Where were you when Hugo hit?

I awoke that September morning to sunshine and a pleasant breeze. My new bride was off to work and after putting everything in ship shape, I sat in my living room and was cursing at Phil Donehue when the phone rang.
Charleston Place was calling! After being in business for two years, Charleston Place was calling me to give a tour! Of course, it was cruel joke. Anybody with any sense was beating tracks up I-26. Still, I was at the Market and people everywhere were haplessly sandbagging their stores. I decided to ride my bike down High Battery.
It was low tide, but the water level was higher than high tide on a harvest moon. It was at that point that I knew things might not turn out so well, after all.
One has to remember that the last hurricane that hit Charleston dead on was Gracie thirty years before. It turned out that Gracie was an ill-tempered child; Hugo was a psychotic teenager with an automatic weapon. No one knew this at that particular point.
As I had spent the two days before boarding up windows and all the other proper stuff I was to do, the rest of my day was spent looking for coverage of the storm. I recall watching Perry Mason on WTAT, which at that point had no news department. Bob Waters came on with a graphic and explained that we were to be hit dead on. Well, I’d been through Gracie when I was six, so– what fun.
Finally, at 4pm if I remember correctly, Mayor Riley came on and told people that it was too late to leave. I don’t remember exactly the text of the speech, but I do remember his last words, “May God have mercy on your soul.”
I thought to myself, this might be a tad more serious than at first blush.
Well, there are certain things you can’t do a thing about, and my thought back in those days was that a man had to believe in something, and I believed I would have a drink; a very strong drink if the truth be told. My wife got home from work, and she started supper like any other night. I went across the street to my best friend’s apartment and had a couple of pops with his family. Still, even though the sky was getting funky, we fiddled while Rome burned.
I went home, had supper, and decided to walk around to check things out. I was walking by the Jenkins Mikell house on the corner of Montagu and Rutledge when I saw a huge Magnolia tree bend all the way down to the ground.
Hmmm … Might be time to saunter on back home.
Well, we watched television as long as we could, then the transformers went out, emitting a strange feral sound which combined eerily with the green light seeping from the boiling, pitch-black sky. We had a Sony Watchman, so we continued to try to get as much information as we could.
I want to comment on the television coverage. One certain station, which I will not name, made a big deal out of how they stayed on the longest to give us unfortunate storm victims constant updates. There was really no way for anyone to really know this as most people had already lost electricity. The network feed was long gone, so we were treated to the zany antics of “Three’s Company” while all hell broke loose outside. I don’t recall seeing anything that looked faintly like a weatherman before they, too, lost power.
A thought occurred to me. If this had been the Apocalypse, this is how it would end. As incoming ICBMs were on their way, we would be treated to uproarious re-runs of “Carter Country”, and somehow I found this fitting.
There are some things over which we have no control. One is nuclear war. Another is a devastating hurricane.
Right now as this is being written on Labor Day, 2009, the Atlantic is quiet. There are no low pressure systems lingering off Cape Verde. That’s not to say nothing will happen this year (The Beaufort hurricane of 1893 was in October).
Everyone here says we are due for a hurricane. We are due for an earthquake. I would argue, not so. The odds are 50/50. We’ll either be hit, or we won’t.
Make no mistake, we will get hit. It’s just another example of nature batting last.
Read David Farrow’s regular column at www.thecharlestontimes.com

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Folly Beach was poised to experience the best swell in three decades, according to some. Did the swell live up to the hype?

The Hype

I imagine it had to be something like anticipating the Ali/Foreman Rumble in the Jungle.  Or maybe the Michael Jordan/Dominique Wilkins face-to-face dunk contest for basketball fans during that time. Maybe it’s useless to try and compare, but for local surfers, it was Hurricane Bill.
If you were like me, you checked NOAA three-four times a day in order to track Bill and see how strong the winds were holding up. I cracked a private smile every time I saw the swell forecast jump another six inches. I knew that I was just one person among hundreds of surfers along the entire East Coast waiting for their turn. As August 22 neared, the communal stoke became palatable.
As I cruised down East Ashley toward the Washout, you could feel the excitement hanging in the air; blowing around my car like dry autumn leaves. The day before Hurricane Bill provided Charleston with its peak swell, the hype grew to unmeasurable amounts. It was going to be the best swell Folly Beach had seen in a decade, people were saying. Others said 20 years. In the water the day before, a fellow surfer said we would experience the best waves Folly had seen in 30 years, in less than 24 hours. The waves had begun to build into the chest/shoulder high range by that time. I was like a kid on Christmas Eve. As fun as these waves were, this was just a candy-filled stocking. Tomorrow would be the big day. It was going to be perfect. The tides were perfect for a clean morning session. The storm was too far away to create any weather and, most likely, we would have unimpeded double-overhead sets. The only downside was that it would hit on a weekend meaning a much more crowded lineup. I would deal with that.

The Reality

The next morning I awoke and the first thing on my mind was surf. There was no indecision on what I’d be riding. In my limited quiver, I needed something fast which meant it would be the 6’1” Merrick performance board. It had a fresh coat of wax from the night before…my milk and cookies for the Big Guy.
I didn’t even bother going to the Washout. I knew it was going to be crowded. It’s frustrating enough to fight over waist high waves. I certainly wasn’t going to do it on 12 foot bombs. This was rare and I needed to get mine when the opportunities presented themselves. I was calm as I made my way to 6th Block. I pictured myself carving down a mammoth peak, the face opening up for me as I traveled a perfect line. It would be something for Surfer Magazine.
As I made the short journey from my car to the walkover, I could hear the waves crash as they rose into the air and crashed back into the water below. They were like a giant’s footstep followed by a “shhh” as it put its finger up to its pursed lips. As I crested the dunes I saw 11-12 foot waves rolling in; rolling. No relevant wind, no real current. Long periods. It couldn’t have been any better and although it would be impossible for me to personally attest without a time machine, it’s hard to imagine a better scenario in the last 30 years. Of course, this would be the first time I had set foot in a swell this big. I had no concept of what those waves would be like up close and did not hesitate to make my way into the surf, despite the throng of surfers who only watched from the beach.
As I paddled out, I realized how ill equipped I really was mentally. I began to make my way through the white water and although I had paddled a good way out, I was still only about 50 years from the behemoth waves. With the sun rising in the east, they cast huge shadows on themselves. This artistic gesture assured everyone of their reality. Knowing that I would have to somehow duck dive these monsters, my arms and legs literally began to shake as they pitched ahead of me. Frantically I paddled when the opportunity seemed to present itself between the long periods and I made it into the line-up, somehow.

The reward

It took a little while to actually push myself down the face of a wave. The first one was a good 10-11 foot wave. It was like a small mountain rose beneath me. My head pounded. This was not the desire of my heart. I had to swallow that organ already. This was pure grit; the human determination to do something that I had not done before. With so much energy and power, it did not take much for the wave to throw me into the mix. I stood up and raced down the face. The right was gone before I stood up, I knew that. But the left closed out before I had a chance escape. With a previously unattained speed, I felt the spray and heard the clap as I narrowly escaped the crushing clap of the peak. Followed by a six feet of white water, I bailed, and when I came back to the surface the decision to paddle back out was a tough, although quick, one. There was no time, I turned and paddled back out, cursing my bravery with every stroke.
It was an absolutely amazing session; something every other surfer who experienced it will remember for a long time. After that first wave, I went on to snag several more of the largest waves I have ever surfed in epic Folly Beach conditions with more confidence and style on every consecutive one. My surfing experience is limited to almost three years, so I can’t speak to the historical significance of this swell. I do have a hard time understanding how Folly Beach could have experienced anything much better. I will, however, be able to tell future surfers talking-up a future swell from some future epic storm about my brush with Bill.

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