Wave
Page 27
By the end of the first week, 204 people were assumed missing or dead. Two days later that number dropped to 183, and by the end of the second week 154 bodies had been recovered. That left a total of 29 individuals unaccounted for, including Mayor Donald J. Harper. The general theory was that the waves had simply pulled them out to sea, a common occurrence in tsunami scenarios. For the families of those 29, there would be no closure, no bittersweet assurance. They would have to live with the nightmarish thoughts of their loved ones’ bodies slowly decomposing in the open waters until, finally, they became a part of the food chain, courtesy of whatever life forms were lucky enough to encounter them.
While few could imagine anyone remaining on the island and surviving, several miraculous stories emerged. A professional diving instructor, who had spent nearly his whole life on LBI and most of that in the water, chained himself to an old wreck a few hundred yards offshore and waited until the waves subsided. He later sold his story to SCUBA World for ten thousand dollars. A very lucky woman in her early twenties was found unconscious in her 2001 Volkswagen Beetle, atop a pile of rocks somewhere near what used to be the Causeway. She was at a complete loss for an explanation, as her last memory was of waiting in a slow-moving line of traffic on Long Beach Boulevard. Then there was the unconfirmed report, by the pilot of a fire-fighting plane, of a man walking on the beach near the Forsythe Refuge less than an hour after the fourth wave had subsided.
One of the bodies recovered—on the third day of searching—was that of Mark White. It had washed ashore within a hundred yards of the Forsythe Refuge and was spotted by a passing Coast Guard vessel shortly after sunrise. Due to the detrimental effects of the elements on the corpse, the coffin was kept closed during the wake. Jennifer King attended, but she broke down during the service and had to be supported as she was led out by her father and two brothers. Mark’s mother, conversely, seemed to be in deep denial, humming tunelessly to herself and communicating with no one. She would end her own life six years later, hanging herself in a squalid efficiency apartment in southern Florida.
Sixteen days after the disaster, LBI residents were allowed to return to the island via boats, albeit in controlled numbers and only for brief periods. Even those who had managed to regain their emotional centers found it difficult to look at the thousands of personal items scattered along the sand-covered streets, tangled in miles of seaweed, and lying broken along the beaches. One of the saddest sights was that of pets laying twisted and dead in gutters. Most of the homes that were still standing were badly damaged, and too dangerous to occupy. All but twenty-four were declared uninhabitable and would have to be rebuilt. Insurance claims on residences alone would total more than thirteen billion dollars, and the loss to businesses would reach even higher. Many residents took their insurance checks and fled, never to return.
On the one-year anniversary of the tragedy, Long Beach Township Mayor Valerie Pruitt stood at the eastern base of the new Causeway, where the Quarterdeck Inn once stood, and dedicated a memorial to those whose lives had been lost. “We turned a corner on that day,” she said. “And although we began down a new path in misery, we moved forward with bravery together.” Indeed, the majority of the survivors stayed and saw to the rebuilding of their community. The island had undergone a fundamental paradigm shift, a redefining of its persona. Whatever was before was gone, and whatever was to come had yet to be built. It would never be the same.
Once Pruitt was finished, she stepped aside so Tom Wilson could speak. The crowd of more than four thousand, including members of the media—many of whom had covered the disaster the year before—waited eagerly. Wilson had taken part in the rescue efforts for the first few weeks, then disappeared into seclusion and had not been seen or heard from since. He was known and liked among the residents, the loyal soldier of a fallen general who, it was generally accepted, had paid for his mistakes and was now, slowly, attaining folk-hero status. In most people’s eyes, Wilson was one of the few remaining links to Donald J. Harper.
In a choked voice, Wilson began by saying how proud Harper would be of “his people” if he were alive today. He said that Harper was as given to temptation as anyone but that, in the end, he “displayed his true self by displaying true selflessness.” There were sobs from the crowd; tissues and handkerchiefs came out. At the end of his speech, Wilson helped Pruitt uncover the memorial—the only jetty boulder that had been jarred loose, found on Seabreeze Drive in Peahala Park. It was chosen to symbolize the community’s resolve—a small part had been loosened and cast off, but the greater whole remained intact. A heavy bronze plaque had been riveted to the boulder, bearing the names of all 183 who had perished, including the twenty-nine whose bodies hadn’t been recovered. Donald Harper’s did not hold a special place or even bear the title of “Mayor;” it was simply listed alphabetically with the others.
The dedication ceremony ended just before noon that Saturday. Some left right away, but many lingered for awhile to gaze at the new memorial and remember. They spoke of their friends and loved ones and reflected upon the delicacy of life. Some commented that they lived in dangerous times, and the deaths of those 183 people was evidence of that. But others maintained that life was always precious and fleeting. There was no such thing as complete safety; security was merely an illusion, an idealistic dream. Even here, on this tiny island that few people on the planet had ever heard of, the darkest forces in the universe were closer than one might think.
The sky was blue and clear that day, as it had been precisely one year earlier. A few light clouds brushed the otherwise shimmering canvas, and an early summer sun was shining cheerfully overhead. Little by little the crowd dissolved. The people returned to their lives as residents of Long Beach Island, New Jersey. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough and would have to be faced and conquered.
By two o’clock they were all gone. The sun remained for awhile, then moved west until it, too, disappeared over the horizon.
AFTERWORD
The story in this book is, of course, fictional. But true tsunami disasters occur all over the world. The most recent, in southern Asia in December 2004, has claimed more than 150,000 victims as of this writing—many of them children. It was a tragedy of inestimable proportions and depthless sorrow. Wave, it should be noted, was not inspired by this event. The pages were undergoing final proofing when it happened.
As we grieve every day for those who perished, we must continue to help those who survived. I urge you to contribute to any of the fine charities involved in the relief effort. You can make a difference.
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