Hurricane Harvey Broke Multiple Weather Records

Hurricane Harvey will be remembered as one of the most destructive hurricanes to ever strike the United States. The storm erupted from a weak tropical wave into a category 4 hurricane in just three days, coming ashore near Corpus Christi, Texas, late in the evening on August 25. Such a powerful storm hitting land is normally a catastrophe in its own right, but the tragedy that followed this storm wasn't caused by the wind or the ocean—it was the rain, and lots of it. Texas endured one of the worst flooding events in American history after Harvey lingered over the state for nearly a week and dropped more than three feet of rain on Houston, the country's fourth-largest city.

The hurricane's intense winds and storm surge devastated some of Texas's coastal communities near Corpus Christi, including the small towns of Rockport and Port Aransas. Wind gusts peaked above 100 mph across most areas in the path of the storm's eye. Weather instruments measured winds as high as 132 mph near Port Aransas as the eye came ashore on August 25. Hundreds of homes and businesses were damaged or destroyed by the storm's intense winds.

Under normal circumstances, a hurricane would make landfall and move out of the area within 24 hours. Late-night hurricanes typically end with residents surveying the damage by the first light of day. Harvey was not one of those storms. The storm stalled out over Texas after making landfall, meandering over the same area before reemerging over the Gulf of Mexico to make a second landfall in Louisiana five days later.

Observed rainfall between August 23, 2017 and August 30, 2017.
Dennis Mersereau

The bulk of Harvey's unprecedented rains fell on the Houston metropolitan area, a region that's notorious for flooding due to its geography and heavily urbanized landscape. Water has few places to go when heavy rain falls on such impermeable land. The influx of water quickly overwhelms narrow waterways and outdated drainage systems, leading to frequent stream and street flooding. The factor that separates this storm from previous flooding disasters in southeastern Texas is that this rain was worse than anything in recorded history, more than doubling the rainfall totals seen during the infamous floods unleashed by Tropical Storm Allison in 2001.

Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport recorded 32.17 inches of rain between August 25 and August 29, while Houston's Hobby Airport—where the runways were flooded out for a time during the height of the storm—saw 38.22 inches of rain over the same period. The two airports both average about 50 inches of rain in a normal year. Various rain gauges around the area measured totals even higher than the two airports. A rain gauge in Cedar Bayou, Texas, just north of Galveston Bay, saw more than 52 inches of rain in five days.

Emergency officials and volunteers performed thousands of water rescues for people stranded in their homes and vehicles as the waters rose. The exact number of fatalities won't be known until crews can search every vehicle and home once the waters recede. The Washington Post quoted local officials as saying that floodwaters covered more than 30 percent of Harris County, home to Houston, during the height of the ordeal.

The perfect mix of ingredients came together to make Hurricane Harvey a historic disaster. Tropical cyclones require warm water, low wind shear, and ample moisture to develop and thrive. Once the tropical wave that seeded Hurricane Harvey's development hit the Gulf of Mexico, it had all three of those ingredients in abundance. The storm rapidly intensified under these perfect conditions, strengthening right up until it came ashore. But what made the storm especially destructive is that it didn't move after landfall.

Tropical storms and hurricanes are steered by winds through the atmosphere. Weaker storms are driven by prevailing winds close to the surface while strong storms like Harvey are steered by winds throughout the entire depth of the atmosphere. Harvey's path took it right into an area where there were no steering currents to force the storm to keep moving inland and away from Texas. The calm pattern around Harvey kept it locked in place, forcing the storm to meander for days after landfall, slowly tracking in a loop before making its way back out over the water.

Preliminary measurements show that Hurricane Harvey was the wettest tropical cyclone in American history, producing several reports of rainfall that break the previous all-time record. Cedar Bayou, Texas, will hold the unfortunate distinction of most rain ever recorded during a tropical cyclone, having measured 51.88 inches of rain by the afternoon of August 29. Even if that reading doesn't hold up to scrutiny, there were several more that beat the previous record of 48.00 inches set in Tropical Storm Amelia back in August 1978. Just over 49 inches of rain fell on a gauge near Pearland, Texas, a city that lies about halfway between Houston and Galveston.

Houston wasn't the only area devastated by the heavy rain. Houston gets the most coverage because it's home to the most people, but the scenes that played out there also unfolded in countless small towns and communities across the region. Extreme rainfall totals greater than three feet extended east of the metro area into southwestern Louisiana. The Texas cities of Beaumont and Port Arthur, which lie near the state line with Louisiana, saw more rain than Houston proper. The airport in Port Arthur measured nearly four feet of rain during the storm.

The rainfall isn't the only record set by Harvey. The storm put an end to the unprecedented streak of days without a major hurricane making landfall in the United States. The last hurricane rated category 3 or stronger to strike the country was Hurricane Wilma back in October 2005. Harvey was also the strongest hurricane to hit Texas since the 1960s.

Harvey wasn't the absolute worst case scenario for a hurricane hitting the Houston area, but it was a close second. Harvey will be remembered for its rainfall the same way Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy are remembered for their storm surge. This storm would have been magnitudes worse if it had made landfall in Houston proper rather than 150 miles down the coast. Category 4 winds and storm surge funneling into Galveston Bay would have made this an unimaginable tragedy, but nearly four feet of rain in five days comes pretty close.

Dean Mouhtaropoulos/Getty Images
Essential Science
What Is a Scientific Theory?
Dean Mouhtaropoulos/Getty Images
Dean Mouhtaropoulos/Getty Images

In casual conversation, people often use the word theory to mean "hunch" or "guess": If you see the same man riding the northbound bus every morning, you might theorize that he has a job in the north end of the city; if you forget to put the bread in the breadbox and discover chunks have been taken out of it the next morning, you might theorize that you have mice in your kitchen.

In science, a theory is a stronger assertion. Typically, it's a claim about the relationship between various facts; a way of providing a concise explanation for what's been observed. The American Museum of Natural History puts it this way: "A theory is a well-substantiated explanation of an aspect of the natural world that can incorporate laws, hypotheses and facts."

For example, Newton's theory of gravity—also known as his law of universal gravitation—says that every object, anywhere in the universe, responds to the force of gravity in the same way. Observational data from the Moon's motion around the Earth, the motion of Jupiter's moons around Jupiter, and the downward fall of a dropped hammer are all consistent with Newton's theory. So Newton's theory provides a concise way of summarizing what we know about the motion of these objects—indeed, of any object responding to the force of gravity.

A scientific theory "organizes experience," James Robert Brown, a philosopher of science at the University of Toronto, tells Mental Floss. "It puts it into some kind of systematic form."


A theory's ability to account for already known facts lays a solid foundation for its acceptance. Let's take a closer look at Newton's theory of gravity as an example.

In the late 17th century, the planets were known to move in elliptical orbits around the Sun, but no one had a clear idea of why the orbits had to be shaped like ellipses. Similarly, the movement of falling objects had been well understood since the work of Galileo a half-century earlier; the Italian scientist had worked out a mathematical formula that describes how the speed of a falling object increases over time. Newton's great breakthrough was to tie all of this together. According to legend, his moment of insight came as he gazed upon a falling apple in his native Lincolnshire.

In Newton's theory, every object is attracted to every other object with a force that’s proportional to the masses of the objects, but inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is known as an “inverse square” law. For example, if the distance between the Sun and the Earth were doubled, the gravitational attraction between the Earth and the Sun would be cut to one-quarter of its current strength. Newton, using his theories and a bit of calculus, was able to show that the gravitational force between the Sun and the planets as they move through space meant that orbits had to be elliptical.

Newton's theory is powerful because it explains so much: the falling apple, the motion of the Moon around the Earth, and the motion of all of the planets—and even comets—around the Sun. All of it now made sense.


A theory gains even more support if it predicts new, observable phenomena. The English astronomer Edmond Halley used Newton's theory of gravity to calculate the orbit of the comet that now bears his name. Taking into account the gravitational pull of the Sun, Jupiter, and Saturn, in 1705, he predicted that the comet, which had last been seen in 1682, would return in 1758. Sure enough, it did, reappearing in December of that year. (Unfortunately, Halley didn't live to see it; he died in 1742.) The predicted return of Halley's Comet, Brown says, was "a spectacular triumph" of Newton's theory.

In the early 20th century, Newton's theory of gravity would itself be superseded—as physicists put it—by Einstein's, known as general relativity. (Where Newton envisioned gravity as a force acting between objects, Einstein described gravity as the result of a curving or warping of space itself.) General relativity was able to explain certain phenomena that Newton's theory couldn't account for, such as an anomaly in the orbit of Mercury, which slowly rotates—the technical term for this is "precession"—so that while each loop the planet takes around the Sun is an ellipse, over the years Mercury traces out a spiral path similar to one you may have made as a kid on a Spirograph.

Significantly, Einstein’s theory also made predictions that differed from Newton's. One was the idea that gravity can bend starlight, which was spectacularly confirmed during a solar eclipse in 1919 (and made Einstein an overnight celebrity). Nearly 100 years later, in 2016, the discovery of gravitational waves confirmed yet another prediction. In the century between, at least eight predictions of Einstein's theory have been confirmed.


And yet physicists believe that Einstein's theory will one day give way to a new, more complete theory. It already seems to conflict with quantum mechanics, the theory that provides our best description of the subatomic world. The way the two theories describe the world is very different. General relativity describes the universe as containing particles with definite positions and speeds, moving about in response to gravitational fields that permeate all of space. Quantum mechanics, in contrast, yields only the probability that each particle will be found in some particular location at some particular time.

What would a "unified theory of physics"—one that combines quantum mechanics and Einstein's theory of gravity—look like? Presumably it would combine the explanatory power of both theories, allowing scientists to make sense of both the very large and the very small in the universe.


Let's shift from physics to biology for a moment. It is precisely because of its vast explanatory power that biologists hold Darwin's theory of evolution—which allows scientists to make sense of data from genetics, physiology, biochemistry, paleontology, biogeography, and many other fields—in such high esteem. As the biologist Theodosius Dobzhansky put it in an influential essay in 1973, "Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution."

Interestingly, the word evolution can be used to refer to both a theory and a fact—something Darwin himself realized. "Darwin, when he was talking about evolution, distinguished between the fact of evolution and the theory of evolution," Brown says. "The fact of evolution was that species had, in fact, evolved [i.e. changed over time]—and he had all sorts of evidence for this. The theory of evolution is an attempt to explain this evolutionary process." The explanation that Darwin eventually came up with was the idea of natural selection—roughly, the idea that an organism's offspring will vary, and that those offspring with more favorable traits will be more likely to survive, thus passing those traits on to the next generation.


Many theories are rock-solid: Scientists have just as much confidence in the theories of relativity, quantum mechanics, evolution, plate tectonics, and thermodynamics as they do in the statement that the Earth revolves around the Sun.

Other theories, closer to the cutting-edge of current research, are more tentative, like string theory (the idea that everything in the universe is made up of tiny, vibrating strings or loops of pure energy) or the various multiverse theories (the idea that our entire universe is just one of many). String theory and multiverse theories remain controversial because of the lack of direct experimental evidence for them, and some critics claim that multiverse theories aren't even testable in principle. They argue that there's no conceivable experiment that one could perform that would reveal the existence of these other universes.

Sometimes more than one theory is put forward to explain observations of natural phenomena; these theories might be said to "compete," with scientists judging which one provides the best explanation for the observations.

"That's how it should ideally work," Brown says. "You put forward your theory, I put forward my theory; we accumulate a lot of evidence. Eventually, one of our theories might prove to obviously be better than the other, over some period of time. At that point, the losing theory sort of falls away. And the winning theory will probably fight battles in the future."

This Just In
Yes, Parents Do Play Favorites—And Often Love Their Youngest Kid Best

If you have brothers or sisters, there was probably a point in your youth when you spent significant time bickering over—or at least privately obsessing over—whom Mom and Dad loved best. Was it the oldest sibling? The baby of the family? The seemingly forgotten middle kid?

As much as we'd like to believe that parents love all of their children equally, some parents do, apparently, love their youngest best, according to The Independent. A recent survey from the parenting website Mumsnet and its sister site, the grandparent-focused Gransnet, found that favoritism affects both parents and grandparents.

Out of 1185 parents and 1111 grandparents, 23 percent of parents and 42 percent of grandparents admitted to have a favorite out of their children or grandchildren. For parents, that tended to be the youngest—56 percent of those parents with a favorite said they preferred the baby of the family. Almost 40 percent of the grandparents with a favorite, meanwhile, preferred the oldest. Despite these numbers, half of the respondents thought having a favorite among their children and grandchildren is "awful," and the majority think it's damaging for that child's siblings.

Now, this isn't to say that youngest children experience blatant favoritism across all families. This wasn't a scientific study, and with only a few thousand users, the number of people with favorites is actually not as high as it might seem—23 percent is only around 272 parents, for instance. But other studies with a bit more scientific rigor have indicated that parents do usually have favorites among their children. In one study, 70 percent of fathers and 74 percent of mothers admitted to showing favoritism in their parenting. "Parents need to know that favoritism is normal," psychologist Ellen Weber Libby, who specializes in family dynamics, told The Wall Street Journal in 2017.

But youngest kids don't always feel the most loved. A 2005 study found that oldest children tended to feel like the preferred ones, and youngest children felt like their parents were biased toward their older siblings. Another study released in 2017 found that when youngest kids did feel like there was preferential treatment in their family, their relationships with their parents were more greatly affected than their older siblings, either for better (if they sensed they were the favorite) or for worse (if they sensed their siblings were). Feeling like the favorite or the lesser sibling didn't tend to affect older siblings' relationships with their parents.

However, the author of that study, Brigham Young University professor Alex Jensen, noted in a press release at the time that whether or not favoritism affects children tends to depend on how that favoritism is shown. "When parents are more loving and they're more supportive and consistent with all of the kids, the favoritism tends to not matter as much," he said, advising that “you need to treat them fairly, but not equally.” Sadly for those who don't feel like the golden child, a different study in 2016 suggests that there's not much you can do about it—mothers, at least, rarely change which child they favor most, even over the course of a lifetime.

[h/t The Independent]