UNC Sea Grant 

 7:1 f 



V 



February, 1980 



NORTH CAROLINA STATE LIBRAK 

 RALEIGH 



N. C 

 Doc. 



A SEP i 8 1980 



Illustration by Neil Caudle 



/4s a hurricane moves ashore, crashing waves wrench buildings from their foundations 



Hurricanes: when the roofs fly and the floors float 



If you are at the coast and a 

 hurricane warning is issued, leave. Get 

 far away to high ground. Sure, you'll 

 wonder what it would be like to stick 

 around, watch the fireworks. Don't do 

 it. Read this instead. 



As the windspeed accelerates beyond 

 74 mph, you know you're in a 

 hurricane (not like David, last sum- 

 mer. He was pooped before he got 

 here). That's also about the time 

 things start learning to fly. The clay 

 flower pot just left a dent grinning in 

 the hood of your car. The garbage can 

 looks like Mercury I lifting off and is 

 just about to dive through the $200 

 plate glass window and splash down on 

 the coffee table. . . 



Okay, maybe you had the good sense 

 to board up those windows. The house 

 shudders from the impact of the mis- 

 sile, but nothing cracks. The wind 



reaches about 80 mph, too much for 

 the average roof. You can't hear them 

 for the din of the storm, but the 

 shingles are peeling off and sailing like 

 frisbees. The wind shoves and lifts your 

 roof, trying to make it into an airplane, 

 a function for which it is fairly well 

 designed. About now, were you in the 

 attic, you might see the rafters rip 

 loose from the wall, their little nails 

 clutching air, so that the wind can 

 really get a grip . . . 



Or maybe your house was built in 

 the last couple of years. The revised 

 building code declares that new houses 

 on the coast must have enough metal 

 straps and connectors to hold 

 everything together, so long as the 

 blow doesn't get stronger than about 

 110 mph. Assume the contractor didn't 

 fudge. Assume this is an average 

 hurricane, not a Camille, for example, 



which struck Mississippi in 1969 at 

 about 172 mph. The roof won't take 

 wings. You shake your fist at the Big 

 Bad Wolf, who just failed to blow your 

 house down. Save it. He's just getting 

 started. 



If you could see through the hurtling 

 clouds of water that have replaced the 

 air outside, you might notice the 

 swollen belly of the storm surge crawl- 

 ing landward, sucked up into a mound 

 about ten feet higher than the mean 

 water level, with waves breaking on 

 top like frosting on the cake. This is 

 when you start thinking about what's 

 under you. It's plain that little sand 

 dune in front of your house has about 

 as much chance of stopping that wall 

 of water as the Havelock High 

 cheerleading squad has of stopping the 



Continued on next page 



