5
THE RIDE FROM HELL
FIFTEEN MILES SOUTH of Crescent City, U.S. Air Force Sergeants Stuart Harrington and Donald McClure were fishing during the night at the mouth of the Klamath River in California. A full moon sharpened their silhouettes, as weird shapes and shadows surrounded them. The two men stood on top of a high driftwood mound on an expansive sandbar that stretched for two hundred feet. The river’s sparkling currents flowed gently around its defined edges to the sea, and then disappeared into the quiet waves lapping back into the debris.
Years before, a freak “perfect” storm had helped to form the sand spit. The ocean’s thunderous waves carried tons of sand toward land, as the river surged from behind and kept this buildup packed into a low tight bank. The narrow sandbar then sloped quickly down into the Pacific Ocean. Carved out by centuries of crashing surf from the sea with cutting freshwater flowing from its back, the river’s mouth was now nearly one-half mile wide. The channel was much wider where they fished, as the Klamath quickly narrowed behind the men eventually to a three-hundred-foot width. Further upstream, the river compressed even further.
Millenniums ago, the current’s constant downward sweep had carved a deep canyon offshore into the ocean’s floor, continually eroded by the strong underwater rivers. The tidal wave now rapidly approached this tranquil area, these deep cuts waiting like a magnet to pull it toward and up the land.
Speeding first through the 25,000-foot depths of the ocean at 550 miles per hour on its transcontinental run from Alaska, the tidal wave braked abruptly when the water levels became shallower. In deeper water, the tsunami had been indistinguishable from any other surface wave as countless ships steamed overhead.
This movement translated into the concentric series of waves that were rolling down the coastline in intervals and dragging at the ends of their two-hundred- to three-hundred-mile lengths. As the first wavelength tightened five to ten miles from the Klamath River’s mouth, its height started to rise when the huge volume of mega-million tons of water scraped the relatively shallow bottom. The tsunami slowed down to ninety miles per hour when the ocean’s depth narrowed to six hundred feet, its mass and energy pushing the surface up more. As the sea became shallower, the tidal wave’s front kept slowing down, squeezing the moving mountains of water ever higher. The back of the tsunami, however, moved in oceans still over one thousand feet deep and kept barreling along at the much higher speeds.
This massive, surging energy bounced off underwater mountains and bent towards these submerged valleys. Feeling the shape of the canyon directly in front of it, the tidal wave funneled into the underwater channels and charged directly for the mouth of the Klamath River. Reaching north of Crescent City and south towards San Francisco, the rest of the sweeping wave searched for more deep canyons in the ocean’s bottom that could pull it further inland.
At the same time, the tidal wave was drawn back toward the mouth of Crescent City’s harbor. The offshore topography, bends, and contours of this shoreline, however, pulled the tsunami to strike these close-by areas sooner, even though they were south of the buildup now in progress just miles offshore from Crescent City. This condition was a variable of the ocean’s depth, offshore canyons and islands, underwater terrain, and how far the tidal wave’s energy had to bend at this particular location.
One mile out from the unsuspecting fishermen, the ocean already had increased to two feet above normal high tide. The tsunami sped towards the men at fifty miles per hour. In larger tsunamis, the crest of the wave can roll forward to form a turbulent wall of water, savagely pushed from behind by even higher waves. With tens of miles of seawater pushing from behind, the force of the surge is extremely powerful. This one was as well.
Both Stuart Harrington and Donald McClure were stationed with the U.S. Air Force’s 777th Radar Squad in Requa, California. The military had constructed the Requa radar installation a few miles from where they now fished, high on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean by the river’s mouth. Most of the servicemen and women lived in the city of Klamath, ten miles away from the base, as did these two. Both men had spent that evening with their families, then inspected their fishing gear and driven together over Highway 101 to the Klamath River exit. The asphalt turnoff eventually led into a dirt road that wound its way on the downward side of the river.
After parking the vehicle on a rim, the two men walked to the remote trail that led down to the river. The annual ritual of spring budding and flowering already had started. Wild flowers bloomed in vibrant colors during the day, but all were now muted in the night air. Their walk from high ground to the lower mouth of the Klamath would be long and arduous. The rugged countryside was thick with towering conifers of white and Douglas fir, ponderosa and sugar pine, mixed with an occasional broad-leaved black oak and chinquapin, the sloped clearings rocky with scrub brush of manzanita and bitter cherry. Closer to the water, red and thin-leaf alders, birch, aspen, and blackberry vines flourished.
The men had to be careful when walking down the narrow, winding path. Their footing became treacherous at times due to the path’s sharp decline and loose sandy gravel. They stayed their course, looking forward to fishing and being in the wilderness again.
Once down on the shoreline, they waded in their hip boots through the currents to the sandbar. It wasn’t long before fishing lines were in the water, and time flowed by easily. Don and Stuart enjoyed their time together, joking around and having time off. Both looked forward to this start of Easter weekend. They soon caught several eels, using an old lantern to cast down flickering light, while they unhooked their catch or baited hooks. Lines cast out, they waited patiently for more action, as the ocean rippled gently against their driftwood fort.
The time approached midnight. Bantering back and forth, they didn’t pay attention to the slight hissing sound slowly building up that heralded the tidal wave’s initial approach. They were out in the ocean’s throat late at night, and the unusual sounds of nature blend with the usual in a primeval sort of way. Suddenly, a loud crash that sounded “like a cannon shot” cracked through the night air.
Jerking their heads toward the sound, they froze at the sight of the twelve-foot wall of water bearing down on them in the moonlight. It then stood poised overhead, as if a film had stopped mid-show. The bulging wave’s white crest held captive huge logs and driftwood that protruded from it like a crown of thorns. The solid mound they stood on was thrust upwards, as they stared with mouths gaping at the tons of debris that now swept overhead.
The churning ocean crashed over the two men, as the wave pounded into them and up the river. The rampaging currents buffeted their bodies, twisting them savagely sideways, head over heels. They reached instinctively for anything to grab onto, desperately trying to work their way back to the surface.
Arms and legs thrashing about, Stuart Harrington fought his way through the washing-machine actions of the tidal wave and kicked toward the ocean’s surface. Although he strove mightily and grabbed for anything with which to pull himself up, Stuart stayed weighted down. He couldn’t get to the surface. The filtered moonlight above gave him a murky glimpse of large overhead objects in the raging waters. They barred his way to gulps of precious air. Still struggling upwards, Stuart grabbed at a massive log as the currents smacked his head against it. The collision stunned him momentarily, but he didn’t hurt from the inpact.
He clawed his way around the large log. Grabbing a thick underwater branch, he propelled himself to the surface, gasping for air and coughing up brackish water. His lungs hurt, then the pain disappeared. Stuart searched through the frothing saltwater for his friend, but couldn’t find him. Caught in the white-capped surge of ocean rushing upstream over the river’s opposite flow, Harrington found himself surrounded by debris and grotesque shapes. He then spotted Don McClure ten feet away, illuminated by the strong moonlight over the shadows. McClure was clutching another large log in the swollen currents.
“Are you all right?” he heard Don yell. “Get your hip boots off, grab a log, and ride with the waves.” Damn! He had forgotten about his hip boots. No wonder it was so hard to stay afloat, his mind raced. Harrington grabbed a small log under each arm for buoyancy. Even weighted down as he was, Stuart didn’t want to try and work the boots off. He didn’t want to let go of the precious logs that kept his head somewhat above the surging sea.
Currents pushed over currents, and driftwood and logs continually veered toward the men to pummel them. This was logging country, and it was expected to find some in the rivers. The amount of this debris, however, was much greater than either had ever seen. They didn’t know that the tsunami had already smashed into coastal logging camps as far away as Washington. The massive ocean movement was carrying this and other trophy wreckage down as it swept south towards Southern California and struck at land. The tidal wave hurtled the refuse and two men up the river at over thirty miles per hour. It was a ride from the very depths of Hell.
In a panic, Stuart knew that he had to get his hip boots off. Filled with seawater, their weight dragged his head down into the currents even while holding onto the logs. Frantically, he tried to strip them away. He locked an arm over one log, then unsuccessfully ripped at his waders with the other. When he let go of one to reach for the bootstraps tied to his belt, the lifesaving log under his other arm slipped away. Stuart’s heavy jacket and clothing pulled him straight down under the water. He fought his way again to the surface and grabbed at more debris. Getting out of the soggy, heavy-leaded weights of boots and clothing seemed impossible in the fast-moving, bucking water. This was a life or death problem, and he knew it.
Fate seemed to intervene, however, just before he went down for what “was getting close to being my last time.” After two or three tries at ripping away the dragging weights, the waders slid off his legs without further effort. They had ripped from his belt, dragged down by their own heavy bulk and the strong currents. Meanwhile, the churning sea continued racing upriver, leaving behind gray images of the riverbank, surrounding hills, and towering conifers.
A short time later, the currents carried both men by a monstrously large log. Its stark outline clearly visible, the object was six feet wide and over forty feet long. “Would we be better off on the log?” Stuart yelled over the current’s raging sounds.
“Yes!” McClure shouted back.
Both men kicked towards the log, but it was difficult to make headway. Swimming against swirling currents while wearing heavy, soaked clothing is an incredibly difficult feat, even when knowing that failure means certain death. By their frantic movements, the two eventually reached their target. Don McClure got there first. Grabbing a broken limb, he kicked with his legs and scrambled up the log’s sides. McClure motioned for Stuart to come closer.
Legs bicycling through the sandy seawater, Harrington made little progress against the churning, debris-filled water. His waterlogged clothing dragged him under the ocean once more, and Stuart gagged more from gulping in the salty, suffocating sea. He reached again for the log and tried to pull himself up. Harrington desperately raked at the log’s sides with numbed fingers, clawing at its bark for a grip. The harder he tried to climb up, the weaker he became.
Stuart started to slip slowly underneath the currents. He was giving up. Looking up, he stared as McClure raced down the floating log and grabbed at his hand. Stuart’s head now was completely underwater. He felt one arm jerked up, as his neck pulled out of the water. McClure tugged mightily up again with near superhuman strength and yanked him over the log’s sides.
Harrington fell gasping on his stomach, his body spread-eagled over the tree trunk with arms outstretched. As Stuart straddled the felled tree, he realized that he had no feeling in his hands or feet. His limbs were completely numb from the cold seawater, the night air, and the pounding by debris.
Stuart sensed next that the water seemed to have stopped flowing. That was odd, he thought. It was as if they were now floating off the coast in a fishing boat on easy ocean swells. As he looked around from the safety of his perch, Harrington realized the ocean had completely stopped moving.
In his panicked attempts to get on the log, he hadn’t picked up that the sea had stopped rushing inland. Before the two men could decide what to do next, however, a noticeable surge of rushing seawater caught them once more from behind. Their necks snapped back, and the acceleration nearly threw both back into the ocean. The log and its accompanying mass of floating rubble and driftwood shot back up the river in a second wave thrust.
Their log punched up and around the various curves and bends of the Klamath River. After several minutes of this travel, the log, its passengers, and the floating jetsam then began slowing down again. Harrington estimated they had traveled another two hundred yards or so with the second wave surge.
The moonlight painted a strange white-streaked pale over the surrounding hillsides and overhead mountains. It outlined the bobbing log with its grim occupants, as well as a strange clutter of discernible and indiscernible shapes that bounced about. The movement seemed to lessen, then finally stop. The sea gently lapped at the obstacles trapped inside its grasp, just as it did at the river’s mouth. Stuart was stunned when he realized where they were. The tidal wave had pushed them two miles inland from their fishing spot.
The two men began shouting for help, but they heard only their pleas echo back. As they listened in the night’s stillness, there were no other sounds than that of objects slapping up and down. They watched the surrounding waters silently become smooth and flat. There were then no ripples, no sounds, nothing.
The men started yelling again whether anybody was out there. The shouts and silent answers alternated. Shortly, they heard a voice bounce back, “We hear you.... Where are you?”
Stuart and Don shouted where they thought they were. The voices from somewhere seemingly onshore yelled, “Hang on, we’re coming.” The sound of these voices reassured Stuart. Help was on its way, and the water was calm enough for them to paddle from one log to another. The Klamath River was some one hundred feet wide at this point, narrower than it had been before.
As they searched for a route to shore, the men noticed the surrounding driftwood began again to thrash about. The smaller objects started bobbing and dancing in the ocean in crazy ways. Larger branches and wood objects now randomly circled around their log. Harrington next felt their log move slightly backwards, back towards the Pacific Ocean.
“The wave has crested,” McClure yelled down. “It’s going back out to sea. We’ll have to swim for it.” He quickly ripped off his jacket and shirt, and then waited for Harrington to do the same. However, Stuart couldn’t get his off. Raking at it with numbed and bloodied hands, the sticky jacket stayed in place. He tore at the zipper, but couldn’t get it to work. The zipper instead ripped into sections. Stuart stared down incomprehensibly at his jacket.
“I can’t get it off,” he finally shouted. “I can’t do it. My hands . . .”
McClure edged his way down quickly from the other side. He grabbed the jacket and ripped it off Stuart’s back. McClure next seized Harrington’s shirt with both hands, tearing the buttons off with a fast pull in two different directions, then yanked that off his back. Don darted back to the other end.
“Don’t go till the log starts to go downstream,” he warned. “We’re getting closer to shore!”
The receding currents angled the log closer towards the river’s right-hand side or its northern bank. Stuart watched the shadowy shapes of the overhanging trees and limbs by the banks. They began to pass faster. The huge log picked up speed, as the torrent accelerated everything back to the ocean. They soon were heading down the Klamath River at thirty-five miles per hour, faster than they had been thrown inland. The underlying currents now flowed in the direction of the tidal surge. Stuart shook his head, not believing this turn of events. He felt a surge of fear.
“Can you make it all right?” McClure shouted.
“I’ll try,” he answered back.
“Don’t dive in,” McClure warned. “Save your strength.”
Both men slid back into the cold, salty water, leaving what once had been their shelter of safety. They swam together towards the shoreline. Don swam about twenty feet from Stuart, as the fast-moving currents made the two work harder this time to angle against the currents towards shore.
The waters tossed and turned the debris, as the mess accelerated back to the ocean. They had survived the massive wave first cresting over them, the pummeling underneath the bore, and then the second ripping surge, only to be caught in as bad a situation as ever. The ocean seemed determined not to be denied.
Dead tired, arms and feet moving with little energy or motion left, the two men pushed themselves beyond their limits. Hypothermia and the beating they already received had exacted their toll. Harrington plodded with excruciating effort slowly through the waves towards the cliffs, about midway from where the tsunami had stopped to turn back. Realizing he was closer to shore, Stuart turned around and asked roughly if McClure was “all right.”
“I’m coming,” Harrington heard his friend reply. Stuart didn’t know whether Don was staying back to ensure that he safely found land, or was as spent and worn out as he was. With that in mind, he mentally pushed onward, not knowing what his arms and legs were really doing. Sheer instinct drove him forward.
Shortly, Harrington was about ten feet from a soaring cliff and just below what he knew to be the Requa boat docks. Stuart realized he had to keep going; he was at the mouth of the river and the ocean. He couldn’t give up this close, as the alternative was to be swept out to sea and a certain death. Still angling against the current, he labored ahead. One hand hit a boulder, and the current swept him into a huge rock. The swift currents swept his body around, as his feet slid off more slippery rocks. Stuart grabbed in desperation with both arms and clung to the large rock. He tried, but couldn’t stand upright in the shallow, rushing water.
Harrington could tell that he was close to land. He felt a surge of fear at the thought he was so close, but might not make it. Thick with large objects and a frothing ocean, the river seemed to flow by even faster. Stuart tried to steady his spent body against the rock, as he peered into the water for his friend. He saw no one. He became annoyed with himself at the now constant retching of saltwater spewing from his throat and lungs.
Stuart called out, but Don didn’t answer back. He yelled out as strong as he could again, but only heard the rush of the sea going by him in answer. He didn’t feel cold, as hypothermia was already shutting down his body, and he clung desperately to his perilous perch.