A tropical storm, nearly a hurricane, barrels over the Mystic River, screeching enormous southeasterly winds for almost two days. Gates Island is flooded and beaten. The wind and seas blast the guano off the boulders and wash away nesting material, corpses, shells, everything. Some of the cormorants, gulls, and other coastal birds of the estuary fly upriver and hide in various leeward refuges, such as behind the support to the highway bridge or behind a soil ledge in one of the upper marshes. A few birds are killed by one merciless gust of wind that funnels and flings them against a set of rocks while they are trying to land.
The four juveniles born first by the boulders on the island try to weather the storm with their parents and dozens of others by floating just behind a stone breakwater. Along with several gulls the cormorants keep their heads tucked low while they paddle in the seas to ride the waves and keep position. Dozens of the recently fledged birds perish from exhaustion after over thirty hours paddling into the blast. One of those to die is one of the juveniles from that first clutch. Her body floats in the marsh.
The next day a cold front rushes in after the hurricane, dropping the evening temperature to an early, unseasonable frost. The island is barely recognizable. Several huge rocks have been lifted and rolled. An immense tree limb and part of the cockpit from a smashed fiberglass boat have been left on the windward side. The gull beach is nearly gone.
So a few days before the equinox, without any visible preparation, most of the adult cormorants begin to fly away, including the first breeding pair. Their three surviving juveniles remain on the island for now.