Back in 1969, Hurricane Camille exited the US via the state of Virginia. I was 12, and after the storm, my dad took me and my 11-year-old sister walking through the neighborhood. We were lucky to be able to. At the end of our dead-end road where it connects to the rest of the world, water was pouring over the gravel road from a small, usually placid, pond. About a fifth of the road had been washed away.
We walked to the railroad tracks, and to the little-used underpass, about 1000 yards north of an ordinary crossing. Brown water about two feet deep was running through it. We waded through to the other side. It was probably the most excitement I had all year.
I should ask my sister what she remembers from that day.
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