Real Survival Stories - Bahamas Hurricane: Water Level Rising

Episode Date: May 7, 2025

Tara Pyfrom and her family live a life of idyllic bliss in the Bahamas. That is, until 2019 - when Hurricane Dorian makes landfall, plunging their peaceful island existence into chaos. As this record-breaking storm swamps the land, Tara’s house is engulfed - becoming a deathtrap. The family will have to go to increasingly extraordinary lengths just to keep their heads above water… A Noiser production, written by Joe Viner. For ad-free listening, bonus material and early access to new episodes, join Noiser+. Click the subscription banner at the top of the feed to get started. Or go to noiser.com/subscriptions If you have an amazing survival story of your own that you’d like to put forward for the show, let us know. Drop us an email at [e-mail] Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

It's late August 2019. Beneath a low-precious system somewhere over the Western Atlantic, a storm builds. As it moves further west, pushed along by trade winds, the tempest continues to grow in size and strength, sucking warm air from the ocean and converting it into powerful kinetic energy. It escalates quickly as it approaches land, from a category 3 storm to a fearsome category 4, bringing extreme winds capable of inflicting catastrophic damage. Less than 24 hours later, the day it reaches the easternmost shores of the Bahamas, the storm is upgraded again to the maximum deadly category, five.

As it rampages through the islands, the one comfort to affected residents is that at least the storm will keep moving. They always do. Soon enough, this nightmare will be behind them. But this storm is different. First, the hurricane's forward motion slows to an excruciating pace. Then it comes to a complete standstill,

stalled directly above the northernmost island of Grand Bahama, where it continues to wreak havoc for hours, then days. And at the heart of the vortex, right in the eye, is the small beach community of Freeport. 180 mile an hour winds pummel the hotel-lined oceanfront. Buildings strain at their concrete foundations. Palm trees are uprooted. Rooves are torn from their rafters and sucked cartwheeling into the rain-filled air. Huge waves barrel down Main Street, smashing through souvenir shops, engulfing cars, sweeping away road signs.

In the residential neighborhoods, gardens are inundated, homes deluged. We could see that our entire yard was covered in water. We were now an island. Just our house was an island. And, you know, terror. Just total terror. Many of Freeport's 40,000 inhabitants have already evacuated. But some remain, whether by choice or necessity.

A handful of resilient souls who now find themselves trapped in their houses, desperate and cut off from any rescue. Like 38-year-old Tara Pyfron and her family. It's just, we don't know what to do. We can't go outside, we can't stay inside. And the water keeps getting higher. It's not slowing down.

It's a couple of inches and and then it's another foot, and then it's... We're not dry on our kitchen counters anymore. The house is half full of water. At that point, we're in danger now. We're in danger of drowning inside of our house. Ever wondered what you would do when disaster strikes? If your life depended on your next decision, could you make the right choice?

Welcome to Real Survival Stories. These are the astonishing tales of ordinary people thrown into extraordinary situations. People suddenly forced to fight for their lives. In this episode we meet Tara Pyfrom. Together with her wife Catherine and their six-year-old daughter Hazel, the Pyfrom's live a life of idyllic bliss in the Bahamas. Lazy afternoons by the pool, long strolls along the beach, sunsets over the ocean. That is until September 2019, when Hurricane Dorian makes landfall and plunges their peaceful island existence into chaos. It's just pure terror. I mean, it's wind. Like, you've never seen trees are leaning at 45, 50, 90 degree angles,

and there's so much water. Tara's home is engulfed. With the flood waters rising, their house becomes a death trap, where they'll have to go to increasingly extreme measures just to keep their heads above water. Every disaster movie that I've ever seen, where the person or people are in the place that's filling up with water, and their heads are pressing against the roof, and they're breathing the last breath, and, I love you, I love you.

That's what's going through my head. That's the worst-case scenario. That's how I'm going to die. I'm John Hopkins. From the Noiza Podcast Network, this is Real Survival Stories. It's late August 2019 in Freeport, Grand Bahama. Tara Pfeifferm pushes a shopping trolley around her local supermarket. As she sweeps groceries into the cart, the 38-year-old periodically consults her list.

Peanut butter, check. Tin soup, check. Crackers, check. Certain items always vanish from the shelves in the days leading up to a storm, which is why Tara has made an effort to do her shopping well in advance before the panic buying begins. Even several days out from the storms forecasted landfall, the store is busy than usual for a weekday afternoon. Apparently Tara wasn't the only one with this idea. The majority of Freeport's population are expats, lured to the Bahamas by the promise of sunshine and the gentle pace of life.

Tara, however, is Bahamian, born and raised. My entire family tree, going back eight, nine generations, all born in the islands of the Bahamas, lived there my entire life, my entire childhood was on a little tiny rock, literally 300 people population. So taking a ferry to go to school every day kind of deal. So of course the ocean is hugely ingrained culturally, personally, emotionally, all of those things very, very much a part of who I am. emotionally all of those things very, very much a part of who I am. Tara drives through her quiet, tree-lined neighborhood.

She pulls into a driveway in front of a pastel blue bungalow with white painted eaves, nestled in a glade of gently swaying palms. The screen door opens, and a dark-haired young woman emerges onto the porch, Tara's wife, Catherine. Moments later, a beaming, perspectical child scampers past Catherine on the steps and races towards the car. This is their six-year-old daughter, Hazel. My wife, Catherine, and I, we just

we work really well together. We finish each other's sentences and yeah, I'm madly in love with my wife and I will go nuts and be really sappy about it, if you let me. And our daughter, super intelligent, super friendly, never met a stranger. Our child has never met a stranger. Then there are the non-human members of the family. We had four dachshunds, little sausage dogs with their long bodies and little legs, and we had a husky mix called Sky. And our four dachshunds were Pearl, Ginger, Nutmeg, and Copper. They were very much a part of our family. Five years ago, having just welcomed their daughter into the world, Tara and Katherine decided their small family needed a forever home. Though a bookkeeper by trade, Tara has a talent for architectural drawing. Katherine

is an artist with a keen eye for interior decorating. They made the perfect team and set about creating their dream house. When construction finished a year later, their vision had become a reality. It was perfect, an oasis overlooking the ocean. It was our home, our little bubble. We are introverts by nature, so we spent a lot of time at home. We lived in a swimming pool so our daughter could swim anytime she likes,

and quite frankly, we really enjoyed it too. The dogs were swimming with us constantly. So it was really very much a paradise for us. But this is a fragile sort of paradise. The Bahamas lie at the apex of the Atlantic hurricane belt, a stretch of ocean where warm water temperatures help fuel the development of hydro-meteorological events. Hurricane season usually lasts from June to November. During these months, residents of the Bahamas hunker down and prepare for the inevitable.

In recent years, however, as global temperatures rise, the intensity and frequency of the storms has increased exponentially. Hurricanes are just a way of life. There are always hurricanes. And traditionally in the past, there have been the big ones. Those are the ones that everyone remembers the names of. I mean, we have enough hurricanes that you forget the names of them unless they had a big impact.

When I was in my late teens, we had what we thought then was the hurricane of our generation was Hurricane Floyd. Terrible storm, terrible wind, category three, almost category four hurricane. So 150 mile per hour wind. Just completely wrecked boats and houses and trees and you know, weeks without electricity and that was the big one. And then there was another big one. And then there was another big one. And so the idea of having, you know, the one that everyone remembers becomes the ones that everyone remembers. We planned our home accordingly. We actually built an elevated foundation so that we were

several feet up off of the ground. We invested in what they call hurricane impact windows. Your windows are secure for, you know, a piece of wood flying at your window at 150 mile an hour. It doesn't crack. All of those things to prepare for what we were expecting to happen. As September approaches, Tara closely monitors the weather forecast. Reports of a developing storm system out over the Atlantic have stoked the community's collective anxiety. Is this the next big one?

As the days pass, the warning signs stack up. On August the 28th, the tropical storm is upgraded to a Category 1 hurricane, increasing in size as it surges across the Caribbean Sea. And over the next 48 hours, as it races north towards the Bahamas, it intensifies at an alarming rate. Category 1 increases to Category 2, then quickly to Category 3. Some take the decision to evacuate the islands, or to retreat to community three. Some take the decision to evacuate the islands or to retreat to community shelters, but Tara and her family are staying put.

We have never chosen to leave because we've always done this. We've done it again and again again and never had threat to our lives personally. That coupled with the fact that we had five dogs. We can't leave them. We could put them in a shelter, but they're our babies. They're our children. We're not going to put them in a shelter. So we choose to stay. By now, the Hurricane has a name, Dorian. All day, Saturday, August the 31st, Tara keeps track of its progress. There is still hope that the storm might dissipate before reaching them, or that the wind will change direction and spare them from a direct impact. But as the day wears on, this hope dwindles. The storm got closer, and then the storm got bigger, and the storm got stronger. And then the anxiety really kicked in.

Okay, this isn't just another hurricane. This is monumental. It's early Sunday morning, September the first. Tara emerges onto the sunlit back porch and sits down on the top step. She closes her eyes and breathes in slowly. The weather is warm and still, the windless air heavy with the sweet scent of flowers. The canal which borders the bottom of their yard is as flat and motionless as concrete. But there is a sinister edge to this tranquility. Dorian is forecast to make landfall tonight, making this the calm before the storm.

Tara tries to relax, but it's easier said than done. What's the tide going to be when the storm gets here? And is that going to mean that the storm surge is going to be higher or lower? Should I put the barbecue grill in the shed or should I bring it in the house? All of these kind of random things running through your head while I'm trying to be calm and relaxed. That didn't work very well. Tara spends the rest of the day prepping the house. She puts up the hurricane shutters,

moves the patio furniture inside, and drags sandbags into position at the base of the doors. She and Catherine constantly refresh their social media feeds for news updates. By late morning, the storm has reached the Abacos Islands in the east of the Bahamas. Next stop, Grand Bahama and Freeport. And as evening draws in, sure enough, the wind picks up. Then the rain starts, right on cue.

We went to bed, checked the weather, storm's still doing the terrible things that it says it's going to do. Got up a couple of hours later, checked the weather again. And we have no electricity, no TV now, we're just on cell phones and data and whatever information we can get from that. And so we're, you know, sleeping a little, but not a lot. And the wind gets worse. It gets louder. It gets louder again. At about 4 a.m., Tara and Catherine abandon any hope of sleep.

The decibel levels have risen to an incessant rolling roar of torrential rain and thrashing palm fronds. Tara goes to the window. She takes a flashlight and presses it against the glass, thrusting a dim yellow beam into the darkness. And we could see that our entire yard was covered in water. We were now an island. Just our house was an island. And in a terror, just total terror.

It's even worse than feared. Engorged by the surging ocean, the canal has burst its banks. Their lovingly cultivated garden has disappeared beneath a rough, brown sea, pocked with heavy rain. The floodwater has risen almost level with the decking of the back porch. But at the same time I'm in my head, okay, but the water's out there and the house is high and we'll be fine. If we get a couple of inches of water inside, it's annoying. We're going to have to, you know, get insurance money. It's going to be a pain in the butt, but we'll be fine.

A couple of inches. No big deal. The house is strong. We'll be fine. So I kept telling myself this. We're going to be fine. But then it just kept getting worse. we're going to be fine. And it just kept getting worse. The water creeps across the decking. It trickles through cracks under the protective storm doors. It forces its way between the sandbags. It starts to spread across the open plan kitchen and living

area, flowing freely into every corner of the house. into every corner of the house. A frightened, bleary-eyed Hazel comes wandering out of her bedroom, a cuddly toy tucked under each arm, water sloshing around her ankles. Catherine sweeps her daughter into her arms and stares beseechingly at Tara. The dogs, four of whom barely stand a foot high, leap onto the sofa to escape the rising flood. A couple of inches quickly becomes a foot, then two feet. Tara looks around, dazed, as their home, their sanctuary,

is overwhelmed. It's about three hours later. Tara, Catherine and Hazel sit huddled on their kitchen island listening to the car alarm wail from the driveway. Three feet of water now swamps the kitchen. Assorted domestic flotsam bobs on the surface, a dog bowl, a flip-flop, a child's backpack. Eventually, the car alarm falls silent. The water must have finally fried the vehicle's electrics. At that point, we're in danger now.

Like if we're all sitting on our kitchen island and the water's not slowing down and it's still rising, we're in danger of drowning inside of our house. And so we're having crazy conversations about swimming in a category 5 hurricane. Several hundred feet to our neighbors. They've posted an SOS on Facebook.

But there's no way anyone's coming to get them. No rescue boats would brave this weather. Tara looks out of the rain-lashed windows. Through the chaos, she can discern the outline of their neighbor's two-story house, standing above the floodwaters like an island. But with 180-mile-an an hour winds churning the air, attempting to swim across to it would be sheer madness. It's just we don't know what to do. We don't know what to do. We can't go outside.

We can't stay inside. And the water keeps getting higher. It's not slowing down. It's another foot. And then it's the house is half full of water. Every disaster movie that I've ever seen where the person or people are in the place that's filling up with water and their heads are pressed against the roof and they're breathing the last breath and I love you. I love you. That's what's going through my head. That's the worst-case scenario.

That's how I'm going to die. Catherine suggests climbing into the attic a voice taught with I'm going to die." Catherine suggests climbing into the attic, her voice taught with dread. The tar is firm. That is not an option. She has decided that there's now only one viable path to survival. The attic was mentioned and it was immediately no. If we go to the attic and the water reaches the attic, we're going to drown in the attic.

There's no way out of the attic. And so that was the, we need to get out of the house. We have to get out of the house right now. I don't know where we're going to go, but we have to get out of the house while we can. Right now. I don't know where we're gonna go, but we have to get out of the house while we can. Spring is here, and you can now get almost anything you need delivered with Uber Eats. What do we mean by almost? You can't get a well-groomed lawn delivered, but you can get chicken parmesan delivered. Sunshine? No.

Some wine? Yes. Get almost, almost anything delivered with Uber Eats. Order now. Alcohol in select markets. See after details. It's Monday, September the 2nd, 2019, in the Bahamas. Hurricane Dorian vents its fury upon the island community of Freeport, where a family of three is fighting to stay alive. After a fraught discussion, Tara has managed to convince her wife Catherine that they will be safer outside of the house than inside, where the rising water levels mean every room will soon be submerged.

Tara lowers herself off the kitchen island. She grimaces as a foul drainage smell rises from the murky, chest-deep water. The storm surge must have backed up their septic tank. Trying not to breathe through her nose, Tara wades through the greenish-brown liquid. Catherine follows close behind, with six-year-old Hazel clinging to her neck. Navigating the flooded house is no small feat, but eventually every member of the family, human and canine, is assembled by the window in the master bedroom. Tara heaves up the sash, bracing against the

powerful surge of water and wind. Projectiles zoom through the air, roof panels and palm fronds, a length of chain link fence, stray patio furniture. Still, safer out there than in here. I climbed out of the window. We got our daughter out the window, and we're like trying to tie each other together with an electrical cord. We had no rope. Terrified we're going to get separated by the waves, so we're tying ourselves together

with electrical cords so that we can stay together. As well as the electrical cord, they have managed to source a waterproof mattress that might function as a makeshift raft. Katherine passes Hazel through the window and into Tara's arms. After fastening herself to Hazel with the cord, Tara places her daughter onto the mattress, which immediately drifts away in the current until the tether pulls tight and the mattress holds still, straining against the cable. Now the dogs.

Catherine picks one up and thrusts the soaked, trembling animal through the window to Tara, who deposits the dog on the mattress with their daughter. They repeat the process twice more, until three of the dogs are cuddled around Hazel, the mattress sagging beneath their combined weight. Tara reaches for the fourth, but as she does... The door to the room that we were accessing to get out closed behind us with the water. And there were two dogs trapped in another room and three dogs with us. The two remaining dogs, Copper and Sky,

are now separated from Catherine by a solid wooden door and a huge amount of water pressure forcing it shut. So there was a lot of screaming, no, leave them, they'll be fine, they'll be okay, we have to get out of the house, we have to get out of the house. Lots, you know, a lot of panic to arguing. Catherine insisted she was not leaving the dogs. Ignoring the frantic protestations,

Catherine wades back to the door and starts trying to force it open. Tara can only watch on helpless as her wife repeatedly throws her weight against the frame. After a few determined shoulder barges, it finally gives way, sending Catherine tumbling forward with the rushing water. Tara's heart somersaults as her partner is wrenched out of sight.

I can feel the electrical cord pulling on me where Hazel is, the waves are trying to pull her away from me. She's on top of the mattress. Three of the dogs are there with her and I keep keeping track of them. At the same time that I'm trying to find out, Catherine's gone, I can't see her. Where is she? Is she going to get back out? Should I go back in? Should we all go back in?

Just a million things at the same time. Tara cranes her neck above the water, but there's no sign of Catherine. Just second to second, minute to minute. Like, there's no planning. You can't plan what you're going to do if Catherine doesn't come back. It's just waiting. Longest several seconds of my life.

Then, after an agonizing delay, Catherine reappears in the doorway with two frenzied dogs squirming in her arms. She waves across the room and shoves Copper and Sky through the window, which is now almost entirely underwater. Catherine takes a breath and dives, squeezing through the small submerged gap and resurfacing breathless on the other side. At last, the whole family is out of the house. The question is, what now?

They stand on tiptoes, grim smelling water lapping at their chins, bellowing to be heard over the ear-splitting roar of the wind. Suddenly, one of the dogs shifts its weight. The mattress capsizes, jettisoning its precious cargo. Tara leaps forward, grabs Hazel, and hoists her back onto the mattress. The six-year-old straightens her glasses as she gulps down air. Catherine plucks the yelping dogs out of the water and returns them to the makeshift raft. Disaster averted this time. But it's becoming clear that leaving the house might not have been the right decision after all.

Our daughter's screaming, I want to go back inside, I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Our six-year-old is screaming, I don't want to die. I will hear that for the rest of my life." Tara turns to look over at the neighbor's house. Squinting through the maelstrom, the building looks even more distant than it did before. A faint silhouette, separated from them by a raging torrent of seething brown water. Tara adjusts her feet, straining her toes for contact with the porch decking.

Pretty soon they'll be forced to swim, and it will only get harder to stay together as they battle against the fierce currents and flying debris. For Tara, the next decision they make comes down to a single, terrifying choice. Do we drown now, or do we drown later? If we stay outside, we're gonna drown now. We have to go back inside. It's a few minutes later. With their precious cargo in tow, Tara and Catherine work their way gingerly around the edge of the house,

back to the bedroom window. They've been outside for a grand total of 30 minutes, and they've seen enough. However bad it was inside, anything is better than this. But getting back in is going to be considerably more difficult than getting out. The water had risen enough that the entrance

to get back in the house was now underwater. So we had to dive under the water, to go through the window, to come back up on the inside where there was air. The window is nearly 20 inches underwater. This time Catherine goes first. Once again she takes a deep breath and disappears below the surface. A few seconds later, a muffled shout is heard through the wall.

She's in. And it was grab a dog, push it under the water, through the window into Catherine's arms, for five dogs, including the 50-pound husky that we had to force out the first time, we now had to force back in. Sharp claws scratch Tara's skin. A sky frantically paddles through the window and into Catherine's arms. Tara comes back up. She lifts Hazel off the mattress and gently guides her daughter beneath the surface towards the window. Hazel swims through the opening, her little limbs wriggling through the water with natural ability, a true child of the Bahamas.

Finally, it's Tara's turn. Without hesitating or dwelling on what they're returning to, she draws air into her lungs and swims back inside the house. And suddenly it was calm. It was relatively quiet. Outside was so loud with the storm and so rough and such a constant struggle with the waves to keep our heads above water that just getting back into the house was calm. But the peaceful lull doesn't last long.

And it was calm for thirty seconds. Because then it was, now what? We're not out of danger, we're just out of immediate danger, now what? We've got three feet of space left in this room before it fills up, and the water is still rising. It's now about 11am, and Tara's home is almost entirely underwater. Hazel and the dogs are packed onto the floating double bed. about 11 a.m. and Tara's home is almost entirely underwater. Hazel and the dogs are packed onto the floating double bed, which is wedged against the ceiling by the ends of the bedposts.

With the surface still rising and the hurricane showing no signs of abating, their only option now is to position themselves as high up as possible. And that means resorting to a place that Tara earlier dismissed outright. The attic. If the water continues rising while they are up there, there will be no escape. But what choice do they have? Our decisions are not working out so well. Consensus was go to the attic. There's no other option and I conceded to the, yeah, there's no other option now. Tara opens the ceiling hatch and pulls down the retractable ladder.

She and Catherine load Hazel and the dogs up through the hatch. Before climbing up themselves, they grab a rucksack filled with food, medication, dry clothes, and a few important legal documents. As she steps onto the ladder, Tara takes note of the water level. It's currently sitting just above the third highest ladder rung.

How much longer until the next rung disappears? And the next. Tara hauls herself through the hatch and into the attic. In truth, attic is a generous word for this dark, dusty crawlspace. There's no real floor. You're standing on two-inch pieces of wood every three feet. In between that, there's insulation and drywall. So if you step in between these wooden bracing,

you're gonna fall through. And it's pitch black. Like it's really dark. So you try not to hit your head. You try not to fall through the ceiling and you're trying to find somewhere to just sit. The family tries to get settled. Fortunately, they managed to find a couple of plastic storage containers, large enough for

Hazel and the smaller dogs to sit inside. But with room for only one person per wooden rafter, Catherine and Tara are forced to sit apart, alone with their thoughts. Tara squeezes her wife's hand, then goes to find a place to situate herself. The hurricane is a never-ending cacophony, thundering in the darkness. Tara shuffles herself onto one of the hard timber joists. All they can do now is wait.

Barely a minute has passed, however, before a new emergency presents itself. We realized after we got into the attic and kind of caught our breath for a second that we had food, but we had no water. We didn't know how long we were going to be there. And we knew that we needed water. After the exertion of the last few hours, dehydration will soon become a big problem. The bottles of water are kept in a kitchen cupboard, but going back down and navigating the underwater labyrinth of the house would be far too dangerous.

And so Tara comes up with a more direct approach. I decided that I was gonna walk across the attic to the other side of the house and figure out where the kitchen was, and then I was going to break a hole in the drywall ceiling and just reach in and grab the bottle out of a cupboard. Tara moves carefully between the ceiling rafters. Having drawn up the architectural blueprints herself all those years ago, she can visualize the precise layout of her beloved home. When she reaches what she believes is the right spot above the kitchen cupboard, Tara

begins stamping on the drywall ceiling. I managed to break a hole in the ceiling. Not the right spot. Broke another hole. Okay, that's the right spot, broke another hole, okay that's the right spot, lean in to grab the water, lean too far, and fall. As she reaches for the bottled water, Tara loses her balance. Stagnant floodwater rushes up her nose. Shocked, disoriented, she twists her body around and thrusts her head back up to

the surface, coughing up the fetid liquid. After a few, stabilizing breaths, Tara calls up to Catherine that she is okay. Keeping her head close to the kitchen ceiling, in what is now the last remaining foot of breathing room. She swims to the cupboard and pulls out the bottles. She reaches up and pushes them through the hole into the attic. Mission accomplished. But now to the small matter of getting herself back up there. Tara hooks her fingers around the ragged edge of the hole in the drywall and, after two unsuccessful attempts, manages to heave herself up.

Back in the attic, she checks to see if any more ladder rungs have disappeared. Only one step is visible now. Tara positions herself on a wooden beam. She turns her attention to the weather outside, listening out for any indication that the storm's intensity might be diminishing. We're just listening to the weather, waiting for either the Hurricane I, which we knew would be very quiet and very calm. And if we heard that, that would mean that the storm is halfway over. So that at least we would have some time marker on how long this

was gonna last. But it never got quiet. The entire time we were in the attic it was loud, like super duper loud. There's tree limbs hitting the roof and the roof is creaking and groaning and cracking and if you lean against the bracing of the roof you can feel it moving. We've got nothing to tie ourselves down with. If the roof goes, we're going with it. And so just sitting in the pitch black, listening to the storm, listening to the wind, waiting to drown, waiting for the roof to come off. to drown, waiting for the roof to come off. For now at least, everything is holding. But as the hours pass, conditions outside don't improve.

Ordinarily, hurricanes don't stay in one place for long. Their path of destruction moves forward continuously, pushed along by the prevailing wind. But this storm is behaving differently. As day turns to night, the conditions stay exactly the same. Hurricane Dorian seems to have stalled directly above Grand Bahama, directly above Freeport, directly above the Pyfrom family home.

All I kept repeating in my head was, please let the roof hold. Like, that's literally the only thing that was in my head, except for the couple of conversations with Katherine of, are you OK? Is Hazel OK? Are the dogs OK? Aside from that, I'm sitting in the dark,

with my eyes open, not seeing anything, just repeating the words, please let the roof hold, over and over and over and over and a million, two million times of just saying the same words. It's 530 AM, about 18 hours since Tara and her family first went into the attic. About 18 hours since Tara and her family first went into the attic. She sits hunched on a length of wooden bracing. Her muscles and joints ache from hours spent in a state of constant full body tension.

Catherine sits a few feet away, while Hazel sleeps in one of the plastic storage containers, curled up under a blanket. while Hazel sleeps in one of the plastic storage containers, curled up under a blanket. All night long, Tara has been listening to the raging storm. And as dawn starts to leak through the cracks in the ceiling, there seems to be a slight reduction in the strength of the wind, a barely noticeable easing of the rain. We used the cell phone flashlight that we had to check the water level. And we could just make out that one of the latter steps that was disappeared had reappeared.

And that was the water's going down. Sure enough, as the morning wears on, the sounds of the hurricane continue to abate. Slowly, but surely. There was a decrease in the wind, and with that decrease in the wind, and the water very slowly receding, was, the storm is leaving. The worst of it is over. We're alive. Finally, at 11 a.m., a full 24 hours after first climbing into the attic, Tara descends the ladder into the ruinous remains of her home. When I went down the ladder, the entire wall was open. So I could see into the rest of the house.

The wall was gone. And the house looked like a bomb went off. Tara, Catherine, and Hazel wander through the dregs of the floodwater, dazed, gazing blankly at the catastrophe that surrounds them. Then suddenly, a figure appears on the back deck, dressed in a wetsuit, goggles and fins. Tara stares dumbstruck. Then the figure lifts up their mask, revealing a friendly face. It's our friend Jamie, and he is part of the Bahamas Air and Sea Rescue volunteer group.

And they've come to get us. We're still blowing 90 mile an hour wind. He and three guys are out in an open boat, small boat, to come rescue people and we're the first stop. And when I tell you that we just fell into his arms, we really did just fall into his arms. Moments later, Tara, Catherine, Hazel, and all five of the dogs are squeezed onto a motorboat as it chugs through their flooded neighborhood. squeezed onto a motorboat as it chugs through their flooded neighborhood. Gale force winds still whip across the water. Debris continues to hurtle through the gray, rain-cloaked sky. And yet conditions are improving.

The worst has passed. Jamie takes the traumatized family to the local sailing club, which has been converted into an emergency holding area. The manager of the club provides them with food and dry clothes, but this is all just a short-term solution. This was not a shelter. It was not set up as a shelter. We couldn't go to any of the shelters on the island if we had been able to get to it at that point because we were still in the middle of a hurricane. We had dogs, none of the shelters take dogs. So we were still in a position of,

we need to go somewhere, we can't stay here. Where are we gonna go? The Pifrons decide to head to the home of a relative in the hope that they'll have room to accommodate all eight of them. Somebody in the shelter offers to give the family a lift, and so they pile into the cab of his truck and on to the next unknown. Driving through the devastated neighborhood is a surreal experience. Weaving around flooded areas, now we got to take this street to get to that street.

I have no idea where we're going. I've lived here for years. It's not recognizable. I don't know what street we're on. In the end, they don't make it to their relatives. A chance encounter reminds them that while Freeport's landscape has been wrecked beyond recognition, its community spirit remains unbroken. Met up with some other acquaintances along the way.

Oh, I can help. Some of you guys get in with me because we're all piled one on top of each other in this single cab truck. And the other acquaintance is like, Oh, well come to our house. We've got lots of space. Come stay with us. Yeah, the dogs can come too. Come with us. And that's where we ended up. An acquaintance, someone we'd said hi to a half a dozen times in the school pickup line. And they fed us.

They gave us a place to stay. We had beds. We had electricity because there was a massive generator at this place and just took care of us. The following day, Tara and Catherine returned to their house, hoping to salvage whatever they can from the wreckage. But there is little to recover. Nearly all of their possessions have been destroyed or washed away, their home barely

more than a hollow shell. In the face of this loss, it seems moving on is the only way forward. We were far too traumatized to even think about trying to recover on island. We need to leave. We need to leave and we need to leave as soon as we possibly can. And so that's what we did. One of the first flights that came in with supplies went back to Florida empty. They took us and the dogs. We settled in Florida for a few months, out what we're gonna do very early on in the first couple of

weeks. We're not going back. We can't. I can't do that. I can't rebuild there again to know that the next storm is gonna be worse. There are more and more and more storms. They've gotten this much worse in the course of our lifetimes. There is going to be another one. It's going to be just as bad as that one or worse. We survived it. I'm never going to be in the path of a hurricane again. The weeks following the storm are a blur of grief and bad dreams.

Doubt clouds the family's future. And so Tara and Catherine resolve to do something bold and decisive. Three weeks after surviving a catastrophic hurricane and the near-death experience and losing everything, we decided to double down and we moved to a place we had never been to before. In terms of weather, Canada couldn't be more different to the Bahamas. And this is precisely why Tara and her family decide to move there, gladly opting for the occasional blizzard over another hurricane.

Almost two years later, Tara and Catherine do return to Freeport. They visit the empty plot where their home once stood, now long since demolished, and take one last look at the place that used to be their whole world. ["The Last Supper"] That was very much for us a challenging one, in that, you know, this was a huge part of us.

It was so much time and effort and love put into this place, this physical place, and then it was gone. There's a lot of sadness, a lot of grief in the loss. There is still a lot of grief in the loss. Grief stays with you. It's just non-linear and has many different phases. I don't know that it will ever actually be fully processed. Hurricane Dorian was the strongest recorded hurricane in the Bahamas history. It was also the deadliest, with more than 80 confirmed fatalities and hundreds more unaccounted for.

Over 70,000 people were displaced, their homes destroyed, their lives upended. In the storm's aftermath, victims attributed their survival to many different factors. Luck, courage, preparation. But for Tara Pyfrom, surviving Hurricane Dorian came down to something else. My love for my wife and my daughter. I think that that really is all it boils down to. Every decision, every burst of adrenaline

that I didn't think I had, I wasn't surviving for me. In my mind, I was keeping them alive. They were keeping me alive, too. We were all keeping each other alive. But in the moment of the experience, I was doing everything I could to keep them alive. Next time on Real Survival Stories, we meet Glenn Gantz, a biologist from Utah who likes to take a walk or a row on the wild side. In August 2000, Glenn embarks on a daunting, never-before-attempted challenge, a 12-day

rafting trip down northern Canada's perilous Firth River alone. It's an extreme, back-breaking endeavor. But things take a serious turn when Glenn finds himself stranded on a narrow spit of land and he realizes he isn't as alone as he thought.