Fiona and Prince Edward Island: Canada’s Largest Storm

By Jason MacGregor

In late September, shortly after the world watched the historic events of Queen Elizabeth’s passing, another historic event took place in a small corner of the Commonwealth, the Canadian Maritimes. On the morning of Saturday, 24th September, Fiona, the strongest storm to ever hit Canada, made landfall in the Maritimes – plummeting our ruby shored, emerald isle. In our Oxford England home, my partner and I woke early and doom-scrolled social media as dawn broke over an Island devastated, four-time zones away.

On the international stage, hurricanes and Canada are two subjects that rarely intersect. But Prince Edward Island, the Eastern Canada province my partner and I call home , is accustomed to the tale-end of hurricanes and tropical storms which come up from the Caribbean each autumn. As the clock counted down that Friday night, it was clear that Fiona would be historic, a generational storm they said — worse than Juan in 2003. All storms are compared to Juan. Or at least they were.

Thousands of trees and poles were downed bringing powerlines with them, the province was almost entirely without power. Countless buildings too, both new and old, collapsed. Homes lost their siding and roofs; trees came down through others. Cottages crumbled. Wharves were destroyed and badly damaged, several schools too. Children who only recently got back to a normal academic year after the Covid-19 pandemic, again had to stay home.

The recovery was “an all-hands effort”, as the Island’s premier said in the early days of assessing the destruction. Islanders took it in stride. There is a strong ‘pride of place’ among Islanders, a shared feeling of ownership and stewardship over the land. One need only read the literature of Lucy Maud Montgomery (Anne of Green Gables), herself a declared tree-worshipper, to find a special love for the land.

No one died, no one was injured — that was the most important thing. Coordinating through social media, many loaded chainsaws into trucks and headed out to help clear roads, spirits high. Night fell and cards were played by candlelight. Coffee, tea, baked goods, perhaps even spirits of another type were enjoyed if there was any in reserve.

The military was mobilized, called in to help clear roads so utility companies could repair the Island’s infrastructure. It would be nearly four weeks before power was fully restored. The government would put out a call across Canada for carpenters to assist with reconstruction. Refrigerated and frozen food had to be replaced. Schools slowly reopened – each being listed either red, orange or green according on how much damage they sustained.

As the full scope of damage across the Island was established, another tragic loss became apparent. Whole meters of shoreline and sand dunes had washed away. Remnants of boardwalks and stairs now stand alone, like ancient ruins, meters from where banks once were. It was the one thing that can’t be replaced. Island beaches, renowned for their beauty and which attract hundreds of thousands of tourists from across North America each summer, now are hardly recognizable.

Even through social media and the Internet, there is a sense of shock. A notoriously resilient people are rattled. Fiona brought one of those rare moments for me when, while watching from the UK, two worlds collided. One morning, several days after Fiona hit, I found the Island had made the front page of the BBC, her wounds laid bare for the world to see. “Hurricane Fiona: Satellite images show devastation in Atlantic Canada” read the headline. Before and after photos from the Canadian Space Agency show our pastoral, crescent green Island, her shores full of deep red gashes where Fiona chewed at her, and dark Gulf waters now aquamarine, almost white in places where sand and silt is so dense from run-off.

Headlines adjacent the Island’s place on the BBC tell a larger story. Analyzing headlines like these was a large portion of my master’s dissertation here in the UK, a rather depressing subject on the media and a major driving force behind storms like Fiona: climate change. Some don’t believe it to be a present issue. Those who do, feel it too daunting to do much about. Plus of course, oodles of disinformation on the topic.

But among the BBC headlines that morning, among articles about the new British PM’s mini-budget, and death of rapper Coolio at age 59, were two others: “Big oil not declaring toxic flaring emissions,” and “Dirtiest Australia coal plant to shut decade early.” Added together, these and other such news stories from over the past several decades form a puzzle. What that looks like is beginning to take form, in earnest – something like the satellite photo of an ogre’s fury that has left an Island bleeding into the sea.

The world may see the Island’s wounds, but commentary belongs to those who lived in the cold and dark for weeks, forced to clear wreckage, assess damage, and rebuild, restock, replant, and restart. In the weeks since Fiona came, social media continues to be used to share stories of devastation, resilience, and — despite everything — hope and good cheer. For nearly 20 years, since Juan, Islanders knew a stronger storm would soon come, and one did. Being asked on Prince Edward Island now: How do we prepare, and when will the next Fiona come?

Hurricane Fiona: Satellite images show devastation in Atlantic Canada: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-us-canada-63066241

Bio: Jason MacGregor is from Prince Edward Island and currently works in communications at the University of Oxford. More of his writing can be found at Jason’s personal webpage, Mayzil