front four of the Pittsburgh Steelers. 



But as the waves chew it away, that 

 dune is buying you time. Time to recall 

 certain scriptures, not the least of 

 which speaks to the practice of 

 building one's house on sand. 



What if your house is built low to the 

 ground, on a solid masonry slab or 

 foundation? You're sitting pretty, 

 right? That's what the people at 

 Holden's Beach thought in 1954, until 

 Hurricane Hazel taught them different- 

 ly. Down there, you're in the combat 

 zone. And because buildings are 

 bouyant, your house is about to 

 become a boat. Floating houses come 

 to rest in interesting, asymmetrical 



configurations, but on someone else's 

 property. Even if the house has been 

 bolted to the foundation and holds on, 

 the surge will probably dismember it, 

 beginning with the weakest section. Or, 

 the water will scour soil from under the 

 foundation, and whole sections will 

 collapse. Or, floating battering rams — 

 campers, picnic tables and trailers — 

 will ram great holes in the walls. That's 

 all the foothold the winds need to finish 

 the job. 



But let's assume, since you've been 

 ahead of the game so far, that your 

 house is built up on pilings, AS 

 EVERY BEACH HOUSE SHOULD 

 BE, and is above the storm surge. The 



surge passes on under the house, with 

 nothing much down there to shove 

 around. Don't relax yet. If the floor 

 frame of the house is just nailed to the 

 pilings, those waves cresting against 

 the floor may just lift the whole house 

 free. If the floor frame is well made, 

 and anchored to the piles with W 

 carriage bolts for each supporting pile, 

 and the piles are notched only an inch 

 or so, you may be safe. 



By now, the last of that little sand 

 dune is washing across the street. If 

 your pilings were sunk only about as 

 deep as the dune, so that what used to 

 be under ground isn't, your house is 

 about to become a ship. Those piles 

 will behave something like bowling 

 pins when the next wave rolls 

 through. 



Okay, let's assume you're blessed 

 with the perfect beach house: pilings 

 sunk at least eight feet into the profile 

 of the shoreline; metal bolts and 

 fasteners holding everything together; 

 well-fastened roofing and well- 

 shuttered windows. Odds are you'll 

 make it. That is, unless this baby turns 

 into one of those "200-year storms," so 

 called because they're expected to hit a 

 shoreline only about every couple of 

 centuries. 



Or, unless your neighbor's house is 

 less perfect than yours. That is when 

 you honestly, truly, get that sinking 

 feeling. When you see that three- 

 bedroom house next door rock, slowly, 

 to one side, snap its piles like pencils, 

 belly-flop into the water, and glide 

 straight for you. . . 



Not a direct hit. Just a chunk is mis- 

 sing from one corner of your house, but 

 suddenly, your house starts trembling, 

 the water-fattened winds come blitzing 

 through the hole. The rugs go squishy 

 with water. The wallboard resembles 

 something like painted oatmeal, and 

 the siding is springing off one side of 

 the house. 



Let's say you're extremely lucky. 

 Your well-constructed beach house is 

 not a total loss. That is, if you can get 

 it back together in time for the next 

 storm. These big, bad wolves like to 

 run in packs. 



Remember? On August 30 and Sep- 

 tember 10, 1954, Carol and Edna came 

 chasing through like pranksters. Then, 

 on October 15, just when everybody 

 was getting good and sick of cleaning 

 up after hurricanes. Hazel came howl- 

 ing. She licked up miles of dunes, 

 leveled hundreds of houses and killed 

 19 people. 



Wave action scours soil from under shallow, masonry foundations, so 

 that walls collapse and the wind gains leverage against the roof 



