I'm hunkered down in my condo in Key West at the moment, awaiting the arrival of what promises to be Hurricane Isaac. All of the preparations and anticipation have opened a floodgate of memories from when I survived Hurricane Camille, a category 5 storm, in 1969. Isaac is expected to become a Category 1 storm by the time it impacts Key West, roughly 26 hours from the time of this posting.
The following is from an article that I had written for the 30th anniversary of Camille, and published in Weatherwise Magazine in 1999. It provides a great insight into the development and anatomy of a hurricane. Not only may you find it informative, but I also truly hope you find it to be an enjoyable accounting of one young man's experience as he awaited orders to the war in Vietnam.
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Paradise Lost
August 5, 1969
An
extreme heat spell in western and north-central Africa
has created a giant atmospheric heat pump. Superheated air rising off the Sahara Desert
begins its natural westward drift toward the Atlantic
Ocean. Reaching the Gulf
of Guinea, it tumbles
over the cooler coastal air and creates a disturbance in the upper atmosphere.
Meteorologists studying satellite photos of the African coast note the
appearance of an inverted “V” cloud formation-a developing tropical wave.
I can’t
believe it’s August already. Just 30 more days and it’s “good-bye” Keesler Air
Force Base and Biloxi, Mississippi. Should’ve gotten my orders by
now. This wait is killing me. A great
big world out there, and I’ll probably be sent to some mud hole in Vietnam. For
what? Hell, I’m only 20-too young to die.
Hey, the Woodstock rock festival is
this month. Now that’s where they can
send me. Fat chance, though. Gosh, where has the year gone? Life here in the Gulf Coast
has been great: boating the backwaters, walking the miles of beaches, and
napping beneath the tall, swaying palms.
Most of
all, I’ll miss the weekends sleeping under the stars out on Ship Island.
The slow and easy southern lifestyle Biloxi
has made me feel welcome and safe, but, the island is where I’ve felt most at
peace, away from the real world. I wish the war would end. I hate the thought
of leaving here.
August 9, 1969
The tropical wave quietly drifts
westward. Four days after conception, the storm embryo is already dumping heavy
rains on the Leeward Islands as it moves into the warm water south of Cuba. Finding a
nice, warm womb, the hurricane embryo quickly grows into a strong and healthy
fetus.
The local
forecast calls for hot and clear. Perfect weather for the island; the girls at
the Fiesta Club will just have to do without us tonight. Gerry and I pack a
cooler full of snacks and drinks, and as
much camping supplies as will fit into our backpacks. We catch the early
ferry to Ship Island for a weekend of sun, surf, and
suds.
Late in the
afternoon, the last ferry makes its seven-mile journey back to the mainland.
The 500-yard-wide, seven-mile-long strip of grass-capped , white dunes now
belong to us and a small group of adventures who choose to distance themselves.
Massive Fort Massachusetts calms any fear of being
washed away in the night. The red brick fortress has withstood weather and war
for over 200 years.
We kick
back to watch the blazing sun sink into the sea. It slowly sets to the rhythm
of pounding surf and the satisfied sighs that naturally accompany sipping
ice-cold beer. It’s time to enjoy life, to feel free, to go skinny-dipping.
The time
spent here is special to both of us. With each breath, we inhale life fully
while we still can. The skies are expected to remain clear the entire weekend,
but in the backs of our minds we are haunted by the dark cloud looming over our
futures.
August 13, 1969
Satellite photos from the previous four days show the storm clouds
progressively curving into concentric spirals as the storm system continues to
develop and strengthen.
The heat and humidity are
unbearable this week. Just stepping out of the shower, I begin to sweat. I’m going through two uniforms a day.
Evenings offer no comfort. The air is hot, sticky, and motionless, despite the
constant running of huge ventilation fans on top of each stairwell. The
whirring vibrations of the fans compete with WC-130 aircraft engines revving on
the flight line. The plans are coming and going more than usual-must be a storm
out there somewhere. The constant vibrating roar only adds to the discomfort
from the heat.
Desperation
sends a few of us to the rooftop hoping to find a hint of breeze. Maybe here we
can get some sleep. White rocks, inches thick, cover the roof to reflect the
sun and cool the building by day. Soon, to our disappointment, we discover how
well they radiate the heat back into the air at night. We return to our hot
rooms. Later, with every window open, I lie sleeplessly, sticking to wet
sheets, staring at the ceiling and praying for wind.
August 14-15, 1969
WC-130 aircraft from the Air Force’s 53rd Weather
Reconnaissance Squadron fly repeatedly into the strengthening storm and monitor
its development south of Cuba.
The crew measures an air pressure of 999 millibars, and surface winds at a
steady 55 m.p.h. The storm fetus appears to be at full term. The tropical storm
moves northward out to sea at 9 m.p.h. By nightfall, internal air pressure
drops to 964 millibars and surface winds exceed 74 m.p.h. Delivery time.
On the afternoon of Thursday, August
14, 1969, a brand new Category-1 hurricane is officially born into the North Atlantic hurricane family. She is names Camille.
Camille races through her childhood, becoming an adult hurricane in one day.
With 115 m.p.h. sustained surface winds, this Category 3 hurricane brushes by
the western tip of Cuba,
leaving three people dead. Residents along the U.S.
Gulf Coast begin their vigil, all eyes turned
seaward.
Today marks
the greatest gathering of young people in history: hundreds of thousands of
voices crying out to end the senseless war. Can they make a difference? Damn,
I’ve just got deal with here and now, before I bum myself out. Best shift gears
to the footloose weekend mode. Mail room? Check. Shower and dress? Check. Wallet
with cash? Check. Okay, it’s off to the Airmen’s Club to meet the group, then
off to the beach to the Fiesta Club. I’ve done this dozens of times, but it’s
somehow different now, knowing I’ll have to leave soon.
Gerry and I
head off to the Airmen’s Club. His brother is stopping by tomorrow. His first
assignment is at a post in Georgia,
and not “you-know-where” (we decided not to mention it anymore). This, we
agree, is reason to celebrate.
At the
club, talk centers around the rock-and-roll “happening” in upstate New York. Some guys we
know out in for leave and were turned down. Talk is that they wanted to go so
bad that they went AWOL. Guts or not brains? We can’t agree. One thing we do
agree on is that we are green with envy over those who were able to make it to Woodstock, and drink a
series of toasts to them.
Talk shifts
to the storm out over the Gulf. I assure
my friend from the heartland that there’s nothing to be frightened about. I boast of weathering several hurricanes on Long Island. After all, they’re nothing compared to
tornadoes. You lose a few trees here and there, lose power for a while, and
maybe the beach gets screwed up a little. After a few days, everything is back
to normal. Absolutely nothing to worry about. As talk of the storm continues, a
pack of cigarettes is passed around the table. I’ve never smoked, but find
myself lighting one.
August 17, 1969
Hurricane
Camille continues inhaling energy from the warm Gulf of
Mexico waters. On August 16, a WC-130 crew clock her winds at 160
m.p.h. at aircraft flight level, pointing to further strengthening of this
already Caegory-5 hurricane. The last reconnaissance flight of the day records
Camille’s pressure at a near-record low of 905 millibars. Her estimated surface
winds of about 200 m.p.h. are among the highest recorded this century. A killer
hurricane now looms off the southern U.S. shores.
Camille’s forward speed increases to
14 m.p.h. as she approaches the Gulf
Coast. Local radio and
television stations stop regular programming. Civil defense and local
government officials repeat messages stressing the life-threatening severity of
the approaching storm. The tone of the messages becomes increasingly somber and
more urgent. All local residents are to evacuate immediately. Late reports now
confirm the small, but intense storm has near tornado-strength winds pushing a
20-foot wall of water ahead of it. Though the National
Hurricane Center
still predicts landfall on the Florida
panhandle 100 miles east of Biloxi,
with each passing hour, Camille creeps steadily westward.
Today is
peaceful and very quiet, as Sundays usually are in Biloxi. Last night, Gerry, his brother Chuck,
and I had dinner at Baricev’s and enjoyed an evening of live music at, of
course, the Fiesta Club. We attempt to take Chuck on a nicklel tour of our
favorite hangouts at the beach, but the steady rain makes for a miserable time.
We hear on
the car radio that a long, hard rain did not dampen youthful spirits at Woodstock, which is going
amazingly well in its last day. We notice the Ship Island
ferry is missing from the pier, as are most of the boats normally moored there.
The only activity along the beach seems to be people boarding up windows. The
traffic on Highway 90 is heavy with cars and trucks packed full and high. We
wonder where everyone is headed.
By late
afternoon, the rain is driven by gusting winds, so we abandon the tour and
return to base. The flight line is deserted. The dozens of training aircraft
usually parked there are gone. What are we supposed to do? Soon, the official
word comes. With storm landfall predicted to occur far to the east of us, we
will not be evacuated. We are restricted to our dorms until morning, or until
further notice. Under no circumstances, no matter what, are we to leave the
building.
By 9:00
p.m. Sunday evening, it becomes frighteningly clear that Biloxi will be hit hard by Camille’s powerful
winds and storm surge. Are we safe here? Had our commanders underestimated the
potential threat? One thing is certain – we are stuck here, no matter what. The
base is barely 10 feet above sea level. Out building will surely be among the
first hit. Only two city blocks of homes and a raised railroad grade stand
between us and the Gulf of Mexico.
Close to
9:30 p.m., the wind begins blowing harder. For safety, airmen from the top two
floors crowd together with us on the first floor. Mattresses line the hall
floor and walls. Extras stand ready to pull over the top to form a protective
tunnel if we’re threatened by building collapse. In each room, more mattresses
are buttressed against the windows to stop flying debris. We put fresh
batteries in our flashlights. We can think of nothing else to do to protect
ourselves, so we stand waiting in silence as the sound of the wind gets louder.
The wait seems endless.
A
terrifying, angry shriek announces Camille’s arrival. The deafening scream
seems to come from everywhere. My heart races wildly as the building takes its
first strike. The sheet metal sheds housing the ventilator fans over the
stairwells are among the first casualties, torn completely off the building.
Loud crashing continues as the large metal objects become airborne and smash
into who-knows-what. No one has to be told to get under the mattresses,
The sound
of glass shattering in all directions joins the screaming wind and crashing
debris, followed by what sounds like thousands of bullets striking the outer
concrete walls, but are actually stones Camille has sucked up from the rooftop
and contemptuously spat back. The lights go out. We are in total darkness. With
flashlights we can see the wind-driven rain down the stairwells. Water blows in
under the seaward door with such force that it chips paint off the opposite
wall. Can the building take it? Camille shows no mercy.
Within
moments we are completely cut off from the rest of the world. There is only
static on the portable radios. What’s happening out there? We are helpless and
trapped. The sense of uncertainty is overwhelming. I stand motionless with my
back against the wall. A wave of fear crashes over me as I realize that I might
be killed. Someone nearby is sobbing in the darkness. Someone else panics and
tries to get out of the building. There is a brief scuffle as the screaming
airman is tackled and held down.
Water flows
heavily down the stairwell and gushes in beneath the doors, flooding the lower
level. With a new rush od adrenaline we form a bucket brigade. For the next two
hours, by flashlight, we pour countless buckets into the toilets and shower
drains. The effort seems hopeless; but the feverish activity keeps our minds
off what might happen next. The entire cement block building starts to throb
rhythmically from the pounding wind, water, and flying debris. Expecting it to
come crashing down at any moment, we drop the buckets and take shelter in the
mattress tunnel.
Then, just
as suddenly as it began, the screaming stops. The building is still. The wind
diminishes to sporadic strong gusts. In the eerie silence of the remainder of
the night, we stay close together on the mattresses. Wet, exhausted, and
overwhelmed, no one moves or speaks. It will be sunrise soon. I try to sleep
and not dwell on what horrors the light of dawn may reveal.
August 18, 1969
What
had begun as a warm, gentle breath from Africa,
in only 12 days became a catastrophic natural disaster. Camille might have been
nothing more than a developing weather phenomenon drifting the oceans.
Instead, at 10:30 p.m. on August 17,
1969, when her screaming winds and crushing waters crashed onto land, she
claimed her place this century in the U.S. Atlantic hurricane history: second
in storm intensity, 10th in cost ($1.4 billion), and 11th
in deaths (143 people confirmed dead on the coast, an additional 68 forever
missing; 113 flash flood deaths inland; also dead: 8,000 cattle and unknown
numbers of domestic pets).
Dawn comes too soon. It’s
peaceful and calm – the air still, the sky above clear and blue, and out to sea
are big, billowing white clouds. To the east and west of the base, however, the
Gulf Coast looks like a war zone. Destruction
fits one of two categories: demolished or gone.\
What has
happened to my beloved Biloxi,
my tropical paradise? After one black night of wet, howling terror, it has
become a wasteland. Where has her hospitality gone? People who were so friendly
yesterday, are looting stores and stealing from one another today. Fights are
breaking out around the only working gas pump, and at least one person has been
shot. The National Guard has arrived and imposed a 6:00 p.m. curfew.
Along the
beach, ships and boats litter the roads, yards, and tops of remaining
buildings. Sand and a few scattered cinder blocks are all that remain of the
Fiesta Club. The sigh and a couple concrete walls are still standing, but
Baricev’s restaurant, where we ate dinner two nights ago, is gone.
The homes
of hundreds of families now form miles of unrecognizable debris, in some places
washed up twelve feet high. The ruins closely resemble the seaweed lines left
along the beach at low tide; but what a tide this must have been. Looking in
the direction of Ship Island, I see the dark silhouette of Fort Massachusetts
against the white clouds that touch the horizon. The old fort survived. But
there now appear to two islands; Camille has sliced right through the center of
Ship Island.
There’s no
time to fully comprehend what has happened to us. We must quickly search the
wreckage fro survivors. Soon, though, we realize we are only locating the
bodies of victims, or what is left of them; faceless and dismembered.
Everywhere the smell of rotting flesh fills the hot, humid air.
Day after
day we uncover and remove victims from the tons of debris. And it it all too
clear Camille made no distinction between humans and animals when choosing her
victims. Chain saws roar relentlessly, day and night. Each day just rolls into
the next. For weeks we keep working to the point of collapse – keep
digging…keep moving debris…in a shock-driven frenzy to put everything back to
the way it was before Camille.
Damn it! I
loved this place. Now it’s destroyed. I suppose I should be grateful just to be
alive. Though marred forever by this horror, I still have many great memories
to take with me. Camille could never erase them. I’m so tired now, and so ready to leave. Vietnam
can’t be any worse than this.
~gj duerrschmidt
For more by this writer, visit:
The Orangenous Zone
