Confronting Sandy, refusing to leave

BEACH HAVEN, N.J. - Nancy and Mike Davis were more afraid to leave than to stay.

Nancy's grandfather had built this home in 1929, and it had prevailed against hurricanes in 1944 and 1962. She felt confident - foolishly or not - that it would survive Hurricane Sandy. She loved her home, and her town. At 68, and a member of the town council, "I just felt I should stay."

As the hurricane hit, the dunes in front of her block eroded badly, but they held. Instead, the rising ocean gushed through openings between the dunes, turning her street into a rushing river.

Mike, 70 and retired from GlaxoSmithKline, was out in his boots, grabbing debris to shore up barricades. Here again, random luck favored the Davises. Neither Mike nor Nancy ever felt threatened, but just three blocks south, the torrents of water swept up a Volkswagen Beetle and buried it in sand 100 yards away.

And two miles to the south, in Holgate, homes were blown by wind or carried by water completely off their pilings. Beachfront homes on stilts were gutted from underneath, entrails of heating ducts, insulation, and electrical wires hanging down and exposed.

In one home, the water heater hung like a sculpture suspended in air. Washers and dryers lay heaped in sandy yards, flung from who knows where. In one home on Greenwood Avenue, the living room was filled with two feet of sand, the furniture soaked and destroyed. Yet the kitchen remained untouched, wine bottles and glasses neatly arranged on the counter ready for imminent uncorking.

On Tuesday morning, Mike and Nancy awoke with no power and no running water, roads covered in a blizzard of sand instead of snow. The island was a ghost town except for a handful of those, like the Davises, who had ignored the mandatory evacuation.

The only road leading onto Long Beach Island - Route 72 - was quickly closed. Two checkpoints, one with police, another with National Guardsmen standing sentry.

First responders, heavy-equipment operators and utility workers from around the state and region began pouring in to assess the damage and figure out where and how to begin bringing Long Beach Island back.

Firefighters knocked on the Davises' door, urging them to leave. They offered to take the couple off the island, but Nancy and Mike wanted to stay. They felt it was their job to chronicle the damage - Nancy walked everywhere, taking photos.

She and Mike improvised. Though there were hundreds of gas leaks on the island, and the smell of gas was prevalent, Nancy's stove was working. She could heat bottled water and make coffee. Mike took a bucket to the bay for water to flush the toilets. For hygiene, "we use towel wipes," Nancy said. "They're not ideal, but they work quite well."

At night, they cooked food from their freezer, sat by candlelight and warmed themselves by the gas fireplace. The island was black, quiet, beautiful in a way.

Nancy charged her iPhone and iPad with a car charger. She and Mike sheltered their cars in a neighbor's garage.

As Tuesday rolled into Wednesday, Nancy felt a duty to check on the homes of her neighbors and friends, to send them photos and e-mails, giving information. Since nobody was let back on the island, and wouldn't be for at least 10 days or longer, Nancy knew they were starved for information.

"People had visions of absolutely no property left," she said. "I sent a lot of pictures. I tried to do as much as I could."

Mike and Nancy, who is a professor of pathology at Stockton College, also have a home in Moorestown, so they had a refuge, unlike others who stayed and whose homes were badly damaged. But Nancy and Mike knew that if they left the island, they wouldn't be allowed back. On Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday, they stayed.

They were not alone. "I own the liquor store in town," said Don Lenhard, Rommel's Liquor Store. "I'm not leaving."

Plows had piled sand in front of his home.

"Snow melts," he said. "This is not going to melt."

Todd and Kelly Hirneisen, 41 and 40, who live closer to the bay, also decided to stay. "This is our home. We have nowhere to go." As the water was rising, Todd became scared. "I was worried if I had made the wrong decision for my son."

In the days after the storm, he became resourceful. As a general contractor with clients on Long Beach Island, he has keys to many homes. He went in and drained the fresh water from water heaters, using it for drinking, cooking, and, the biggest luxury, bathing.

"My wife smells like peaches," he said Thursday.

Next door to him lives James Malandro, a Verizon employee and Beach Haven firefighter. He, his wife, and children all stayed.

"After the water stopped rising," Malandro said, "we went to sleep."

Everyone was calling Nancy, so she borrowed a second cellphone with better reception. Jean Frazier, the Beach Haven librarian, had evacuated to Pennsylvania with family. She called, desperate for news of her home.

It seemed OK, Nancy told her. "We looked in the windows and didn't see any water inside. Do you have a key down here?"

Another friend asked Nancy to check on his boat, a yellow Pacemaker Wahoo called "La Vida."

In marinas all over Long Beach Island, all over the Jersey Shore, empty cinder blocks filled vacant lots. Before the storm, these cinder blocks supported boats. In Sandy, the boats just floated away.

Nancy drove to the site where La Vida was supposed to be. She couldn't find it.

La Vida was lost.

By Friday, the island was full of first responders, dealing with the gravest of problems. The Davises' gas - and that of almost every home on the island, Nancy said - was turned off. The Davises felt they had done all they could, and felt they'd get in the way now with so many workers on the island.

They also craved a shower. So Friday night, they drove to Moorestown. As soon as they're let back on the island, they're going.