Cyclone Alfred shook us: our house, our nerves, our sense of security

"Living high on a hill is usually the dream. Those views. But when a cyclone is bearing down?"

Rebel Wylie

3 min read

March 10, 2025 - 8:46AM

Parenting

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We prepped. We filled the baths and laundry sink with water, stocked up on supplies, packed away anything that could turn into a high-speed projectile, and fuelled up the generator.

We found the safest place in the house to bunker down - a little nook downstairs, away from windows - and settled in for whatever came next.

Living high on a hill is usually the dream. Those views. But when a cyclone is bearing down?

It’s an absolute nightmare. No protection. No buffer.

Just you and the full, raw force of Mother Nature flexing her muscles.

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We’ve been here nearly 15 years, and this was the first proper cyclone we’d ever had to contend with.

The ghosts of the 2022 floods still cling to this area. We’re tough, but we’re also deeply aware of what a big storm can do.

The whole community was on high alert, checking in, swapping emergency plans, making sure no one was left to face this beast alone.

The longest false start

After a full day of expecting Alfred to hit, only to be met with eerie nothingness, I woke in the early hours with a strange, twisting feeling deep in my stomach.

Why does this feel so familiar? Have I lived through a cyclone before?

I sat with it for a second, then – BOOM - it hit me.

This was the end-of-pregnancy feeling.

The final countdown.

That weird time-warp where you’re prepped, primed, and yet somehow still waiting.

The stop-start of it.

Like when your waters break, you race to hospital, only to be told you’re 2cm dilated and to go home and wait.

That impatient, twitchy let’s do this already energy, mixed with the unsettling knowledge that once it begins, there’s no way out but through.

Image: Supplied

Then came the wind

By Thursday at lunchtime, the winds had picked up.

Then the power cut.

As the windows like they never had before, we knew it was time to move downstairs.

That first night? Chaos.

The wind was an unrelenting, howling beast.

The house groaned and rattled under the onslaught. Metal screeched against metal. Debris slammed into walls. Our roof copped a beating - at one point, we could hear something shifting, twisting, breaking.

The kids? Slept through it.

Honestly, what a flex.

Morning came. My husband ventured upstairs. The back gutter? Gone. The metal sheets on the roof? Flapping in the wind. And inside? Absolute carnage. Two of the kids’ bedrooms, the kitchen, and the pantry were completely flooded.

We called the SES.

Not to ask for help - we weren’t in immediate danger - but to see if there was anything we should be doing.

We didn’t want a rogue sheet of metal from our roof flying off and taking out the neighbours.

But even the SES weren’t going up on roofs yet. Too dangerous.

The advice? Sit tight.

And the winds kept coming

By Friday, the water supply was compromised. No drinking it. Still no power. And the novelty of ‘indoor camping’? Yeah, that wore off quick. Turns out, camping is only fun when there’s a beach nearby and a kiosk selling ice creams.

Night two? Just as wild as the first.

The wind, the rain, the metal groaning overhead. But by then, the adrenaline had burned off, leaving only exhaustion. Somehow, we slept.

Saturday was a blur of cleaning up as best we could.

Still no power. Barely any phone signal.

The snack supply was dwindling, and the kids? Over it.

Are we done yet?

It’s Sunday now.

Day four.

Still no power. Dodgy water.

Thankfully, we were prepped - we still had food, water, and our generator.

But others weren’t so lucky.

They’ve been told to get to evacuation centres.

The rain just won’t stop.

And honestly? I have never been more desperate for my washing machine.

Every towel in the house has been sacrificed in the battle against the upstairs flood, and now everything smells like damp regret.

A silver lining

As we begin to pick up the pieces, our thoughts are with those in Redcliffe and Brisbane now feeling the full force of Alfred’s winds and rain.

We know all too well what they’re facing, and we hope they stay safe and supported through it all.

As much as this has sucked, we know we’re lucky. Lucky to be safe. Lucky to have a home still standing. Lucky to be surrounded by a community that looks out for each other.

Cyclone Alfred shook us. It rattled our house, our nerves, our sense of security.

But as we piecing things back together, we do so knowing that we’re not alone.

The Tweed Coast is tough.

And together, we’ll ride out whatever storm comes next.