A night of close calls

Richard Wiens, The Triplicate

He didn't turn his back, and that made all the difference

There's a spot on the highway in Crescent City, at Front Street just before you hit the S curve to head over Elk Creek and out of town, where it's easy to imagine water overcoming land even with no tsunami in the forecast.

It's like the narrow end of a funnel, the harbor being the wide end.

Frank McNamara is here, soaked to the skin, but still trying to help an elderly couple whose car is stuck on a log. It's about 1:45 a.m. on March 28, 1964. His hands are on the rear bumper, trying to lift it. The robust 43-year-old attempts this feat with his back to the car, which is why he lives to celebrate his 88th birthday.

He faces the harbor as Crescent City's signature moment arrives. The 110-year-old town has already been swamped by three tidal waves this night. Now the biggest wave sparkles in the moonlight, maybe 150-200 yards away.

"I thought, my God, that thing's coming back with a vengeance."

He lets go of the bumper. "'Folks, that water's coming in again. Come on with me.' And they just sat there."

He leaves them and sprints north on the highway, desperate for an uphill slope.

'I'M GOING TO HAVE TO START THE DOG PADDLE'

It's never good news when you get awakened after midnight by a call

from one of your children. Frank and Patty McNamara are asleep in their

Elk Valley Road home, on the same property where he was born in 1921.

They've gone to bed unaware of the monster earthquake in Alaska and the

tsunami warnings for the West Coast. When the telephone rings, it's one

of their daughters, a Humboldt State University student up late

studying.

"Dad, you've got a tidal wave in Crescent City."

This is not something he can go back to sleep on. He manages Newman's

Paints, a store owned by his wife's parents on L Street half a block

from the highway. He gets in his Ford pickup and drives there.

Two waves have wetted downtown by the time he arrives, but when he

unlocks the door and steps inside, he's relieved. Newman's has just

stocked up for the summer, and while the floor is a mess, everything

else is intact. High tides come right up to Front Street back in these

pre-Beachfront Park days, and sometimes higher. He's seen this before.

"I thought, well, I'll come back in the morning and clean this place up a bit."

He calls his wife on a countertop telephone. As they talk, the Pacific

Ocean starts pouring in through an open door. That summer inventory is

floating around him. The lights are still on, and he's worried about

the risk of electrocution. When his personal sea-level reaches

mid-torso, he tells her, "Well, it's been nice knowing you. I'm going

to have to start the dog paddle."

She thinks he's exaggerating. Then one of the Texaco gas tanks around

the S curve explodes. She can see the glare from her house several

miles away.

'IT WAS LIKE A GIANT RIVER OF WATER'

At practically the same time McNamara hangs up, the water starts to

recede. Like most tidal waves, this night's third visitor departs

quicker than it arrived. Once again, he fancies the notion of going

home and dealing with all this in the morning. Saltwater has reached

higher than the hood of his almost-new pickup, however, and it won't

start.

He gets out and climbs the stairs to the apartment of Frank Boynton, a

store employee. They talk, but Boynton refuses to leave. He won't be

the last person to ignore McNamara's advice.

Water-logged, but too "hyped up" to feel cold, he walks down Second

Street past a cafe, turns the corner at the highway and encounters the

elderly couple sitting in a car high-centered in the parking lot of the

Royal Motel (where the Front Street Inn is today). They ask for help.

Thinking of his pickup, he says, "I don't think your car's gonna run. Why don't you come with me?"

They aren't budging, so he walks to the back of the car to see if he

can somehow dislodge it. He wonders even today what would have happened

if at this point he faces toward the car instead of away from it while

trying to lift the bumper. Because Crescent City's time is up.

At the same spot today, buildings would partially block the harbor

view. But the Cultural Center hasn't been built yet, and only the

foundation has been laid for the Municipal Pool.

"It was a moonlit night. You could see way out there."

Even at a distance, he senses being well beneath where he should be.

"It was like a giant river of water coming at you and you're down here below the river."

He knows it's a matter of seconds now, so he doesn't hesitate when the couple won't exit their car.

"I had a head start. I could flat-out run in those days."

'THE AIR WAS JUST CHARGED, LIKE EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO BLOW UP'

He doesn't stop until he reaches Fifth Street, just beyond the

tsunami's reach. At this point his story becomes less of a narrative

and more a series of vivid images as he meanders back along the path of

the retreating water.

A man dripping seawater yells for help. He's in shock, saying he's lost

his wife and baby (they've actually escaped unharmed, it turns out).

People climb aboard CalTrans rigs on the highway to escape the ocean's

deadly recession. Heavy machinery operators actually use their scoops

to lift some survivors out of the water.

The southern sky is lit by the glare of exploded gas tanks and fires

burning in service stations and an auto dealership. "The air was just

charged, like everything was going to blow up. It just felt that way."

Some buildings are not where they should be, including a familiar house

in the middle of the highway. When he gets back to the paint store, he

finds much of it has been demolished by that house, which used to be

firmly entrenched next door. The portion of the store with the upstairs

apartment has been spared, and he enlists the help of two policemen to

coax Boynton from it.

He glimpses another whole corridor of devastation farther west on

Second Street, Crescent City's main thoroughfare no longer. Finally,

one of the many business owners who has lost everything offers to drive

McNamara, and Boynton, home to Elk Valley.

'IT'S ONLY BY THE GRACE OF GOD THAT I MADE IT'

The tsunami proves a silent and selective disaster, dishing out

destruction and even death while coursing through the lowlands without

even awakening some residents elsewhere in the community. When he

drives out to Point St. George at about noon to tell his wife's parents

about their store, it is the first they've heard of the tidal waves.

They have only fire insurance on the store, and never do get around to

rebuilding after long delays going through the urban renewal process.

They rent another location for a few years, then McNamara continues his

painting career working for a different company.

He and Patty, his high school sweetheart, will celebrate their 69th

wedding anniversary on the Fourth of July. He thinks often of that

night 45 years ago, especially the pivotal moment in the motel parking

lot.

"If I had turned my back, if I had wandered around there for two

minutes, I wouldn't be here. It's only by the grace of God that I made

it."

As it turns out, the elderly couple probably make the right move by

staying in their car. They survive as it washes up the highway to the

area behind what is now the Safeway store.

It's the same place where McNamara finds some of the summer merchandise

that floated out of his store, caught up in that night's current of

fate.

More stories from the six part series:

The waves of destruction

Part 1 Why are we tsunami-prone?

Part 1 #2 Tsunami: Not fit for surfing

Part 3 Riding out the wave

Part 4 Tsunami at the stairs

Part 5 In their own words

To learn more about the '62 Tsunami

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