33 www.ReadMPM.com | www.MountPleasantMagazine.com | www.MountPleasantPodcast.com Editor’s Note: This article on Hurricane Hugo was originally published by Mount Pleasant Magazine in 2012. I t’s 8 a.m., Sept. 25, four days after Hurricane Hugo. Following an all-night drive from Atlanta, I’ve boarded the harbor-tour boat at Patriots Point for a return to the devastated Isle of Palms. Standing there in a gloomy downpour of rain, we’re a ragtag crowd gathered from all points of shelter. I’ve run the curfew gantlets, dodged fallen trees and avoided dangling electrical lines. I try to bring my weary brain back into balance, reminding myself: “No, this is not a war. We are not bound for a concentration camp. We are only displaced persons, now on a mission for rejuvenation and renewal.” Could this be a kind of prayer? This is the first boat to the island and the first time any of us has been able to get back since the storm drove us away. To add another warlike dimension to the scene, we had to give our name, rank and serial number before boarding the boat. That’s right – you had to have your proper ID to prove your right to take the “Isle of Palms Clipper.” “Where are you taking us, Captain?” We receive the disheartening response: “To the only place the boat can berth – the Wild Dunes marina.” It was the other end of the island, opposite of where most of us wanted to go. Rain blows relentlessly across the dock. The man sitting next to me is an airline pilot who had just come to Mount Pleasant from New York. He wore shorts and a sport shirt and was protected only by an umbrella. “I didn’t have time to find clothes. I’ve rented out my house on the island for the winter, and I need to find out if the people can move in,” he said. As it turned out, he did not have a house to rent. We hear voices of hope: “The lighthouse is still standing. Stella Maris Church looks OK. Some places don’t look too bad.” We’ve been on the river for nearly an hour and are just passing Goat Island. It looks as though a water-going street sweeper has passed by, throwing docks and chairs, boats and chimneys, toilet bowls and bookcases all upon the shore. For a mile, the land is littered with household furnishings and debris, while in the background an occasional desolate and gutted dwelling raises its broken body. Now the scene and circumstances start to become weirder. The ill-clothed and bleary-eyed crowd stands and stares at a bridge, askew at a 35-degree angle, useful now only for a wild, high-jumping water skier. “How could the wind blow down the Ben Sawyer Bridge like that?” someone asks. No answer. As if foretelling the future, a red-bearded man with a cowboy hat says, “The Corps of Engineers ought to be able to raise it and put it back on track.” Up the Intracoastal Waterway, passing Sullivan’s Island, the awful fury of Hugo becomes more and more visible. Roofs are missing; houses are sliced in two; one is standing on its side. Where docks stood we could see only sticks poking out of the water. “My God,” screams one lady. “That’s where my friend lived!” Her voice dies to a whisper. “No more. It’s been broken to pieces.” The landing is now in sight. We pass a graveyard of boats, maybe a hundred or so tossed like matchsticks onto the land. I look at the bigger homes, the ones known as “million dollar mansions.” They suffered extensive damage – walls washed away, yards gone. We hug our rain gear and lift our bags as we move toward the gangplank. The captain’s voice comes over the speaker: “This boat will leave at 12 o’clock sharp. You do not want to be left behind. There is no food and no place to stay overnight.” The Voyage Back One resident remembers the hardest ride of his life BY JIM COX our town
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