IT's Aug. 2, 1970, Corpus Christi, Texas. I've been staring at geologic maps all day and need some coffee. So I walk down the hall to the break area where Bob and Don are.
"Hey, Richard, have you seen the latest on the hurricane?" said Don.
"Yeah. Looks like we'll get some rain out of this one."
Bob nods and says, "Yeah, it's only barely a hurricane. Probably won't get much."
"Well, I think I'll stay home tomorrow and ride it out," I replied.
"Me too. We're high and dry," said Don.
"Well, I'm going to finish this cup of coffee and call it a day."
Maybe we will get some rain out of old Celia, crosses my mind as I head for the elevator. A quick 15-minute drive across the causeway, and I'm in Portland, a bedroom community of Corpus Christi. Vertis is waiting for me at the door.
"Richard, Celia is going to hit us! Should we drive up to San Antonio?"
"Naaaah, nobody is leaving. It may not even be a hurricane by the time it hits land. Shoot, I'm tired of watering the yard."
"I'm OK with staying here, but Lara and Ashley [our babies] have me worried. I wouldn't want them to be in danger."
"Vertis, if I thought we were in the slightest danger, I'd be heading out of here."
"OK, but are you sure?"
"Yeah, we're just going to get some needed rain."
I'm up early the next morning, watching when the TV announcer gives the latest hurricane coordinates. His comments give me some concern.
"Celia has strengthened overnight to 85 miles per hour. The storm is expected to move inland near Portland around noon."
Vertis has just walked into the room. Her first words are, "Richard, it's getting stronger. What do you think?"
"Vertis, it's barely a hurricane and as soon as it hits Padre Island, it'll weaken. And by the time it hits us it'll be below 60 miles per hour."
"OK, but I'm still worried about the kids."
"It won't be a problem. Nobody is leaving." I'm thinking that women always overreact.
It's almost 11 a.m. and the TV blares, "Celia has strengthened to 95 miles per hour, and is expected to make landfall within the next hour! Seek shelter; take all hurricane precautions!"
As I look out the front window, I see a swingset bouncing down the street, and I know we have waited too long to leave. The electricity has just gone off.
"Richard! What are we going to do?"
Vertis is upset, and I'm really regretting not driving to San Antonio. The kids begin to cry as I try to figure out what we need to do.
"Vertis, get some pillows and blankets, and we'll put the kids in the bathtub ... and hurry!"
The wind is much stronger when Vertis screams, "Oh, my God!"
She's looking out the front window, and as I run over I see a complete roof blowing down the street. Our house is shaking, and it occurs to me that our roof could go.
"Get in the bathroom with the kids and cover them with the pillows and blankets!" I yell. We're listening to a shortwave radio, and the announcer just said, "Port Aransas has just clocked gusts of 175 miles per hour." I'm lying over two kids as I whisper to Vertis, "Port Aransas is only 15 miles from here."
"I told you we should leave!"
When I hear a loud, wrenching, breaking sound and then a crash, I think one of our neighbors has just lost their entire roof. The wind is much stronger.
We've been huddled in the bathroom for nearly an hour, when all of a sudden the wind stops, and it occurs to me that the eye of the storm is passing over us. I'm outside and the sky is blue with just a few clouds.
"Vertis, Bill's house is on the bay, and he's by himself. I need to check on him." A wall of black clouds is out in the bay, but until they reach us the storm won't start again.
"Bill! Bill! ... My God! The house is almost gone!" Bill opens the front door. He's disheveled and gasping for breath.
"Richard! I've been holding the door shut for hours! If I hadn't the whole house would have blown into the bay!"
"Get in the car, Bill! Our house is OK."
As I pull into my garage I, spot a two-by-four sticking in our roof. It's only a few minutes until the wind is at full strength again, maybe not quite as strong, and we're in the living room looking out the window. Another hour passes and the wind has almost stopped.
"Vertis, I'm going to check on George and Marilyn and their two kids. Their house is facing an open street, and they may have gotten hit hard."
I've just turned the corner. I'm in tears, looking at a pile of rubble. They've been killed, I think. But as I pull up to what was their house, the whole family runs out from a neighbor's house across the street.
"George! How did y'all get out?"
"Richard, as our roof started to go, I put Marilyn and the kids in the kitchen, crouched against the bar. The whole roof did blow off and the kitchen ceiling fell on the bar, but it left a space where Marilyn and the girls were. When the eye came over we crawled out and ran to the Williams' house."
I'm back now, and a crowd is gathering. Our house, a ranch style one-story in the middle of the block, only suffered minor damage. But other houses, especially the two-story homes, have suffered.
It is getting dark, and there's no electricity, water, or gas, and the food in everybody's deep freeze is being put on the grill. Everyone has a storm story. No one is injured.
I've just made a head count, and we're going to have 23 people spend the night with us.
It's morning and our family is heading into the center of our little town. As we come to First Baptist Church, Vertis bursts into tears. I've been on the building committee for the past year, and two weeks ago we dedicated our new 500-seat sanctuary. The huge roof is nowhere to be seen, and both side walls have collapsed on the pews. Only the baptistery and foyer are still standing.
It's noon now, and as we're standing there, a big 18-wheeler pulls up. It's the Baptist Men of Texas disaster team with cases of bottled water.
I've just put our case of water in the car, and I see Vertis and the kids in line for something. I join, and in a few minutes a Texas National Guardsman hands me a tray.
Richard Mason is a registered professional geologist, downtown developer, former chairman of the Department of Environmental Quality Board of Commissioners, past president of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation, and syndicated columnist. Email richard@gibraltarenergy.com.
Editorial on 09/23/2018