OPAL'S QUIRKY FURY

By S.C. GWYNNE/MOBILE

IT WAS DEADLY ENOUGH, but it could have been so much worse. If, for example, the tide had been high, instead of almost dead low. Or if the winds, which had been clocked at a near record 185 m.p.h. a few hours earlier, hadn't dropped to a howling but less than apocalyptic 144 m.p.h. when landfall occurred. Or if the tens of thousands of people living along the sugar-white beaches of Florida's panhandle hadn't torn themselves away from TV coverage of the Simpson verdict in time to flee the hurricane headed their way.

All this is no consolation to the families of the 18 dead, the thousands of people left homeless and the hundreds of thousands whose vacations and property were disrupted--if not ruined--by Hurricane Opal, which roared out of the Gulf of Mexico and ripped through the Southern U.S. last week. The storm grew with surprising speed from a mild tropical depression to the most powerful hurricane of the season that was one of the worst stretches of hurricane formation on record. If Opal had struck a few hours earlier, or hit New Orleans, or Mobile, Alabama, or another big coastal city, it could have been one of the deadliest as well.

Even so, Opal left its gruesome mark. It was a dangerously quirky hurricane, tearing murderously into some areas while leaving nearby land relatively untouched. Property losses were estimated at $2 billion, making it the fourth most costly natural disaster in U.S. history. Opal utterly demolished much of a 140-mile stretch of coastline between Mobile and Panama City, Florida, including some of America's most exquisite beaches. It killed people with falling trees in Alabama, Georgia and North Carolina. But no major population areas caught the full force of its winds, and some towns directly in its path managed to escape almost unscathed.

One town that didn't was Navarre Beach, Florida, a tourist village of about 3,000, 20 miles east of Pensacola. Where once pristine 25-ft. dunes rose, there is now a featureless expanse of sand that has swallowed up living rooms, swimming pools, roads and tractor trailers. Seventy-five percent of Navarre Beach's homes were destroyed, swamped by the 15-ft. tidal surge or crushed by the battering of 30-ft. waves. Some structures were reduced to piles of indistinguishable rubble; others simply disappeared, leaving only stubby supports to show where a house once stood. Several homes were lifted up and thrown more than 50 yds.; one could be seen floating 200 yds. offshore.

More than 100,000 people fled inland to avoid Opal, although many waited too long. Lorraine Brown, a bartender and 22-year resident of Pensacola Beach, had intended to stay close by. When she was finally persuaded to leave, she found herself trapped in the massive gridlock that formed along woefully inadequate evacuation routes. "I sat in traffic for hours and then gave up," says Brown. She finally drove off the highway and rode out the storm, stuck with her dog in a parking lot. Many who did get off the narrow barrier islands drove for hours--some for as many as 13 hours--looking for a dry place to spend the night.

People all along the so-called Emerald Coast suddenly found themselves either homeless or facing major repairs. In Fort Walton Beach, Florida, where large yachts littered the main street, Rodney Holcombe, 36, tried to be stoic about the loss of his floating home, a 36-ft. trimaran sailboat on which he had no insurance. "I guess this is my $25,000 week," he joked glumly. "Maybe I can get some Federal Emergency Management Agency money." Holcombe notes that he has had trouble finding a hotel vacancy because out-of-town insurance adjusters and Red Cross workers have taken almost all the rooms.

In Gulf Breeze, Florida, Mel Burklow, 53, stares at what remains of his once thriving marina. Where there used to be 41 berths for large boats, there is now just twisted wreckage and sunken ships. In one corner, 15 big boats worth millions of dollars are stacked like toys, each a total loss. "As a small business, we're wiped out," says Burklow, who estimates his loss at $742,000. He points to huge chunks of reinforced concrete that have been ripped from a protective barrier. "That gives you an idea of what kind of force we're talking about," he says.

By week's end the long dig-out had begun. Crews arrived from all over the South to clear the highways of fallen pine and live oak trees, restore power, water and telephone service and remove the wreckage and debris. It will take many months before the outer beaches can be restored to anything close to normal. Many of the dunes may never come back.

This has been a hard year for Florida's panhandle. Two months ago, Hurricane Erin followed nearly the same path. In Fort Walton Beach, which caught both hurricanes, a defiant banner still flies above a popular restaurant called the Sound. It's a relic of the last storm that reads WE'RE OPEN ANYWAY, ERIN. But now the Sound is full of broken glass and water, not to mention two large stranded motor yachts. The restaurant--like much of the Emerald Coast--appears to be closed for the season.