We are sitting in the back of a four-wheel drive with our flak jackets on driving through the mountains of the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon. We wound up putting on all of our safety equipment after an Israeli drone targeted several vehicles that were not far from where we were.
We’re along the Lebanese-Syrian border, on the Lebanese side. Earlier on Monday we visited the town of Aaita el Foukhar, which has essentially been completely cut off. An Israeli bombing last night took out the last road in or out of town. We started hiking the last seven miles to the village, but someone spotted us along the way and fortunately picked us up to bring us into town.
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I stood here at the port in Beirut this afternoon watching the desperation on so many faces as they waited to board the Orient Queen that was to take more than 700 Americans to safety in Cyrpus. But, in spite of the clear sense of anxiety and anticipation among the Americans waiting to set their feet on the gangplank of the ship, I couldn’t help but have a smile on my face for one fleeting moment.
I had just met one young boy who reached into his bag and showed me who he was bringing out of Lebanon to the safety of Cyprus. He was rescuing his pet frog named "Spitfire."
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Right now I’m on the sixth story rooftop of a building that overlooks downtown Beirut. There are probably 70 journalists here and all of the journalists have chosen this location because we have a satellite uplink here that allows us to transmit live. So, we are all here and the biggest issue at the moment is finding a bit of shade.
It’s strange. It’s hot out here. There are a few flak jackets strewn about the floor here and some helmets. We have a certain level of comfort that there is not going to be any incoming attacks here. But, I say that because I know that the Americans are in the buses today and tomorrow it will be different.
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Alberto certainly caught people off guard. Veterans who've been through hurricanes, which accounts for a good portion of the state these days because we've had eight hurricanes in the last two years, know to be ready. But Alberto is a little bit of a surprise. Why? Weathercasters have suggested since the weekend that this ill-formed storm would likely be nothing more than a rainmaker. Now, with hurricane warnings issued along Florida's Northwest coast, residents are flat-footed. There's very little time to put up shutters or plywood to protect homes. I live in Florida, and like so many in this state I took advantage of what they call tax-free hurricane days. It's where we buy hurricane supplies before hurricane season. And to encourage us to go get those items, they're all tax free -- things like batteries, flashlights and small generators. But even with that, it's one thing to be physically prepared, it's another thing to climb back on this emotional roller coaster.
I'm currently on Interstate 75 traveling north from Charlotte Co., where Hurricane Charley hit two years ago, en route to Cedar Key, Fla. If projections are accurate, this tiny community which juts out on the West Coast could take a lashing whether Alberto is a hurricane or just a tropical storm. Cedar Keys has long been a small artists' community, but in recent years has experienced tremendous growth. Driving is slow going because the rain is coming down sideways and it's hard to see. There's plenty of traffic on the road and you're never quite sure whether the other guy knows how to drive in this sort of weather. If everything works out, we'll see you from Cedar Keys tonight on Nightly News.
NAPLES, Fla. - What happens when you're a reporter and the story you've covering is also the one you're living? I reported Monday: "Wilma hit Florida with more punch than most expected."
I also live in Florida, and while I'm yet to make it home (I'm still in Naples), my wife has reported back: her car is trapped under a toppled tree, the shingles on our roof ripped off, some large palm trees I planted from coconuts are on their sides, ripped from their roots. And like everyone else in "the zone," there's no electricity.
My wife said when the hurricane hit, "it sounded like Santa's evil reindeer on the roof." There were leaks and creaks, as there always are in a hurricane. But this time it was different. An important part of surviving a hurricane is having someone at your side: to share the fears, to discuss what the sounds outside might be, and then to celebrate the triumph of survival.
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NAPLES, Fla. — Winds of up to 120 miles an hour whipped through this tony Gulf Coast city as the eye wall of Wilma, Florida’s eighth hurricane in 15 months, made landfall early this morning.
Palm fronds were ripped off palm trees and tiles were literally peeled from roofs, forming small — and dangerous — airborne missiles. A “Welcome” mat that should have been at someone's front door flew by at about 25 feet up in the air. It looked like something out of the "Wizard of Oz."
And there was still more to come. After the eye passed through, the back side of the storm hit.
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NAPLES, Fla. - It looks like any other beautiful day in Naples today.
People are out on the beach, others are jogging. There is even an older gentleman with a metal detector looking through the sand to see if he can find some kind of buried treasure. A boat, maybe 60 yards off the shore, is sitting in completely still waters.
“It’s hard to believe there is a hurricane coming,” one man told me as he walked down the pier.
But, the threat of Hurricane Wilma making landfall on Sunday is real enough for Gov. Jeb Bush to have declared a state of emergency, and to send Floridians scurrying.
Editor's note: Read the rest of Kerry's reporting from Naples here.