This story initially appeared on Hakai Magazine and is a part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

As the storm first gathered power within the Gulf of Mexico, its future path was indecipherable. Its capability for injury, although, was clear. The water was heat and the air was thick and humid—the recipe for a probably historic tempest. On Thursday, August 26, 2021, simply hours after the system was categorised as a tropical melancholy, Louisiana’s governor declared a state of emergency: Every resident alongside the state’s shoreline wanted to organize for a serious hurricane.

Louisiana is protected by a collection of levees that zig and zag alongside the shoreline—partitions of earth meant to dam hurricane-driven waves from reaching the state’s greater cities and villages. Floodgates clasp shut in order that native bayous don’t overflow with storm surge. By necessity, although, the DeFelice Marine Center stands outdoors this technique of defenses.

The constructing—a roughly 7,000-square-meter concrete fortress that rises amid Louisiana’s marshland—is among the state’s premier marine labs: a warren of laboratories and school rooms that homes $7 million in gear and different belongings. Sixty workers members help the middle’s eight school scientists, who conduct analysis into the biology, ecology, chemistry, and geology of the state’s coastal atmosphere. The constructing sits simply north of Cocodrie, a village of shrimpers, crabbers, and weekenders close to the mouth of Bayou Petit Caillou, on a strip of land that dangles like a free thread into Terrebonne Bay.

Even earlier than the governor declared a state of emergency, the hurricane menace had set off a clockwork sequence of preparations on the marine heart. Staff relocated boats, forklifts, and tractors to Houma, a metropolis that stands on barely larger floor lower than 50 kilometers to the north. Workers dropped sandbags on the bases of the marine heart’s ground-floor doorways, hoping to maintain the power of incoming waves from ripping the doorways off their hinges. They strapped down the 50,000-liter tanks, stuffed with ocean water for analysis functions, which can be stored underneath the constructing. Because the constructing’s new storm shutters had not but been completed, contractors positioned wooden panels over the unprotected home windows. Scientists carried their costliest gear—transportable analyzers used to measure fuel fluxes in wetlands, flowmeters, laboratory computer systems—to the middle of the constructing, away from the home windows. Then they draped sheets of thick plastic over all the pieces as additional safety within the case of a roof leak.

By early Friday afternoon—two days earlier than the storm, now named Ida, was projected to make landfall—the few remaining workers headed to their properties. Some hunkered down, unwilling to go away the coast; others packed their baggage and joined the caravan of vehicles plugging up Louisiana’s highways, in search of motel rooms and visitor bedrooms farther from the storm.

Typically, wherever the scientists are sheltered, they’ll take measure of situations in Cocodrie by tuning into the marine heart’s climate cameras. But at 2:00 pm on Sunday, August 29, simply because the storm made landfall, the marine heart’s energy failed. The cameras went darkish. A nervous day handed earlier than anybody might make it south to evaluate the injury. Everyone knew it might be grim: Ida had made landfall as a Category 4 hurricane, which, per official definition, is able to catastrophic injury. (Were the wind only a handful of kilometers sooner, the storm would have develop into a “Cat 5,” the best attainable classification.)