When the Sea Took the Shore: Stories from Jamaica after Hurricane Melissa
The beach that used to be a strip of gold and limestone is gone. Where children paddled and old men mended nets, there are now ragged cliffs of uprooted sand and the skeletons of wooden homes. I stood on a ridge above Lacovia, watching waves hollow out the coastline as if the island were made of sugar. The wind had long since died; the silence afterward felt like the pause between heartbeats.
Hurricane Melissa hit Jamaica with a ferocity that locals say they have never seen. Meteorological reports put peak gusts at roughly 298 km/h—about 185 mph—tearing across the island’s western side and flattening whole neighborhoods in parishes already vulnerable to storms. Officials estimate tens of thousands have been displaced; volunteers on the ground talk of roughly 30,000 people now without homes. For many, the world as they knew it has been braided into salt and timber and dust.
Faces, Names, and a Fractured Coastline
Orlagh Kilbride, 45, moved from Dublin nearly a decade ago and made Jamaica home. She describes the noise as something physical—“like a freight train with the sky painted on it”—and has set up fundraising channels to help friends and strangers in the hardest-hit parishes.
“I don’t want to be dramatic, but I’ve never seen anything like this,” she told me, voice still thick with the aftershock of what she witnessed. “Beaches have been eaten up to the buildings themselves. In some towns the only thing standing are a few concrete shells and a lot of rubbish—boats, corrugated iron, entire roofs gone.”
Kingston, the capital where Orlagh lives, felt the hurricane but was spared the worst. In St Elizabeth, Middle Quarters, and other western districts, the story is different. Wooden houses—built for the breeze, not for a storm that behaves like a freight train—were sheared off their foundations. Coconut palms that had shaded backyards for generations are snapped like matchsticks. The scent of seawater and diesel hangs in the air.
On the Ground: Voices from the South and West
“We woke to the sound of the roof being peeled,” said Marlene Stewart, a market vendor from a village outside Santa Cruz. “I grabbed my grandson and our passports. After that, everything else was gone. Boats I’ve known since I was a child are nowhere.”
A farmer in St Elizabeth, who did not want his name printed, walked me through fields of flattened yams and bananas. “This land fed us,” he said. “Now it’s a mud picture, you know? The bananas are all on the ground. The trees—gone. We were already struggling from dry spells last season. Now this.”
These are not isolated anecdotes. Jamaica’s agricultural backbone runs through the very parishes most damaged. Agriculture Minister Floyd Green warned that Melissa could have “a crippling effect” on production: the loss of crops, livestock, and infrastructure threatens both immediate food security and longer-term livelihoods. The full accounting of damage will take days of assessments, he said, but the early signs are grim.
Not Just Weather: A Snapshot of Compounded Vulnerability
Ask any scientist and they will tell you storms alone don’t create disasters—society’s choices do. Jamaica sits in the hurricane belt, yes, but decades of coastal development, economic inequality, and a changing climate have made storms more devastating.
Sea-level rise and warmer ocean temperatures fuel stronger hurricanes. The latest climate analyses show a worrying trend: while the total number of tropical storms may not spike dramatically, the proportion of high-intensity events—Category 4 and 5 storms—has risen. For low-lying Caribbean nations, that means each event is more likely to be shattering.
“What we’re seeing is a warning,” says Dr. Leila Ramachandran, an expert in Caribbean climate resilience. “There’s an interaction between coastal erosion, storm surge, and infrastructure that was never designed for these kinds of wind loads. Areas rebuilt after prior storms can be wiped out again—because nothing fundamentally changes in how, where, and for whom we build.”
Community Resilience: A Patchwork of Care
One thing you notice fast in Jamaica is how quickly people turn to one another. Where government resources are stretched, communities form human chains of help. Churches become shelters, rum shops become coordination points, and the reggae beat—somehow—continues between cleanups, a reminder of endurance.
“We’ve pooled what little we had,” said Pastor Samuel Clarke of a small church that became a relief hub. “We are giving out food parcels, mattresses, water. But someone needs to look at rebuilding houses properly. We cannot keep rebuilding like this.”
Orlagh has directed funds to local charities and the Red Cross, insisting that money goes where it will have an immediate effect—food, water, tarpaulins, and basic building materials. She set up a GoFundMe; within days strangers across oceans had donated. “People here don’t want pity,” she said, “they want a hand up. They want to be back in their homes.”
How you can help
- Donate to trusted local organizations like the Jamaican Red Cross or accredited community groups coordinating relief.
- Support farmers’ cooperatives buying seeds and tools so planting season isn’t lost.
- Follow verified updates from Jamaica’s Office of Disaster Preparedness and Emergency Management (ODPEM) for needs lists and shelter information.
Beyond Aid: Questions the Storm Raises for Us All
There is a larger conversation to be had. How do small island states prepare for more frequent, more destructive storms? What international mechanisms are in place to help them recover without sinking into debt? How do nations balance tourism, coast-hugging development, and the long-term need for resilient infrastructure?
Melissa is one hurricane in a long, unfolding story. But it is also a test—a measure of the choices we make collectively. Will recovery dollars lead to short-term fixes or to climate-smart rebuilding that respects coastlines, reinforces homes, and preserves livelihoods?
Back in a temporary shelter, a young teacher from Middle Quarters asked me quietly: “When will it be our turn to breathe again?” It’s a question that applies not only to her community, but to many regions worldwide facing a future where extreme weather is one of the defining features of the next decades.
What Comes Next
Assessments continue. International aid agencies are coordinating with the Jamaican government. Disaster-relief funds and insurance pools will play a role in reconstruction. But reconstruction must be more than cosmetic. It must be an invitation to rethink where and how people live and how to build resilience into economies that depend on the land and the sea.
For now the work is urgent: restoring shelters, replanting crops, clearing roads, and caring for the displaced. People like Orlagh and Pastor Clarke are already doing that work. Others will come. The Atlantic, always restless, will keep pushing at the island’s edges. The real question is whether the response will leave Jamaica better prepared for the next time the storm comes.
Will we choose to give only charity, or will we also give change?
