All through the night as Hurricane Florence began hammering this city near the North Carolina coast, Paul Canady’s phone buzzed and beeped with messages from members of Christ Episcopal Church, where he serves as rector.

Even before Hurricane Florence made landfall in North Carolina, President Trump was kicking up a storm of controversy.

With a plodding pace belying still-unspent fury, an increasingly deadly Tropical Storm Florence pushed deeper into the Carolinas on Saturday, inundating homes, toppling trees and pushing rivers far beyond their banks as rescuers in boats and helicopters rushed to keep pace.

In Fayetteville, N.C., which is about 90 miles inland from the coast, the Cape Fear River is forecast to rise 50 feet by Tuesday morning (from 12 feet to 62 feet). The National Weather Center says flood stage is 35 feet. Says Twitter user Jack Sillin @JackSillin: "So think about where you would stand on the banks usually, then go up 4-5 stories!" 

Ocean water swamped streets and swept into buildings, while powerful winds sent a tree crashing into a home, killing a mother and her infant.

But for all its strength, Hurricane Florence was a slow-motion disaster. Deliberate and hulking as it moved Friday throughout the Carolinas, it was unhurried in its terror.

“The storm is going to continue its violent grind across our state for days,” North Carolina Gov. Roy Cooper said, calling it “an uninvited brute that doesn’t want to leave.”

In 1960, roughly 845,000 people lived in the 24 counties along the Carolina coast.

By 2000, the number had grown to more than 1.5 million as the demand for beach living and ocean views continued to rise.

The coastal population today tops 2 million.

“Two adults, two children.” The call arrived after Sgt. Nick Muhar’s unit had already rescued more than 80 people threatened by Hurricane Florence.

The North Carolina National Guard truck pulled out of the New Bern, N.C., fire station and sped through flooded streets. The cab was heated like a sauna to keep the windshield from fogging up. A can of chewing tobacco rested on the dashboard.

Muhar’s truck arrived at a brick apartment building where the overflowing Neuse River swamped a playground and lapped at front doors. Inside, a family scrambled to gather their belongings. The electricity had gone out, and a knee-high waterline was etched into the wall.