Photo: U.S. Coast Guard MH-60 Jayhawk helicopter over Kipnuk, Alaska, during flood-response operations after Typhoon Halong. Oct. 12, 2025.

About two weeks ago in Alaska, the sea didn’t roar, it crept. It seeped beneath the doorframes of homes in Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, slow and certain, until the world inside began to float. Families scrambled for higher ground as the remnants of Typhoon Halong slammed Western Alaska, transforming familiar tundra into a temporary ocean.

In those first moments, the wind was a scream and the water an intruder. “We thought the river was coming,” one resident said. “Then we realized it wasn’t the river, it was the sea.” The Coast Guard launched quickly. Helicopters cut through near-zero visibility, fighting gusts strong enough to flip small boats. Aircrews rescued dozens, lifting the stranded from rooftops and makeshift shelters, flashes of orange harnesses against the gray palette of storm and sea. By nightfall, more than 600 people had been evacuated across the region in one of Alaska’s largest coordinated airlifts. When the water finally receded, it likely left behind a silence so heavy it felt unnatural. Ninety percent of homes in Kipnuk were destroyed. Entire blocks were flattened; fuel tanks upended; livelihoods erased. Survivors walked through the wreckage in shock. Too exhausted to cry, too grateful to curse.

The Science That Failed Them

For residents, Typhoon Halong was not unexpected, but its force and path were. Forecasts underestimated the storm’s reach by nearly a day. In coastal Alaska, where airstrips are few and evacuation options are limited, a day’s notice can mean the difference between safety and survival. So, what went wrong?

Experts point to a quiet crisis behind the scenes: the shrinking capacity of the U.S. observation network. Recent federal budget cuts, including reductions to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), have left critical weather stations underfunded, some even unmanned. At the heart of the problem lies something deceptively simple: weather balloons. These high-altitude instruments, launched twice daily, collect temperature, humidity, and wind data vital for building accurate models of approaching storms. But in Alaska, a state spanning one-fifth the size of the continental U.S., several launch sites have gone dark. Some due to staffing shortages, others due to maintenance delays or decommissioning.

When the remnants of Typhoon Halong approached, multiple upper-air sites (including those near Bethel, Nome, and St. Paul) failed to deliver consistent data. Without those readings, meteorologists had to rely on incomplete modeling. One analyst from the Alaska Beacon noted that “forecast confidence dropped, leaving emergency planners essentially guessing at surge severity.” The technical explanation is simple enough for anyone to grasp: Fewer data points mean weaker storm models; weaker models mean slower, less accurate warnings; and slower warnings, in places reachable only by bush plane, can be fatal.

A System Stripped of Sight

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Earlier this year, the current administration’s proposed budget slashed over $200 million from NOAA’s research and operations funding, calling some of its climate initiatives “non-essential.” During campaign stops, the President referred to climate change as a “con job.” But in villages like Kipnuk, there is nothing abstract about a rising tide. When the government trims a line item, it can seem small, invisible even, until the absence of that funding becomes the difference between preparedness and panic. In Alaska’s case, fewer weather balloons and fewer meteorologists meant fewer eyes watching the horizon.

This wasn’t the first warning. In 2022, a similar reduction nearly shuttered the Nome station before public outcry reversed the decision. Scientists warned that losing those observations would “blind the forecast.” This time, no reversal came. One NOAA veteran, speaking anonymously, described it bluntly: “It’s like trying to predict a punch with one eye closed. You might see it coming, but not in time to duck.”

The Human Cost

As of this week, officials confirmed one death, 67-year-old Ella Mae Kashatok, and two men remain missing: Chester Kashatok, 41, and Vernon Pavil, 71. State troopers suspended active search efforts on October 15, shifting to recovery mode. Local volunteers continue to search what’s left of the shoreline, navigating mud and debris in subfreezing temperatures. Across the region, more than 1,500 people are displaced. Many are still waiting for permanent housing as winter tightens its grip. The Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) has been slow to deploy resources due to logistical challenges; roads and runways too damaged to use, weather windows too short to fly.

In Quinhagak, the erosion was so severe it stripped away nearly 60 feet of shoreline, exposing centuries-old artifacts from ancestral settlements. Archaeologists say over 1,000 items – tools, carvings, and pottery – were unearthed by the floodwaters. What climate change didn’t destroy, it revealed. For Alaska Natives, these aren’t just artifacts. They’re proof of presence, evidence that their people have survived countless storms before. But now, the sea they once depended on threatens to erase the land beneath their feet. The Army Corps of Engineers has recommended relocation for several communities, acknowledging that repeated floods are inevitable as permafrost melts and sea levels rise. Yet for residents, the idea of leaving their ancestral homes feels like a second loss.

Data, Denial, and the Price of Delay

The technical term for what’s happening here is coastal subsidence – the gradual sinking of land due to permafrost thaw and erosion. Add to that thermal expansion (as ocean water warms, it expands), and glacial melt feeding sea-level rise, and the math becomes inescapable. Alaska’s western coast is losing ground at a rate nearly three times faster than the global average. Despite that, the very systems designed to warn and protect these regions are being scaled back. A 2024 internal NOAA report warned that “without restoration of full observational coverage, model reliability in high-latitude storm events will continue to decline.” The report was shelved before release.

When federal priorities shift from preparation to politics, storms don’t wait. They don’t negotiate. They don’t care if the budget was balanced. Calling climate change a ‘con job’ doesn’t make the sea retreat, it only ensures someone else will drown first.

The Quiet Aftermath

Now, as the first snow falls on Kipnuk, the survivors are rebuilding. Patching walls with salvaged plywood, drying clothes over oil-drum fires. The air smells of salt and diesel. There are still no schools open, no grocery stores, no sense of what comes next.

“We got hope,” one resident told Alaska Public Media. “That’s what we got left.”

Hope… and a reminder. Because for all the talk of natural disasters, there’s nothing natural about being unprepared. Forecasting failure is not an act of God; it’s a human decision. Sometimes the truth doesn’t roar either. It creeps in, quiet and undeniable, through the cracks of what we thought we could ignore. We’ve heard leaders call climate change a con, but we’ve seen the cost written in the mud of a washed-out village. There’s no deception in the eyes of a mother watching the sea take her home. If denial is easier than responsibility, maybe that’s the real disaster. Because the world won’t wait for us to believe in it, it’s already knocking on the door.