Isaac's Storm (37 page)

feathers."

All
this
was
nothing,
however,
compared
to
what
the
wind
had
been
doing
in
the
Gulf
of
Mexico.
Ever
since
leaving
Cuba,
the
storm
had
piled
water
along
its
leading
edge,
producing
a
dome
of
water
that
twentieth-century
meteorologists
would
call
a
storm
surge.

Early
scientists
believed
that
reduced
pressure
alone
accounted
for
storm
tides.
By
the
mid-nineteenth
century,
however,
they
came
to
understand
that
a
one-inch
decline
in
pressure
raised
the
sea
only
a
foot.
Thus
even
a
pressure
as
low
as
27.49
inches
would
cause
the
sea
to
rise
only
two
and
a
half
feet.
Yet
the
Galveston
storm
shoved
before
it
a
surge
that
was
over
fifteen
feet
deep.

The
single
most
important
force
needed
to
build
a
storm
surge
is
wind.
A
strong
wind
will
develop
a
surge
in
any
body
of
water.
A
fan
blowing
across
a
water-filled
container
will
cause
the
water
to
swell
at
the
downwind
side.
Strong
winds
blowing
over
some
of
Minnesota's
biggest
northern
lakes
will
pile
ice
to
the
height
of
a
McDonald's
sign.
One
of
the
deadliest
storm
surges
in
American
history
occurred
on
Lake
Okeechobee
in
Florida,
in
1928,
when
hurricane
winds
blowing
across
the
long
fetch
of
the
lake
raised
a
storm
surge
that
killed
1,835
people.

Another
ingredient
is
geography.
In
1876
Henry
Blanford,
a
meteorologist
in
India,
proposed
that
the
configuration
of
the
Bay
of
Bengal
contributed
greatly
to
the
immense
storm
tides
that
came
ashore
during
typhoons.
Blanford
thought
of
these
tides
as
great
waves.
Every
cyclone
raised
them,
"but
it
is
only
when
the
wave
thus
formed
reaches
a
low
coast,
with
a
shallow
shelving
foreshore,
such
as
are
the
coasts
of
Bengal
and
Orissa,
that,
like
the
tidal
wave,
it
is
retarded
and
piled
up
to
a
height
which
enables
it
to
inundate
the
flats
of
the
maritime
belt,
over
which
it
sweeps
with
an
irresistible
onset."

Despite
such
reports,
Isaac
and
his
colleagues
in
the
bureau
believed
that
a
hurricane's
most
lethal
weapon
was
the
wind.
They
did
not
see
the
parallels.
Isaac,
like
the
famous
Commodore
Maury,
believed
the
shallow
slope
of
the
seabed
off
Galveston
would
wear
down
incoming
seas
before
they
struck
the
city,
and
had
argued
in
his
1891
News
article
that
mainland
areas
north
of
Galveston
Bay
would
serve
as
basins
to
capture
whatever
floodwaters
a
storm
did
manage
to
drive
ashore.

The
hurricane
of
1900
would
cause
a
hasty
reevaluation.
In
October,
in
the
Weather
Bureau's
Monthly
Weather
Review,
one
of
the
bureau's
leading
lights,
Prof.
E.
B.
Garriott,
belatedly
observed
that
Galveston's
geography
and
topography
in
fact
"render
it,
in
the
presence
of
severe
storms,
peculiarly
subject
to
inundation."

A
storm's
trajectory
can
also
increase
the
destructive
power
of
a
surge.
If
a
hurricane
strikes
at
an
oblique
angle,
it
spreads
its
storm
surge
over
a
broader
swath
of
coast,
thereby
dissipating
the
surge's
depth
and
energy.
The
Galveston
hurricane
struck
the
Texas
coast
head-on,
at
a
nearly
perfect
ninety-degree
angle,
after
traveling
a
long,
unobstructed
fetch
of
some
eight
hundred
miles.
The
track
focused
the
onshore
flow
directly
into
the
city.

The
track
produced
another
lethal
effect,
however.
It
brought
north
winds
to
Galveston
Bay
twenty-four
hours
before
landfall.
Throughout
most
of
Saturday,
these
intensified
to
gale
force
and
finally
to
hurricane
force.
Due
north
of
Galveston
Island,
the
bay
offers
an
unobstructed
fetch
of
about
thirty-five
miles
(about
the
same
fetch
as
presented
by
Lake
Okeechobee).
And
just
as
in
the
freak
Galveston
blizzard
of
February
1899,
the
wind
blew
the
water
out
of
Galveston
Bay
—
this
time
into
the
city
itself.

In
effect,
the
storm's
trajectory
made
Galveston
the
victim
of
two
storm
surges,
the
first
from
the
bay,
the
second
from
the
Gulf,
and
ensured
moreover
that
the
Gulf
portion
would
be
exceptionally
severe.
Throughout
the
morning,
the
north
winds
kept
the
leading
edge
of
the
Gulf
surge
out
at
sea,
banking
the
water
and
transforming
the
Gulf
into
a
compressed
spring,
ready
to
leap
forward
the
moment
the
winds
shifted.

The
first
shift,
from
north
to
east,
began
at
about
two
o'clock
Saturday
afternoon,
Galveston
time.
This
allowed
some
of
the
Gulf
surge
to
come
ashore.
Water
flowed
over
the
Bolivar
Peninsula
and
began
rising
within
the
shaft
of
the
Bolivar
Light.
It
flowed
too
over
Fort
San
Jacinto
and
Galveston's
East
Side,
where
it
met
the
floodwater
already
driven
into
the
city
from
the
bay.
The
reason
so
many
men
and
women
in
Galveston
began
furiously
chopping
holes
in
their
beloved
parlor
floors
was
to
admit
the
water
and,
they
hoped,
anchor
their
homes
in
place.

At
7:30
P.M.,
the
wind
shifted
again,
this
time
from
east
to
south.
And
again
it
accelerated.
It
moved
through
the
city
like
a
mailman
delivering
dynamite.
Sustained
winds
must
have
reached
150
miles
an
hour,
gusts
perhaps
200
or
more.

The
sea
followed.

Galveston
became
Atlantis.

ABOUT
SEVEN
O'CLOCK,
Dr.
Young
heard
a
heavy
thumping
that
seemed
to
come
from
a
downstairs
bedroom
on
the
east
side
of
his
house.
He
lit
the
candle
that
he
had
held
in
reserve
and
walked
toward
the
hall
stairwell,
the
candle
throwing
only
a
shallow
arc
of
light
on
the
floor
around
him.
Pistol-shot
drafts
penetrated
deep
within
the
house
and
caused
the
candle's
flame
to
twist,
but
did
nothing
to
cool
the
rooms.
At
the
Levy
Building
about
then
John
Blagden
was
recording
a
temperature
of
84.2
degrees.
The
shock
of
each
thump
vibrated
through
the
floor
of
Young's
house.
It
was
as
if
someone
were
standing
in
the
downstairs
bedroom
striking
the
ceiling
with
a
railroad
mallet.

The
stairwell
appeared
ahead
as
a
large
black
rectangle
stamped
from
the
floor,
and
the
closer
Young
got,
the
deeper
the
candlelight
traveled.
It
should
have
shown
him
stairs
and
the
wood
slats
of
the
banister,
but
he
saw
neither,
only
an
orange
glow
undulating
on
the
opposite
wall
like
sunlight
off
a
floating
mirror.

Water,
he
realized.
The
sea
had
risen
within
his
house
nearly
to
the
top
step.
The
heavy
thudding
from
the
bedroom
had
to
be
furniture.
A
bureau,
perhaps,
bumping
against
the
ceiling
as
the
water
rose
and
fell.
Young
set
the
candle
on
the
floor
and
walked
to
the
door
that
led
to
his
second-floor
gallery.
He
opened
it.
"In
a
second
I
was
blown
back
into
the
hall."

The
wind
snuffed
the
flame,
then
blew
the
candle
and
its
holder
to
the
far
reaches
of
the
house.
From
within
the
darkness
of
the
hall,
the
doorway
appeared
as
a
rectangle
of
wild
gray
air.
The
power
of
the
wind
shocked
Young;
it
also
inflamed
his
curiosity.
Another
man
might
have
sought
shelter
in
one
of
the
second-floor
bedrooms,
but
Young,
drawn
by
the
sheer
power
of
the
storm,
fought
his
way
back
toward
the
door.

He
kept
close
to
the
wall.
He
winched
himself
forward
from
doorknob
to
doorknob.
At
the
door,
he
fastened
his
hands
around
the
frame
and
hauled
himself
outside.
"The
scene,"
he
said,
"was
the
grandest
I
ever
witnessed."

It
was
as
if
he
were
aboard
a
ship
in
a
storm.
Waves
swept
through
his
neighborhood.
One
witness
said
the
waves
looked
like
the
"sides
of
huge
elephants."
Each
embodied
a
destructive
power
nearly
beyond
measure.
A
single
cubic
yard
of
water
weighs
about
fifteen
hundred
pounds.
A
wave
fifty
feet
long
and
ten
feet
high
has
a
static
weight
of
over
eighty
thousand
pounds.
Moving
at
thirty
miles
an
hour,
it
generates
forward
momentum
of
over
two
million
pounds,
so
much
force,
in
fact,
that
at
this
point
during
the
storm
the
incoming
swells
had
begun
destroying
the
brand-new
artillery
emplacements
at
Fort
Crockett,
which
had
been
designed
to
withstand
Spanish
bombardment.
Debris
made
the
waves
especially
dangerous.
Each
wave
propelled
huge
pieces
of
wreckage
that
did
to
houses
what
the
reinforced
prow
of
Captain
Nemo's
Nautilus
did
to
great
warships.
One
man
reported
dodging
a
giant
piano
embedded
in
the
crest
of
a
wave,
"its
white
keys
gleaming
even
in
the
darkness."

The
only
other
house
still
standing
belonged
to
a
family
named
Youens,
with
the
mother,
father,
son,
and
daughter
still
inside.
Two
minutes
later,
Young
saw
the
Youens
house
begin
a
slow
pirouette.
"It
turned
partly
around
and
then
seemed
to
hang
as
if
suspended."

At
about
the
same
time,
the
wind
changed
direction
from
east
to
southeast,
and
again
intensified.
Young
felt
himself
compressed
against
the
wall
of
his
gallery.
"Mr.
Youens'
house
rose
like
a
huge
steamboat,
was
swept
back
and
suddenly
disappeared,"
Young
said.
He
thought
of
the
family
inside.
"My
feelings
were
indescribable
as
I
saw
them
go."

Now
he
was
alone,
his
house
an
atoll
in
a
typhoon.
The
water
continued
to
rise.
"At
one
bound
it
reached
my
second
story
and
poured
in
my
door,
which
was
exacdy
thirty-three
feet
above
the
street.
The
wind
again
increased.
It
did
not
come
in
gusts,
but
was
more
like
the
steady
downpour
of
Niagara
than
anything
I
can
think
of."