Riding out Hurricane Matthew: Heavy rain, brutal wind, falling trees

I guess the only logical place to start is at the beginning. In my 60 years here, the only time I ever evacuated was during Hurricane David — and that was a mistake. It came right up the Savannah River, and where was I? On the seventh floor of the Desoto Hilton in Savannah, watching the plate-glass doors in my room bend in and out.

Never knew glass could do that.

In my defense, I was ready to bolt Hurricane Matthew but decided to stay. My choices were my old house or my good friend Dan Cornell’s giant house in Wexford Plantation on Hilton Head. I chose Dan’s house. Why? I had two aces in the hole. The first was I knew he had his house built like a fortress. Most wall studs are 14 inches apart, but in his house the studs were put 4 inches apart.

Second, a really good friend of mine is a head producer at the Weather Channel who constantly kept me updated. Staying with me were friends Jan and Chuck Robinson, along with my nephew Byron Sewell and his girl, Carole Berthiaume. I knew we were going to get it, but with five animals, I pretty much had to stay.

Hilton Head was a ghost town, so before the storm reached us, Byron and I decided to fish in places that were off limits any other day of the year. In one spot, we walked up to where the water was flowing, and there had to have been over a hundred redfish of all sizes, facing into the flow with heads and backs out of the water. They knew what was coming, as did fish at every spot we stopped. No matter what we threw to them, they ate it, as did flounder in and around the 10-pound range.

If you ever have questions about severe weather, watch the fish and birds, because somehow they know.

After that, it was hunker-down time. As the wind picked up, there was one really tall pine in front of Dan’s house that was bouncing around like one of those hula dolls folks put on the dash of a car. I knew it would come down, so I named it “Bob.” As the wind increased, we would check on Bob every hour until I heard someone yell, “Bob’s Down!”

From then on, it sounded like a jet was sitting outside the door with engines winding up. It was raining so hard water was shooting off the roof a good 5 feet. In the height of the storm, I stepped out into an alcove of sorts, and it was blowing so hard the rain was horizontal mixed with limbs and such. If I had extended my hand into that wall of power, it would have snatched me right out into the mix.

Prior to the eye reaching us, Dan’s father-in-law called, asking me to go secure doors that had blown open at his house nearby. The water was up to my headlights and, at most, I could see 5 feet as debris whizzed by my car. In hindsight, I’ll never do that again.

As the eye approached, the trees started coming down in mass. One monster came down on the roof, punching a hole in it, then it rolled down to the next roof line, punched through that and water poured through. We scurried around for buckets and such, but the damage had been done.

From that point on, it was a waiting game. If only the sun would come up. It seems hurricanes always hit at night, making them doubly spooky.

When dawn finally arrived and I opened the door, it was as if I had stepped into a different universe. It was like someone had dumped a box of toothpicks, as trees were this way and that. Carole’s car got smushed; mine was basically intact, but one thing was sure: We weren’t going anywhere.

Hiking down to the Wexford Harbor, all you could see was water. There was no harbor — or if there was, you couldn’t tell where it was. The docks were a good 5 feet under water, with boats either sunk, sinking or floating free and just about every tree was on the ground.

So how was I able to get out of Wexford? It was around noon, the wind was still blowing and trees were still coming down when I heard what sounded like a tractor or something — the first engine I had heard since the storm had passed. Walking through knee-deep mud and water, hopping over trees, I see a guy on a Bobcat and walk up to him.

His first question to me was, “Got any coffee?” I told him yes but it was “cowboy coffee” done on a gas grill and sifted through paper towels.

I explained my dilemma, and he said for two cups of my brew he would push enough trees out of the way so I could squeeze my car through. Knowing a back route out of Wexford, I had to drive over golf courses, through yards, around trees until I reached U.S. 278. All I wanted to do was get back to my house in Bluffton — that is, if it was still standing.

Getting off Hilton Head was quite the feat. This lane, that lane, around trees, across fields. Every time I encountered police, they frantically tried to wave me down, so I would stop. With a year’s experience helping folks north of Charleston after Hurricane Hugo, I knew how to handle this minor inconvenience. I simply smiled, waved back to them and kept on trucking.

Finally reaching my house, I wasn’t sure if it was there, because it was under a pile of tree limbs. With neighbors helping with chainsaws, we uncovered it, and not one limb had punctured the roof! Every power line was down, but the house was still there.

A day or two later, electric crews out of South Florida showed up to restring downed power lines, but for whatever reason, my neighborhood is absolutely the last place to get attention. The brainchild of my eccentric neighbor, Neil Lax, we boiled up 15 pounds of shrimp and took them to the crews working on the lines.

The head guy looks at me and says, “Bo, these other folks around here might not get power for a while, but I’ll make sure you get it!” True to his word, my lights came on in the middle of the night and, even now, my house is the only house on my street with power. My neighbors are all jealous, but sometimes you just have to work the system.

But just so you don’t think I am a total bad guy, my house is “shower central,” where all day long neighbors line up for their first hot shower since Day 1. It’s amazing what a hot shower can do to help people feel human again.

So there is my story until now. Every day I head out to help others with trees on their homes, clear paths to their homes and then get home in time to cook for the entire neighborhood.

Would I stay if another storm came? Absolutely — but only if there isn’t a pine tree within a hundred yards of the place I am staying.

This story was originally published October 14, 2016 at 5:30 PM with the headline "Riding out Hurricane Matthew: Heavy rain, brutal wind, falling trees."