UWAN and Storm Chasing

As the winds gained strength, their whistles grew louder — and soon the rains began to pound in heavy, slanting sheets. We had all been warned: the approaching super storm Uwan (international name: Fung-Wong) would not be like Kristine of October 2024. This one promised gutsier, more unpredictable winds — not just rain, but torrents that could trigger flash floods of unprecedented fury. Our preparedness would soon be tested again.

That afternoon, as I secured the last loose items on the veranda, a curious Viber message popped up from a new acquaintance — someone I’d met through one of my twenty-five online groups, a member of a lively political circle that thrives on commentary and chatter. He was ecstatic to announce that a famous “storm chaser” was in town — an American named Josh Morgerman, known for his documentary series Hurricane Man, and that he was here to witness Uwan up close.

Out of habit, or maybe reflex, I forwarded his post to a few other groups. Within minutes, the thread was abuzz. I didn’t know it then, but that small act — sharing a post about a “storm catcher” — would open a window into how we now experience disasters: not just as acts of nature, but as collective moments of watching, warning, and witnessing.

Soon, one GC member posted a long quote from AI describing what “storm catching” was all about — ad hominem and all. AI has indeed become a fascinating source of quick explanations, if not instant authority.

Curious, I sent a private message to my friend Mike Padua, famously known as “Mr. Typhoon,” and a fellow academic from NCF (I from Mariners, both schools family-bred and run). Mike admitted he once considered himself a storm chaser — though, he said humbly, he could never match Morgerman, who had been in the “eye” of 83 storms, while he, only three.

“For storm chasers,” Mike explained, “the closer you get to the eye, the greater your accomplishment.” The storms they capture are not just trophies of danger, but invaluable scientific data — the kind National Geographic treasures.

That exchange lingered with me as the storm deepened. Outside, the world had turned into a gray wall of wind and water. Inside, my phone glowed with constant pings — people posting radar screenshots, PAGASA bulletins, blurry photos of fallen trees, videos of waves pounding the coast. In our hyperconnected age, disasters have become shared performances. We don’t just brace for storms; we broadcast them.

“Storm catching” has evolved into a digital ritual. For some, it’s public service — warning others, capturing real-time data that can save lives. For others, it’s adrenaline and adventure — a badge of daring. But for many more, it’s a social coping mechanism: to bear witness together, even virtually, so that we feel less alone when nature asserts its power.

During Uwan, Facebook Live streams were relentless. Citizen reporters took to the streets with their phones, narrating in real time. Hashtags trended within minutes. Drone footage surfaced even before official updates. It felt like a new kind of bayanihan — digital, improvised, yet deeply human.

And yet, it also made me uneasy. The race to be the first to post sometimes overshadowed the quiet work of those actually preparing, evacuating, or helping. A few “storm catchers” became reckless, driving through flooded roads for dramatic shots. Others shared unverified photos — from other years, other storms — fueling confusion amid chaos.

Still, as Mike reminded me, storm chasers like Josh have greatly advanced our understanding of nature’s wrath. “Without them,” he said, “we wouldn’t know the depth of destruction these storms can unleash.” Then, with a laugh, he added: “No wonder he never married. How could he, with 83 eyes to chase?”

My husband, a political scientist and sci-fi enthusiast, chimed in. He’s a fan of Hurricane Man and Twister — films about storm chasers who risked, even lost, their lives in pursuit of knowledge. He calls them “frontliners of science.”

Days after Uwan, when the skies cleared and the scent of damp earth lingered, I scrolled through the deluge of posts and videos we had all created. The storm was over, but its digital echoes remained — photos, memes, livestreams, reaction reels. It struck me how we had all become both witnesses and archivists, curators of our collective vulnerability.

I admire the courage of storm chasers — their sacrifice and passion. But I long for another kind of chasing. We need storm chasers of a different breed — those brave enough to pursue the contractors and the corrupt, to expose the rot that worsens our disasters and leaves the poor more vulnerable each time. Those are the storms we must learn to face — and chase — together.