Hurricane Luis-Yacht Pastor
9-11-1995
^By ANDREW SELSKY=
^Associated Press Writer=
SIMPSON BAY, St. Maarten (AP) _ As one of the century's most powerful hurricanes ripped boats from their moorings, a voice crackled over the radio to those on board, shedding light on the darkest day of their lives.
For more than seven hours last Tuesday, the Rev. Tom Higginbotham directed boat traffic in the surging seas from his perch at his St. Maarten International Baptist Church, on the second floor of a white-and-orange stucco mini-mall overlooking Simpson's Bay Lagoon.
To the "yachtees" who survived Hurricane Luis last week, Higginbotham was a lifeline, a voice that calmed them and helped direct them as they struggled with their out-of-control vessels.
"There were boats flying everywhere," said Higginbotham, wearing a T-shirt, shorts and deck shoes. "There were boats hitting other boats. There was nothing you could do in six- to eight-foot waves."
His lifesaving broadcast was cut off abruptly at 4 p.m., when the hurricane ripped the roof from his house, and the radio antenna with it.
"He's been absolutely unbelievable," said Yvette Hemmens of Cape Town, South Africa. "If not for him, some people wouldn't be alive. He's been like a saint to all the yachtees here."
The church has become an aid coordination center for yachtees from all over the world who were in St. Maarten when Luis hit.
The official toll on this Dutch half of the island, hit by Hurricane Luis on Sept. 5, stood at five. One more death was reported in St. Martin, the French side. Officials feared the toll could climb as French and Dutch divers looked Monday through hundreds of sunken boats in the lagoon for victims.
People at the lagoon said divers brought up a woman, barely alive, over the weekend. They said she had been saved by an air pocket in the hull of a sailboat. U.S. Consul General Buddy Williams said the divers brought up a body.
On Monday, a French helicopter crew offered to lift beached boats back into the water. Yachtsmen from around the world established a fund to rebuild the vessels of uninsured yachters.
A Spanish woman, who asked that her name not be used, said she wanted to thank the unassuming, soft-spoken Higginbotham personally. Five days after the brunt of the hurricane hit St. Maarten, she remained unhinged by the experience and did not want to stray from her beached yacht.
"You can't imagine the waves. It was so terrible," she said. "Friends of ours told us that at one point a girl or woman got on the radio asking for help, saying, `The captain drowned! The captain drowned!'"
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Higginbotham was like an air-traffic controller in a world gone mad, using his more powerful radio to help the yachters communicate.
"If I heard something broke loose, I'd know who was in the way and radio them. I gave them the hurricane's coordinates and told them about expected wind shifts, so they could adjust the locations of their anchors."
At one point, he dashed out into the hurricane to cut the anchor line of a yacht with an elderly man aboard that was being hammered by a bigger yacht. The yacht freed itself.
Taped to the wall of a room inside his church were notices of people missing from yachts, their friends unsure if they flew out of St. Maarten before the storm or went down with their boats.
Higginbotham, 39, quit his job as an inspector of cargo ships on the Mississippi River in Walker, La., seven years ago to become a preacher. Nearly half the members of his 60-person congregation are yachters.
After arriving in St. Maarten, he helped boaters with immigration, mail, fuel and other tasks. He later decided he would reach more people through a daily chat on two-way radio.
"He wouldn't do heavy preaching, just mention his church is here. If you were from another denomination, he'd point you to that church," said Paul Frost, a Welshman who abandoned his London home to sail the seas.
If Higginbotham knows he has become a hero to yachtees from South Africa, England, Spain, and many other nations, he isn't showing it.
As he spoke, a dozen tow-headed kids, from wrecked yachts that they called home, watched "Jurassic Park" on video near where Higginbotham normally gives his Sunday sermons.
People here _ acquaintances and strangers _ will remember him for a long time.
"He did a lot for us," the Spanish woman said. "He was like a hope."
^By ANDREW SELSKY=
^Associated Press Writer=
SIMPSON BAY, St. Maarten (AP) _ As one of the century's most powerful hurricanes ripped boats from their moorings, a voice crackled over the radio to those on board, shedding light on the darkest day of their lives.
For more than seven hours last Tuesday, the Rev. Tom Higginbotham directed boat traffic in the surging seas from his perch at his St. Maarten International Baptist Church, on the second floor of a white-and-orange stucco mini-mall overlooking Simpson's Bay Lagoon.
To the "yachtees" who survived Hurricane Luis last week, Higginbotham was a lifeline, a voice that calmed them and helped direct them as they struggled with their out-of-control vessels.
"There were boats flying everywhere," said Higginbotham, wearing a T-shirt, shorts and deck shoes. "There were boats hitting other boats. There was nothing you could do in six- to eight-foot waves."
His lifesaving broadcast was cut off abruptly at 4 p.m., when the hurricane ripped the roof from his house, and the radio antenna with it.
"He's been absolutely unbelievable," said Yvette Hemmens of Cape Town, South Africa. "If not for him, some people wouldn't be alive. He's been like a saint to all the yachtees here."
The church has become an aid coordination center for yachtees from all over the world who were in St. Maarten when Luis hit.
The official toll on this Dutch half of the island, hit by Hurricane Luis on Sept. 5, stood at five. One more death was reported in St. Martin, the French side. Officials feared the toll could climb as French and Dutch divers looked Monday through hundreds of sunken boats in the lagoon for victims.
People at the lagoon said divers brought up a woman, barely alive, over the weekend. They said she had been saved by an air pocket in the hull of a sailboat. U.S. Consul General Buddy Williams said the divers brought up a body.
On Monday, a French helicopter crew offered to lift beached boats back into the water. Yachtsmen from around the world established a fund to rebuild the vessels of uninsured yachters.
A Spanish woman, who asked that her name not be used, said she wanted to thank the unassuming, soft-spoken Higginbotham personally. Five days after the brunt of the hurricane hit St. Maarten, she remained unhinged by the experience and did not want to stray from her beached yacht.
"You can't imagine the waves. It was so terrible," she said. "Friends of ours told us that at one point a girl or woman got on the radio asking for help, saying, `The captain drowned! The captain drowned!'"
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.
Higginbotham was like an air-traffic controller in a world gone mad, using his more powerful radio to help the yachters communicate.
"If I heard something broke loose, I'd know who was in the way and radio them. I gave them the hurricane's coordinates and told them about expected wind shifts, so they could adjust the locations of their anchors."
At one point, he dashed out into the hurricane to cut the anchor line of a yacht with an elderly man aboard that was being hammered by a bigger yacht. The yacht freed itself.
Taped to the wall of a room inside his church were notices of people missing from yachts, their friends unsure if they flew out of St. Maarten before the storm or went down with their boats.
Higginbotham, 39, quit his job as an inspector of cargo ships on the Mississippi River in Walker, La., seven years ago to become a preacher. Nearly half the members of his 60-person congregation are yachters.
After arriving in St. Maarten, he helped boaters with immigration, mail, fuel and other tasks. He later decided he would reach more people through a daily chat on two-way radio.
"He wouldn't do heavy preaching, just mention his church is here. If you were from another denomination, he'd point you to that church," said Paul Frost, a Welshman who abandoned his London home to sail the seas.
If Higginbotham knows he has become a hero to yachtees from South Africa, England, Spain, and many other nations, he isn't showing it.
As he spoke, a dozen tow-headed kids, from wrecked yachts that they called home, watched "Jurassic Park" on video near where Higginbotham normally gives his Sunday sermons.
People here _ acquaintances and strangers _ will remember him for a long time.
"He did a lot for us," the Spanish woman said. "He was like a hope."
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