Poipu Beach, Kauai, Hawaii
September 1992
Delores’s memory couldn’t have been clearer had it happened yesterday.
The large plate-glass window that broke in front of my eyes was the first sign of trouble. Because I stayed behind the counter and had the presence of mind to duck to safety, I lived. Looking up from the floor, I could see everything in the diner flying over my head, either continuing through the opening into the kitchen or bouncing off the walls and ceiling and falling on top of me. Shards of glass cut my exposed legs and arms. I crawled into the far, protected corner, looked up, and saw that the roof had disappeared.
* * *
The high-pitched sound of the fronds quivering in the adjacent palm trees stirred Delores Weaver from her old memory, from almost a lifetime ago. Repeatedly, she brushed back her long gray hair. Delores hung on tightly to the wrought-iron railing of the lanai—and to her husband standing beside her. She could tell from his pained expression that the worsening weather upset him.
Hurricane Iniki, the radio said, had taken a direct line for Poipu Beach on the south shore of Kauai; the weather would worsen as the day wore on. The earlier rain showers had transitioned into a continuous sheet of rain.
Yes, this was going to be a bad one, she made a point of saying to her husband, but it couldn’t be worse than the one that hit Texas City, Texas, back during the big war. Nothing could match that experience.
Delores noticed that her husband smiled at the mention of Texas City. To provide him some distraction, she began her story.
* * *
The middle and latter years of World War II drained the spirits of many, even those of a seventeen-year-old girl with enthusiasm and big ambitions. Looking forward to graduation in 1943 held little joy for me. Several of my male classmates had already quit school and gone off to boot camp.
My older brother, Steve, a tank captain, was fighting Hitler’s war machine in northern Africa. His weekly letters, photographically reduced on small sheets of paper, strained our eyes. Although censored, they kept my family and me up-to-date. Radio and newspaper reports gave perspective to his letters. I took it for granted that I probably knew more than Steve did. General Rommel was one wily son of a bitch.
Despite the somber mood of the country, I resolved then that nothing would change my goals in life. Sure, I might have a minor detour or delay, but beyond that, I would proceed as planned: college, medical school, maybe husband and family. Compounded by the stress of a polio epidemic that threatened the country in 1943, my resolve was tested severely after that dreadful day in June.
It was the fifth of the month, a Saturday, a day that started uneventfully but ended in heartache for my parents, my younger sister, and me.
A black car drove up to the house. That in itself didn’t reveal its purpose, but the two military personnel who got out did. Through the sheer window curtains, my mother saw them first. It was ten-thirty in the morning.
When it happened, I knew I would remember until the day I died the shriek that filled the house. Everyone came running. The message that Steve had fought heroically did little to assuage our grief. After the chaplain and his assistant left the house, my family huddled together in the center of the living room. I watched our tears pool on the hardwood floor beneath our feet.
Although my previous spring’s graduation had been a subdued event, I had still looked forward to college in the fall. Following Steve’s death, I decided to delay my education for one year and stay near my family.
I rationalized that an additional year would provide more savings for college. Having waitressed every summer for four years, I had created a respectable nest egg. On a good day, with tips, I took home between six and eight dollars. My parents had pledged additional support, but they were not rich people. And in light of the loss my family had sustained, I decided that a delay would not have a serious impact on my life’s plan.
The summer proceeded drearily. Although thoughts of Steve forever weighed on our minds, my family adjusted to his loss. All seemed to be going reasonably well—until the hurricane hit.
* * *
By midmorning, it became clear to Delores, still maintaining her position on the Lanai, that Iniki was no blowhard. She had the stuff and knew how to use it, as Delores’s mother used to say. Delores’s neighbors insisted they move to the shelter across the street. She conceded to herself that this hurricane had had its way with her. That wasn’t the way it had happened in 1943; she had stood firm.
Delores’s face flushed as she noticed her husband waiting expectantly. She continued her story.
* * *
The hurricane that struck the southern Texas coast on the 27th of July didn’t have a name. It later became known as the “Surprise” hurricane of 1943. Compared with the people of Kauai, the population of Texas City had scant warning. Those times long preceded the advent of modern satellite weather surveillance that could forewarn residents in the storm’s path, and it would be several years before “hurricane hunter” aircraft could locate and track tropical cyclones.
As if this hurricane had a past it wanted to keep secret, it remained away from land. And because ships made a point of not using their radios because of the threat of German U-boats in the Gulf of Mexico, no one ashore received any unusual weather reports.
I was at work on a six-to-three day-shift when the weather turned sour, with wind and rain like nothing I had ever experienced. Leaves, street debris, and anything else not secured blew sideways down the street outside the diner.
The clock inched past two, and I started to worry about getting home. Besides the cook and me, only one customer was in the diner when the tornado struck. The sound arrived first—a dull roar.
After what seemed to be minutes of uncontrollable terror, which were only seconds, the wind subsided as fast as it had begun. A torrent of rain poured in from the now-visible, angry clouds above. As I sat in the corner gathering my wits, my first thought turned to Steve and how these last moments might have compared to the moments before he died. Taking stock, I realized I had escaped serious injury, with no more than cuts on my arms and legs.
“Delores! Are you alive?” Bradley, the cook, yelled out to me as he crawled around the corner from the kitchen.
I climbed to my feet, astonished to see that very little of the structure remained. The front and side walls, loose tables and chairs, all had disappeared. Only the counter stools, bolted to the floor, stood upright.
Bradley, like me, appeared worse for wear, but ambulatory. Seconds later, I heard a moan from around the corner. It was my sole customer, a boy slightly older than myself, hanging on to one of the bar stools. He was conscious and bleeding profusely.
As I drew closer, I realized that one of the shards of flying glass had driven itself into the side of his neck. He may have had other injuries, but this one clearly threatened his life. I called out to Bradley to get help.
I trembled as I bent down. I didn’t know what to do, but I had the presence of mind not to remove the shard. The boy’s eyes found mine, and I realized then that I might be the last person he would ever see. I later confided to friends that I had no idea where I got the strength to control my emotions during those difficult minutes. I cradled his head in one hand against my knee.
“Hold on! Help is on the way.”
As his eyes seemed to focus, the boy spoke. “Tell Mom, Dad, and Mikey I love them.”
Instinctively, I brought my free hand to my mouth. “What’s your name?” I said.
Seconds before he lost consciousness, I heard him reply, “Jimmy Boy.”
* * *
As Delores told her story, she heard reports coming into the shelter that Iniki’s winds had pushed past 150 miles per hour. Although she had told this story to her husband countless times, his Alzheimer’s made each occasion a new one. Moreover, this time the story seemed especially reassuring, what with the noise and commotion of the storm outside. Delores pulled him close and offered reassurance that the noise and fury would soon be over and they could go back to their bed.
Delores continued. She knew the ending was her husband’s favorite part.
* * *
Although 90 percent of the area’s buildings had either flood or wind damage from the hurricane, the tornado that struck my diner was the only one reported in the area. The rest of the town remained functional, and an ambulance arrived before too long. I watched as the attendants loaded the boy into the ambulance and drove off, siren wailing.
Afterward, I worked with the town’s volunteers and helped return Texas City to its pre-storm normality, including the rebuilt diner where I worked through the summer of 1944. By then, I felt confident enough to leave my parents and sister. I eventually received my medical degree, specializing in pediatrics. I married shortly thereafter, raised three sons, and lived the life I had planned all along.
“Best of all,” Delores stated with particular emphasis, “I shared my entire adult life with the man I married, the man I loved, and the man I knew loved me. I couldn’t have asked for more.”
A smile lit her husband’s face and stayed that way for several seconds before disappearing and leaving the empty gaze Delores knew all too well. Those few seconds of pleasure on her husband’s face made all the difference in the world to Delores. She knew those same seconds meant even more to Jimmy Boy.