They know the water will come first. Not as a gentle rise, but as a wall—fifteen feet of churning, debris-filled surge tearing through streets that were quiet yesterday. In the dim light of early morning, taillights stretch in long red lines away from the coast, while those who cannot leave brace behind plywood and sandbags, hoping their preparations are enough.
Inside crowded shelters, people clutch phones, watching radar swirls tighten and darken, each update a fresh blow. Power outages are no longer a possibility but a certainty. Parents speak calmly for their children’s sake, then trade silent, fearful looks when small eyes turn away. Yet there is resolve here too: neighbors sharing food, strangers offering rides, volunteers checking every last door. As Beryl closes in, the difference between tragedy and survival narrows to a few final decisions—and the courage to act before it’s too late.