Atlantic. The system's origin point is often a frontal boundary that is draped across the Gulf Coast and Florida. As the low moves up the Eastern Seaboard, the system usually rapidly intensifies with significant snowfall likely in the mid-Atlantic and into areas of the interior Northeast. Due to the system's trajectory, large chunks of the I-95 corridor tend to miss out on the heavy snow, with rainfall that cuts down on accumulation rates. Miller Type A events are more common during La Niña patterns than during El Niños because the northern jet tends to be more energized than the southern subtropical jet. Some of the most powerful storm systems outside of hurricanes have been Miller Type A storms. The Superstorm of 1993, a Miller Type A event, was the most destructive nor'easter in U.S. history. Known as the "Storm of the Century," the system produced hurricane-force wind gusts, tornadoes, flooding and blizzard conditions that led to the deaths of more than 300 people with damage amounts in the immediate aftermath of the event estimated to be at more than $5 billion. What Does Rain Smell Like? December 22-24, 1989: Christmas Coastal Snowstorm A storm system that developed in the Gulf of Mexico and traveled along the southeastern coastline produced a once-in-a-lifetime snowfall event for communities in the Deep South. Enough cold air was in place that instead of rain or severe weather, cities from Florida through the coastal Carolinas saw record snowfall. According to NOAA historical data, 15" of snow fell in Wilmington, North Carolina, while 3.9" fell in Charleston and Jacksonville saw around 2". According to the NWS, the frozen weather event caused widespread power outages and severe crop damage as arctic temperatures gripped the region for days. Winds were reported to be 60 mph and wave heights were between 25-35 in the near-shore waters from Virginia into the Carolinas. Virginia and the Delmarva Peninsula were the northernmost extent of the impactful weather, as the system took a path out to sea and did not make a swipe at the Northeast. March 12-14, 1993: Storm of the Century A low-pressure system developed on March 12th along a nearly stationary front along the Gulf Coast. The system, dubbed the "Storm of the Century," produced hurricane-force wind gusts, tornadoes, flooding and blizzard conditions across much of the eastern third of the nation. During its trek from the Gulf Coast along the Eastern Seaboard, the system's barometric pressure dropped to as low as 960 mb, which is the equivalent of a Category 3 hurricane. Widespread wind gusts of more than 70 mph knocked power out to at least 10 million residents, with an estimated 120 million in the impact zone. The heaviest snowfall occurred in the Appalachians with 1-2 feet reported from North Carolina through interior Pennsylvania and New York. The combination of gusty winds and heavy precipitation caused every major airport on the U.S. East Coast to close at some point during the storm system. While the coastal storm of 1989 demonstrated the limited impact a Miller Type A nor'easter can have, the "Storm of the Century" showcased the opposite extreme, highlighting the vast reach and intensity such a system can achieve. According to NOAA, the storm system led to the deaths of more than 300 people, with damage tallies in the immediate aftermath of the event estimated to be at more than $5 billion. December 18-20, 2009: North American Blizzard of 2009 The nor'easter developed during the weekend before Christmas along the Gulf Coast and caused impacts along the Appalachians and southern parts of the Northeast and New England. Its track led to significant snowfall from the Appalachians through Long Island, with some communities reporting more than 2 feet of snow. Wind gusts of 40-50 mph triggered Blizzard Warnings to be issued from around the nation's capital to Long Island. Parts of the Southeast, including Georgia and the Carolinas, experienced extreme icing, which halted travel. Based on NOAA's impact scale, the storm system only ranked as a 2 out of 5 based on precipitation amounts and population impacted. The event was quickly followed by the 2009 North American Christmas blizzard, which produced more widespread impacts across a greater extent of the country and received a rating of 5 - the most extreme on its impact article source: Type of nor'easter: Miller Type A storm system explainer
Yahoo
28-01-2025
- Science
- Yahoo
Ocean Warming Has Quadrupled Since 1980s, Study Shows
Global warming, rising ocean temperatures, climate change, natural disasters…these are all things we hear about on a daily basis, inciting fears of the imminent environmental apocalypse. But when it comes down it, aside from the natural disasters, how often are you experiencing climate change and global warming on a firsthand, regular basis? Probably not that much. At least, it's not a noticeable change, as such alterations on a grand scale take time to manifest. Thankfully, we have scientists to monitor such events. And according to a new study, published on Environmental Research Letters, researchers discovered a grim reality – the ocean surface, a strong indicator of temperatures globally, has been rising in temperature at unprecedented Chris Merchant, lead author at the University of Reading, said (via "If the oceans were a bathtub of water, then in the 1980s, the hot tap was running slowly, warming up the water by just a fraction of a degree each decade. But now the hot tap is running much faster, and the warming has picked up speed. The way to slow down that warming is to start closing off the hot tap, by cutting global carbon emissions and moving towards net-zero." So, how much faster is the ocean warming? In the 1980s, data showed a 0.06 degrees Celsius per decade rise; today, the data shows the temperatures are rising 0.27 degrees Celsius per decade. The study accounted for the recent El Niño season of 2023 and 2024, which is a natural ocean warming event in the Pacific, and also contributed to 450 days straight of record-breaking global ocean temperatures. But still, when compared to past El Niños, the oceans warmed at a faster pace. And don't expect this to slow down. According to analysis of the study via 'It is plausible that the ocean temperature increase seen over the past 40 years will be exceeded in just the next 20 years.' Will that be enough to notice a change? TBD.
