Carnett: Weather is nothing to trifle with
It was June of 1965, the beginning of monsoon season on the Korean peninsula.
I remember sitting on my bunk early one afternoon in my U.S. Army barracks in Seoul, forlornly peering out the window. We’d just completed our weekly Saturday morning inspection and were eligible for our precious weekend passes.
But it was raining cats and dogs.
Though I was new to the country, I realized that I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. I was stuck in a dreary barracks built by the Japanese Imperial Army in the 1930s to house its occupation troops. The American Army had lodged there since the Korean War.
The annual monsoon arrived that very day and would relentlessly batter us for the next three or four weeks. The U.S. Army newspaper that I wrote for carried several articles about the weather during that monsoon period.
“The climate in Korea is determined mainly by such factors as monsoons, latitude, terrain and currents on the coastline,” wrote one of our scribes, a Korean national. “Between the middle of June and the middle of July rain is frequent, sometimes causing flood conditions.”
A subsequent article was titled: “Water Recedes, Cleanup Begins.”
“The torrential rains which pounded the northern area of the Republic of Korea moved south last week, leaving millions of dollars in damage. Throughout the [Republic] more than 240,000 Koreans are homeless or temporary refugees.”
I learned that the monsoon is not something to be taken lightly. Yet, I rather blithely trivialized it in my Army newspaper column.
“How would you like to be groundskeeper of the Eighth United States Army Golf Course?” I mused in the midst of the flooding. “After looking at the third fairway, one of the local duffers asked permission to open up a water skiing concession.”
Yuk, yuk!
I’ve since accepted that one should never trifle with Mother Nature.
My greatest weather nightmare nearly came to fruition last week. My bride, Hedy, and I were in North Carolina visiting our daughter, son-in-law and four grandchildren.
One afternoon Hedy and I drove our 14-year-old grandson, Ethan, to a soccer camp in Cary, N.C., sponsored by the Carolina Rail Hawks of the North American Soccer League.
It was drizzling as we began our 80-mile roundtrip journey, but the weather quickly deteriorated as we drove west. We pulled off the interstate in Cary and turned toward threatening skies and howling winds.
“I’m sure the camp has been canceled,” Hedy wisely advised. “Let’s go back to the freeway.”
Nah!
I stubbornly insisted that we continue for several miles to the soccer complex — and into the teeth of the advancing storm. Two blocks later I realized the folly of that decision.
The car radio reported that winds were gusting at 70 to 80 miles per hour. Straight ahead, the sky was inky and ominous. Tree limbs came crashing down throughout the region, and trees were uprooted. The winds in front of us were blowing in a swirling fashion, and the air seemed filled with dust, leaves and small pieces of debris.
Had we — or, rather, I — blundered into the jaws of a tornado? This clearly was no place for a Californian who knows virtually nothing about severe weather.
I actually supposed at that moment that Hedy and I might soon be shaking hands with the Tin Man.
The swirling wind passed over us. The car shivered but, thank goodness, remained on the ground. The winds were followed by torrential rain and hail.
We made it to the soccer park, found out the camp had indeed been canceled (Hedy gave me an earful for that!) and headed home. The sky cleared as we drove east.
What a fright! I’d quickly acquired an appreciation for the unadulterated power of Mother Nature. Our storm proved not to be a tornado, though it exhibited some tornado-like qualities. We were grateful to be away from it.
I’ve experienced and survived many a California earthquake in my day, and have learned to adapt to a sometimes unsteady terra firma. But I’ve now seen as much of a tornado as I ever care to see.
JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.