Hurricane Michael Aftermath Was Hot And Heartbreaking

Hurricane Michael hit the Florida Panhandle like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum and hurling everything in sight.

The storm's winds reached outward about 175 miles, with hurricane-force winds about 90 miles from the center, bending steel radio towers like straws, peeling roofs, blowing houses from their slabs, and toppling countless trees.

I was sent to cover the disaster, the first widespread catastrophe I've ever seen, three days after the Category 5 cyclone smashed into Mexico Beach and the surrounding cities.

After a quiet seven-hour drive, the first contact I had with the scene was 75 miles north of the coast in Marianna, a city nicknamed "The City of Southern Charm." It's home to the shut down Dozier School for Boys, where federal investigators confirmed students were brutally beaten and tortured throughout the institution's 111-year-old history.

Michael splintered houses and close to 80 percent of the trees at nearby Florida Caverns State Park, but the Dozier School, aside from vegetative damage was largely salvageable. About a month after I left the panhandle, the school was reopened as the temporary home for the Jackson County Sheriff's Office and considered for use as a shelter.

I stayed in a hotel in Fort Walton Beach and made daily drives to the major cities -- Panama City Beach, Panama City, Lynn Haven, Apalachicola, Port St. Joe, Carrabelle, Eastpoint -- reporting on damage, recovery and local aid stations. My car worked like a generator keeping my electronics charged.

Gas was difficult to find in the zone of wreckage that covered hundreds of miles, but it wasn't impossible. If you save your car, it can be an invaluable resource after a storm.

The sound of buzzing chainsaws followed everywhere you went. A local radio station dubbed the unofficial group going around clearing trees the "Chainsaw Army." They took requests on air and posted on social media, where anyone with a chainsaw could pick up a free job helping their neighbors.

Cell phone service was largely disabled. Only AT&T had somewhat reliable service and sent mobile units into the hurricane-impacted areas to hand out free SIM cards and "burner phones."

I reported on one particular spot where all cell phone users could receive calls and data west of Panama City. The mile-long stretch of Highway 98 became a workspace for residents trying to reach insurance agents and family members or browse the internet.

Inside the city, people moved like ants to rebuild their homes. Neighborhoods became small towns with residents organizing street-level efforts to find food, cook, and remove debris, until help arrived.

Anyone who stayed during the hurricane told me they regretted the decision. Some said the storm intensified so quickly -- from depression to major hurricane in two days -- they didn't have time to heed warnings to evacuate. Phones pinged every few seconds with new information on disaster relief sites.

The emergency and government alerts were the second-most notable sound -- until I turned it off. They were overwhelming reminders of the tragedy unfolding around us, but provided useful local information.

The best source of information was public radio, which operated non-stop on every available FM channel. Radio DJ's rarely left the air to sleep and funneled officials with news or callers offering free help on the air. Anyone trying to make a buck was hung up on.

Eventually, I stopped listening to the radio during the hours-long drives because it became mind-numbing. I would check in for updates.

I rarely had contact with other reporters because my phone worked intermittently. If you send a text message, eventually you'd get a signal when your message was delivered. Nothing happened in real-time.

Living and working in a catastrophe requires patience.

A few memorable moments:

Outside the Lynn Haven Library, which suffered significant structural damage, a free little library survived. The side was painted with two cats and a sign that said "Free books! We're not kitten!" There were two books inside, but I didn't look to see what they were.

The Apalachicola Times, which has one reporter/editor, was staffed. The reporter whose car had water damage had gotten a ride from a passerby. The secretary said he had been reporting on foot since the storm passed. Their office was intact.

Panama City neighborhoods had trouble with looters, so much so, that local residents armed themselves and protected blocks with checkpoints. They kept strangers out and provided for their street.

At the Lynn Haven Police Department and City Hall, the police and volunteers worked in the parking lot next to their building, which collapsed in the storm. Their relief site had clothes, food and water for anyone who stopped. City Hall moved into a building up the street that had a simple spray-painted sign.

Next to the Lynn Haven Police Department, at Sharon Sheffield Park, an amphitheater littered with shingles and pitted with tree branches thrown like javelins into the ground, had a small unscathed park. A grandma and her grandson swung on the swings. They told me they came from out of town for supplies and because it was the only place to play. A large tree was toppled next to the playground.

Streets were lined with utility trucks. They operated day and night to plant new power lines and restore power block by block.

In Howards Creek, the local volunteer fire department run by a husband and wife, with one fire engine organized supplies and grilled out. They were assisted by Palm Beach County Fire and Rescue and members of the U.S. Department of Agriculture who stopped to help unload trucks of supplies.

Altha Town Clerk Carol Finuff, 48, worked at the shelter during the storm and was picked up by the sheriff afterward. They checked on the town's 526 residents -- most of whom stayed -- and arranged a relief station at Town Hall and a local church. Finuff slept on the sidewalk at Town Hall for a week, before aid came to the town. She was assisted by 13-year-old Ada Ybarra, who delivered food to the elderly.

Dawn Whit, 47, of Clarksville stayed in Lake City during the hurricane and came back a day after the storm ended. She found her mobile home tipped on its side and held a dead phone. Her husband and daughter had just left and were searching for her other daughter, who was at Mexico Beach. Whit boiled eggs and slept in a tent in the woods near her home with a small dog. She said her home was a "coffin of lost memories." I left her with a external battery pack to charge her phone. Whit's daughter was found alive about a day later.

Nearby, at a local gas station, Whit said people fought over beer.

"Stuff like that is irritating," she said. "We just lost everything. When you can't even get to your own clothes and your feet are frozen in the morning it's hard."

While driving through Port St. Joe, storm surge swamped coastal neighborhoods and lifted houses off their foundations. One particular home sat atop a fallen tree still hanging on to its roots.

The surge clawed homes within about a mile of the Gulf to pieces.

The storm reminded me that for a fleeting moment during Hurricane Irma, after the storm wobbled more than 70 miles west, Longboat Key was predicted to be the landfall area. Sarasota could easily have faced similar destruction.

As luck or legend would have it, we averted the horror Irma could have caused.

Michael showed the pure power of Mother Nature and the importance of friendship.

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