Memory Sticks, 9/21/89

Dear Maria,

A couple of days of cooler temperatures and drier air in Greenville and Max and I agreed to lengthen our stride during the morning walk. Stars out, very nearly the last sliver of the moon, and a quiet that needs to be heard to be appreciated. Makes for a quick forgetting of sluggish, muggy mornings.

Speaking of remembering—chuckle or groan? A friend of mine ask me recently if while sailing I had been in a storm. A few times, but one very particular night remains vividly in the memory. During an evening race that took us offshore, we were caught coming back in between the jetties when a 60-knot microburst struck us from the north. The roar of wind and rain, the sound of a rescue chopper hovering to pull folks from a boat wrecked on the south jetty, the flashes of light that revealed the rocks to be a mere 6’ from our stern as two crew members fought like devils to get our genoa back on the foredeck.  Seven to eight-foot swells chased us home all the way to The Battery.

Of course, you know experts insist that the more senses involved, the deeper the memories. Another night, another storm, and all of us here remember. Hurricane Hugo.

That roar—like a shop fan a hundred feet tall. The muffled booms of heavy pines thumping the ground and the vibrations felt inside the house. Sea water around my ankles during the eye of the storm as I went out to the street, trying to take in what was happening in the darkness of that night. My neighbor hammering down a few pieces of plywood on his roof before the engine reignited.

And to think I slept somehow as the second phase of the storm was winding down.

The next morning—two thoughts about the moment I stepped onto the front porch. Too much sky, there was too much sky showing, and left behind, only a few trees where once had been a solid massing of green in every direction. And the smell. The scent of pine as if my face had been shoved into a bucket of crushed needles, or a thousand neighbors had massed their Christmas trees in front of my house.

We had been bombed.

The sound of chainsaws, the smell of grilled food. The aching muscles, the relief of a hot shower. The voice on the radio out of Jacksonville. The neighbors’ cheers when learning The Citadel beat Navy. The thwack of the morning newspaper landing in the driveway.

Oh, yes. I remember. Twenty-five years ago. Deeply held, that memory, eyes open or eyes closed. You should have been here. Maybe not.

Here’s to slipping by unscathed one more season. Have a great week.

Yours, srk