It's late August 2019.

Beneath a low-pressure system somewhere over the western Atlantic, a storm builds.

As it moves further west, pushed along by tradeways, 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 three storm to a fearsome category four, 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, 5.

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.

One hundred and eighty mile an hour winds, Pommel the hotel-lined oceanfront. Buildings strain at their concrete foundations, palm trees are uprooted.

Roves 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 sides.

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 in a 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

...