Today, we take time to remember. To remember the destruction that was visited upon Abaco by Hurricane Dorian on September 1, 2019. And to remember those who were lost, and those who lost so much.
For me, September 1 has also become a day to honour the strength and resilience of Abaconians, and to feel immense gratitude for all who reached out a hand to help.
Seven years later, some of the most powerful reminders of Abaco’s recovery aren’t monuments or milestones. They’re ordinary things that are alive and growing again.
Like a particular breadfruit tree in Hope Town.
Breadfruit arrived in the same era as our Loyalist ancestors. In the late 1700s, Captain William Bligh of the British Royal Navy was dispatched to Tahiti to collect breadfruit plants. The goal was to find a fast-growing, hardy and nutritious food source for settlers and enslaved people in Britain’s West Indian colonies.
Though Bligh’s first attempt ended with the infamous mutiny aboard HMS Bounty, his second voyage succeeded. In 1793, he delivered hundreds of breadfruit plants to St. Vincent and Jamaica for distribution throughout the region.
Unlike most fruit trees, breadfruit is generally propagated from cuttings and shoots rather than seeds. One tree becomes another, carrying its lineage forward.
And somewhere along that long chain of propagation was a breadfruit tree in Hope Town.
Believed to have descended from the plants brought to the West Indies by Captain Bligh, it was tall and lush, and provided both shade and sustenance to the community. In 2019, it towered over the post office, reaching high toward the sky.
Sadly, like so many Abaconians, the breadfruit tree was no match for Hurricane Dorian. Its trunk and limbs, made strong over decades, yielded to the storm’s blind ferocity.
When I first went to Hope Town after Dorian, the once-majestic tree lay in chain-sawed chunks amid the rubble.
At that time, it would have been easy to assume that Abaco and the breadfruit tree were beyond recovery. In fact, a few people explicitly said as much. But those people underestimated both Abaco and that tree.
As 2019 gave way to 2020, the fog of Dorian’s devastation had begun to lift. Much of the debris had been cleared from Abaco’s streets. Basic services like groceries and gasoline were available. People celebrated their first Christmas, albeit with generators or by candlelight. Numerous non-governmental organizations were on the ground, feeding people and providing the supplies and assistance they needed to rebuild.
And in Hope Town?
Emerging from the roots of the mighty fallen breadfruit tree was the tiniest sprout. Artist Attila Feszt captured that first fragile sign of new growth.
It was frail, but it was alive. And in that life, there was hope.
Over the next year, as Hope Town began rebuilding around it, the little sprout grew.
Before long, a kind soul erected a fence around the tiny plant to provide support and protect it from being trampled.
Day to day, its growth wasn’t detectable. But by the end of 2022, the tree was about five feet tall.
And by the end of the following year, it had more than doubled in height.
Today, seven years later, Hope Town’s iconic breadfruit tree stands more than 20 feet, and is healthy, thriving and bearing fruit once more.
In much the same way, Abaco’s recovery didn’t happen all at once. There was no single day when everything was suddenly rebuilt. Instead, there were countless small steps toward the greater goal.
A roof repaired.
A home made livable.
A dock rebuilt.
A business reopened.
A family coming home.
Like the young breadfruit tree, some new beginnings needed support and protection. Some took longer than others. Some flourished quickly while others struggled.
And sadly, like the original breadfruit tree, some things were irretrievably lost.
The old tree was gone. Its great trunk could not simply be put back into the ground and made whole. But what emerged from its roots was something new. Something that carried the history that came before it, but grew toward the future.
Sometimes, recovery doesn’t just mean restoration. Sometimes, it means embracing what remains and finding a path forward.
Seven years after Hurricane Dorian, reminders of the devastation remain. We mourn the loved ones who were lost, and we miss the family and friends who chose to move on. Some buildings haven’t been rebuilt, and there are memories of pre-Dorian Abaco that can never be recreated.
But there is life. Many residents have returned and rebuilt their lives. There are new faces, new buildings, new businesses, and new families putting down roots in Abaco.
There’s still work to be done, of course. But like that breadfruit tree, with faith, work and some help from our friends, Abaco is growing and thriving again.
