Horrors of Hazel

                   October 5, 1954 was proving to be one that eighteen-year-old Jim would remember for many years. A hurricane named Hazel had made landfall around 3:00 A.M. To make matters worse, it hit the Carolina coast on a high tide. Working since daylight to secure his skiff and nets among the gnarled oaks behind his cottage on Masonboro Sound, he now started across the flooded causeway to Wrightsville Beach. At Banks channel, he stopped briefly to watch the relentless waves buckle a cottage wall, the roof splintering and crashing to the sand. Salt spray and sand filled his eyes, nose and mouth as he fought against the wind. As he reached the beach, a section of tin roofing flew past with a whirring sound, making him dive headlong into a patch of sandspurs.

                   Jim struggled to reach shelter against the leeward wall of Mercer’s tackle shop. Opening the door he thought, “How long will this offer protection?” The room smelled of bait, beer, and tobacco. Frank, an old fisherman sat with hands folded over an immense belly and boot heels hooked in the top rung of his favorite chair, beside the potbellied stove, his grizzled beard permanently stained with tobacco. “Hey, Jim, sure is a heckuva time for a storm to hit, ain’t it? What with this here marsh hen tide an’ all.”

                   A marsh hen tide is the name given by old timers to a higher than normal tide caused by a full moon, which causes the marsh hens to leave the marsh grass. Jim, said, “That explains the storm surge over the causeway and the island. You see anyone else today?”

                   “Nope,” Frank said, “looks like we are the only fools out today.”

                   Jim walked across the room toward the pier. As he looked south, a monstrous wave erupted devouring more of the beach and returned to sea. Buildings, which had toppled, now wallowed in the raging surf. More waves thundered in, regurgitating furniture and other debris onto the beach as if from the bowels of some hideous beast.

Mesmerized by the din of the waves and the banshee-like winds, he stared. Near the end of the pier, something caught his eye. Was that an old man, yellow slicker flapping in the wind as he walked toward the tackle shop?

            As if hit by a gigantic sledgehammer, the pier shuddered violently and the black water washed over the man and he disappeared with a section of pier.

        “Frank, grab a line and life ring,” Jim shouted. He ran to the broken edge of the pier. He spotted the man clinging to a piling, the pounding waves dragging him over razor sharp barnacles. Removing his heavy boots, Jim jumped into the water and bobbed to the surface. Getting his bearings, he took a deep breath and dove beneath the waves. Coming to the surface under the man, Jim saw the life ring hit the water. With a swift strong stroke, he pushed his left arm through the ring and held on. The old man had a strong grip on the piling and prying him loose was exhausting and seemed like an eternity to Jim.

             Faintly hearing an engine over the noise of the sea the line tightened and Jim and the old man moved quickly toward shore. Only then, did he realize Frank’s old Ford pickup was providing the pulling power.

Reaching shore, Jim gathered the old man in his arms and reeled toward the tackle shop. He gasped for breath as he laid him on a heavy tarp. Finding a heavy wool coat Jim covered the old man and started to bandage his bleeding hands.

Frank entered the room and said, “Better get him warm, and fast.” He poured a mug of coffee from the pot on the stove and walked to a cabinet. “Come on Frank,” Jim said, “He needs coffee now, you can have a cup later.”

 “It ain’t for me, you dope!” Frank barked, “Let me add some whiskey for kick. Maybe it will help the old salt pull through.”

Cradling the old man’s head Jim poured in some of the strong hot brew. The old man gasped, his eyes opened, “What you trying to do? Drown me in rotgut?” Looking steadily at the two men he said, “I guess old Reuben owes his life to a couple of crazy men. Almost as crazy as I, and I ain’t got a lick of sense being out in a boat in this storm.

                   Jim stared and said, “A boat? You weren’t on a boat you was on the pier.”

     “Well,” said Reuben, “how do you think I got on the pier? Did anyone see me walk through here? The waves picked her up and set her on the end of the pier like sea foam, I jumped out, the boat flipped, and fell into the water. When you saw me I was trying to get in here to ride out the storm.”

“I’ve heard it all now,” Frank said, “but we better be looking for something with a little more protection than this place to ride out this storm.”

”I know where there is one of the old concrete bunkers, built during the war,” said Reuben.

Climbing into the pickup, the three headed north along the flooded roadway. The bunker was built into a large dune, the door facing inland. Leaning on the door, they fell against some crates. Reuben found a couple of candles in one and lit one with a match Frank pulled from an empty shotgun shell filled with wax that he had in his pocket. The match flared and the smell of sulfur stung Jim’s nose. The wick caught fire and a soft light made the bunker glow. Closing the door the only sound to be heard was their breathing. It is so quiet, was there really a storm out there, or was it just a dream.  Jim thought.

When the men opened the door, they were surprised by a whisper of wind through the sea oats. The picture they saw was both breathtaking and sad. Only the Lumina near the south end of the beach appeared to be intact. All else was destroyed or heavily damaged, including Mercer’s pier.

Jim, Frank, and old Reuben knew the residents along the beach needed help now the storm had passed. Cleanup and a return to normalcy for the coast would be a monumental task but if it could be done these New Hanoverians would do it. These people never looked at their losses as defeat but a temporary setback. Even as the three walked away from the bunker, people began to appear along the beach. Two men struggled to pull a body from the surf while others sifted through the remains of collapsed buildings for salvageable items, survivors or causalities.

Reaching the site where the Wilson cottage once stood, Jim heard a moan from a pile of rubble. Scrambling over twisted tin and broken timbers, Jim called frantically, “Where are you?”

From a point almost beneath his feet, there was a muffled reply, “Here.”

Studying the wreckage, Jim decided on the method of freeing whoever was trapped. He found a stout timber and worked it beneath a section of wall. Frank and three more men who offered to assist began to push against the lever; the wall creaked and slowly rose. Jim and Reuben wedged a large steel drum under it, the men allowed the lever to lower, the drum held.

Jim was chosen to crawl under the suspended section, being the youngest in the group. A flashlight in hand he wormed into the small opening and disappeared. He forced himself to move slowly as he heard the hysterical calls of “Over here! Over here!” from the victim. The flashlight revealed a young girl of about ten her eyes filled with fear about two yards away. “Hang on and we will get you out,” Jim said. “Can you move?”

The girl sobbed, “I think so but I’m afraid something will fall on me.”

”Listen,” Jim said, “I want you to do exactly as I say. Put your heels into the sand and push yourself toward me, stay on your back.” It took the girl about twenty minutes to cover the six feet before Jim could reach and pull her to him.

Sweat soaked his clothes as he and the girl edged out of the rubble. A hand reached past him and lifted the girl from his arms as he collapsed on the cool damp sand and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, he looked up at the wispy clouds floating by the full moon.

Rising to his feet, he looked up and down the shoreline at a surreal world. A lantern flickered here and there, a man’s voice croaked with fatigue, a woman cried. Yesterday this had been a beautiful beach tonight it resembled a war zone.

Jim thought as he trudged back toward the causeway toward his little cottage. “You may be gone but you won’t be forgotten, you demon Hazel.”