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In
the Eye of A Hurricane…the firsthand report of a former NOAA Hurricane
Hunter
Imagine a summer thunderstorm, a dark, malevolent, hulking brute
towering
over 10 turbulent miles into the heavens, spewing blinding rain, hailstones
and lightning. Now, imagine a line of these monsters 75 miles long, standing
shoulder-to-shoulder. Take that line and wrap it around into a circle
20-30 miles across, and spin it counterclockwise at 140 miles an hour.
That is a hurricane eyewall. Our job is to transit across the hurricane,
through the eyewall, into the eye and out the other side. We are the NOAA
Hurricane Hunters.
From his perspective back in the cabin, one of our mechanics described
flying into a hurricane, as something like riding in a big semi going
90 miles an hour down a windy, bumpy dirt road in the desert at night,
with the headlights turned off. Of course, our view from the cockpit is
a little different.
NOAA's Lockheed WP-3D Orions take off in clear weather, hundreds of miles
from the storm, lumbering slowly into the warm, moist tropical air under
the weight of 10-hours worth of jet fuel, plus reserves (fuel makes up
almost half of the P-3's total weight on a "max mission"). The transit
out to the storm, typically at 17-18,000 feet is uneventful, as the scientists
and technicians check out sensors, radars and data acquisition systems.
Approaching the storm, we inform Air Traffic Control that we're "going
operational" and
descend to the researchers' desired altitude, normally anywhere from 1,500
to 14,000 feet, depending on the experiments to be conducted. Often, the
two P-3s will enter the storm from different sides, crossing in the eye
on perpendicular headings.
NOAA
Introduces Hurricane Hunters to D.C. Children
With a boost from Diversity Manager, Barbara Marshall-Bailey,
and NOAA Corps’ Jeanne Kouhestani, 20 children toured NOAA’s hurricane
hunter aircraft. The kids are members of the Washington,
D.C. chapter of Jack and Jill, a nationwide mother’s group
founded in 1938 to enrich the lives of young children.
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FULL STORY --
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We get closer to the hurricane, and the crew secures the cabin, putting
away or strapping down all loose objects. As we begin to penetrate the
outer rain bands, the flight director, the person responsible for coordinating
the mission, uses the big C-band belly radar to set a track for the eye,
and the plane takes the first few bumps, flying into and out of the rain.
Within 100 miles, the eyewall starts to show up on the pilots' nose Radar.
The winds are now steady at 40-60 knots off the left wing. The open spaces
between the clouds become fewer and fewer until we're completely enveloped.
The winds slowly increase, and the turbulence becomes more pronounced
as the stiff-winged P-3 is jostled around the sky.
Sixty miles out, the eyewall now shows up clearly on the nose radar as
a hard, sharp, bright red arc across our path. Because of the crosswind,
the pilots have the plane in a 10-15 degree crab to the left to stay on
track and are starting to fly "uphill" (The pressure is dropping as we
approach the center of the hurricane, and the pressure altitude falls
with it, so the plane has to "climb" to maintain a constant altitude above
the waves).
We near the eyewall, a solid circle with the inner rainbands converging
into it. Everyone is strapped in; the turbulence more and more pronounced,
rain pelting the windshield. The airspeed starts to fluctuate as the P-3
experiences sharp up- and down-drafts. The pilots fight to maintain straight
and level, the flight engineer jockeys the power levers to maintain the
airspeed within limits.
We hit the eyewall. The winds climb rapidly, 90, 110, 125 knots, howling
at the airplane from the left side, and the plane starts to buck. The
crab angle is now up to 22-27 degrees and the power levers are jammed
full forward as the propellors claw for altitude. Wind shears hammer the
P-3 up and down; the rain is like a fire hose blasting the windows. The
plane shakes so violently that the numbers on the instrument panel are
unreadable.
Yet, amidst the chaos, the voices on the intercom are calm and composed,
people going about the business of science. One last updraft on the inner
edge of the eyewall slams into the belly of the plane. Suddenly all is
calm. We're through the eyewall and into the eye, and the view is breathtaking.
The surrounding wall of clouds, beautiful, menacing and awe-inspiring
all at the same time, looms tens of thousands of feet into the sky, encircling
us, gently curving outward in a "stadium effect." Above us, clear blue
sky; below, an angry sea whipped into a frenzy by howling winds. Occasionally,
we see birds trapped in the eye.
There is little time to enjoy the scenery. The flight director calls out
a rapid succession of course changes as we hunt for the center of the
wind circulation amid the swirling eddies. We mark the center, drop an
expendable weather instrument and turn outbound . . . and there ahead
of us, waiting, blocking our path, lies the raging eyewall once again.
The "Fasten Seatbelt" goes on . . .
By Cmdr. Ron Philippsborn, NOAA Corps (retired)
NOAA P-3 "Hurricane Hunter" Pilot
Commander Philippsborn now flies for a commercial airline in Anchorage,
where he lives.
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