CATASTROPHE: Abyss from the Indies

Year in, year out across the northern U. S., great areas of high and low pressure, each several hundred miles in diameter, roll like atmospheric groundswells—the lows bringing overcast and rainy weather, the highs fair skies. Compared to this relatively placid atmospheric topography, the antics of West Indies weather are fantastic. In that tropical neighborhood, pits of low pressure suddenly take form, airy abysses miles deep into which winds from the high-pressure areas rush from all sides not at 30, 40, 50 m. p. h. but at 75, TOO, even 200 m. p. h. Such an abyss formed late last fortnight northeast of Puerto Rico.

Like others of its kind this pit did not remain stationary. Usually they move northwestward till they strike the coast of Florida or the Gulf, then turn northeastward, out over the Atlantic. Last week’s pit started on this route, swerved northward before it reached the coast of Florida. Off Cape Hatteras it appeared to swing northeastward but its path was blocked because an unusually broad high pressure plateau covered nearly the whole north Atlantic. Following the course of least resistance the pit swept northward into a low-pressure trough—across Long Island, through the heart of New England, into Canada, finally vanishing north of Montreal.

That was all, but for one day it made a cataclysm in the barometric topography of the U. S. New England suddenly found itself at the bottom of an atmospheric abyss between two great plateaus (see map). The effect would hardly have been much more catastrophic had a new Grand Canyon of the Colorado suddenly opened in the Connecticut Valley.

At 2:45 p. m. on September 21 the storm reached Long Island. More destructive hurricanes have bombarded U. S. shores, but never has a hurricane struck a region so thickly populated and so unprepared. Inattentive to weather reports, many a landsman had his first intimation that the wind and rain were more than an equinoctial storm, when he had a “funny feeling” in his ears—the effect of sudden low pressure, like that of going up in an elevator.

Long Island. The shrieking vortex of the storm first hit Long Island between Babylon and Patchogue where the barometer reached an all-time low for that area, 27.95 in. At summer resorts on the long strip of sand dunes separating the ocean from Great South, Moriches and Shinnecock Bays, the hurricane swept away everything not securely anchoredincluding all wind-measuring instruments.

Following the first fierce blow came tidal waves, several in succession to heights of 30 or 40 feet. Bath houses, boat houses, summer cottages, Coast Guard stations, long rows of squat and sturdy stores were swept away, hammered into high windrows of kindling wood or carried over whole to toss on the raging bay waters. Of 150 buildings in West Hampton Beach, six were left standing. In the bays, even in village streets on the mainland, drowning people screamed and struggled.

In swank Southampton to the east, ranks of expensive cabanas were devoured by the sea, mansions along the dunes buffeted and flooded by titanic waves. Streets, lined with ancient elms that were Southampton’s pride, looked like the Argonne of 1918. East Hampton, still further east, and Amagansett, were in worse case. More than four in every ten of their stately elms crashed. The sea rushed up and over the dunes to lash even at the Maidstone Country Club on its high bluff, obliterating the golf course and 50 prize flower gardens. Rich summer colonists and poor fisher folk suffered alike. Falling trees crushed the Maidstone Hotel. The Bridgehampton freight station was shunted smack across the tracks.

Out toward naked Montauk Point, the 190-ft. Mackay Radio tower at Napeague was flung to earth. Fishing craft were splintered, fishermen’s shacks blown to flinders. Refugees huddled marooned in the brick-walled Montauk Manor on high ground. On Long Island’s northerly finger the hurricane from the south made shambles of the shipyards of Greenport, unroofed a full movie theatre.

On the other side of the vortex, at Long Island’s western end, the violence came from the north and northwest. From Huntington to Manhassett Bay on the north shore, the Long Island Sound waterfront was smashed in. On the south shore, buildings at Jones Beach were blown toward the sea instead of back into the bays. Torrential floods halted traffic and, like most of Suffolk County to the east, 95% of Nassau County (pop. 303,000) was in darkness. Brooklyn and New York City, catching the fringe of winds which registered 120 m. p. h. in some gusts, were flooded and stalled. Lights went out for an hour, subways halted, when the Hellgate powerhouse was flooded by storm tide. The Staten Island ferryboat Knickerbocker was caught by the wind in her slip, jammed into an iron bumper rail at an angle that drove her 200 passengers near to panic before two tugs managed to work her loose.

Across the Sound. Whistling and whining across Long Island Sound, the big wind hit New England with increased fury. (Harvard observatory at Blue Hill, Mass. registered gusts of 186 m. p. h.) At Bridgeport, New Haven and New London, the storm waves hurled shipping into the streets and across railroad tracks. The crack Bostonian express train had to nose a house out of its way as it crawled, half-submerged, to safety, dragging telephone poles by their fallen wires, leaving all but one car behind in a washout. A capsized naval training ship started a fire in New London that consumed an entire city block. Mrs. Helen E. Lewis, Republican nominee for Connecticut Secretary of State, was drowned with her husband when their island cottage at Stony Creek was swept away.

At Watch Hill, Westerly and Charlestown, R. I. loss of life was heavy. Scores of people who took refuge in the highest dunes were swept away by mountainous seas which carved a new coastline. Well Rock lighthouse at Point Judith was hammered down. So was Prudence Island lighthouse, killing the tender’s wife and son. Charlestown was wiped out. Seven school children were drowned in a bus on Jamestown Island.

The rich colony at Newport suffered worse than their friends at Southampton. Bailey’s Beach. Ocean Drive and the Clambake Club were demolished. Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney’s sculpture studio was torn off its cliff. Mrs. Jock Whitney’s aunt, Mrs. John C. Norris and her son John C. Jr., were drowned in their car as they tried to motor from Narragansett Pier. In a house at Misquamicut, ten women holding a church social were drowned.

Raging up Narragansett Bay, wind and water struck Providence, short circuiting all power. A 300,000 cu.-ft. gas tank exploded. Short-circuited auto horns set up a doleful din. Towns up Buzzard’s Bay and along the Cape Cod Canal were devastated. A steeple in East Bridgewater fell point first through the roof of its own church. At Northfield Seminary a falling chimney killed two girls, injured 20. “Old Ironsides,” torn from her moorings in Boston Navy Yard, was badly battered.

Aftermath. As the storm raced inland, veering northwest toward Montreal, it flattened crops and orchards, wrenched away miles of wires, acres of signboards. It blew away the famed Jacobs Ladder trestle on Mt. Washington. Dumping trillions of tons of rain on New England, the hurricane swelled rivers already swollen by three days of ordinary rain. Highways and railroads were washed out. In the Connecticut Valley cities marshaled sandbag brigades. Hartford held its breath while the dike by the Colt Arms factory held through a flood stage 36.45 feet. In the Thames Valley, Norwich, Conn., isolated, was supplied with food and medicines by airplane.

As the devastated East picked itself up, dried itself off, began burying its dead, Harry Hopkins flew to join the six New England Governors in Boston. To $500,000 from the Red Cross he added the promise of “unlimited funds” and 100,000 workers from WPA. Disaster Loan Corp. (subsidiary of RFC) offered rehabilitation loans. After five days, some communities were still isolated, train service had not been restored on the full New York-to-Boston run, the known dead had passed 600, the estimated damage half a billion dollars.

>At West Hampton, L. I., Arni Benedictson, Norwegian butler of Mr. & Mrs. William Ottman Jr. proved to be an Admirable Crichton straight out of Sir James Barrie’s play. With meticulous calm he saved 23 people by shepherding them, including the Countess de Fontnouvelle (wife of the French consul-general) and her infant, into the Ottman house, signaling for help from the roof with a bed sheet. At the storm’s height he reported to the house guests: “I am sure that our signal was observed, but the situation is most disturbing and perhaps I should venture outside and bring help from the mainland.” He then fought his way through the storm to find three stout lads who helped him lead his little band to safety over a breaking bridge.