The Devil, the Angel and Captain Warr

Along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, storms normally come from the direction of  New Orleans. Today, however, the gunmetal gray clouds blew in rapidly from Mobile. As he watched them, the hair on the man’s leathery neck stood on end.

As he rocked on his front porch, Captain Luke Warr could feel electricity in the air. Some would say it was just his nerves. But he knew better. He knew when a hurricane was coming. And he could tell this one was going to be bad. He’d seen the signs before: The clouds from the east. The rising surf.  His bones felt the drop in barometric pressure like they had that fateful day in 2005.

A truck from the Weather Channel sat across the street.  The tanned reporter, the man who some nicknamed “the Angel of Death,” did his live shot on the beach in front of the now-thundering Mississippi Sound.  “Tomorrow these homes will no longer be here,” the reporter gave his grim forecast.  Captain Warr looked at the reporter and then at the glass of whiskey sitting near his left hand.  Five years sober, he poured the glass and just looked at it.  When going through Hell, you might as well be accompanied by the Devil.

It had been ten years since Hurricane Katrina.  Captain Warr had lost his wife, his boat, his dog, his house and his sanity in that storm.  Their long-time home, a white cottage that had survived Hurricane Camille, was swept away by the storm surge. It had pushed them out of their house and into the trees.  He held onto his wife for three hours as they fought the inky black ocean.  “I love you,” she screamed as she let go.

He still had nightmares about her hand slipping from his.

That night he lost his wife. And the next morning, he found whiskey.  Five years later, God and an angel had sobered him up.  Yet now, the Devil tempted him.  Lightning flickered out over the Gulf as he reached for the glass.

“No.”  He heard the angel’s voice inside his head.  “You will NOT pick up that glass.”

“Dammit,” the Captain muttered under his breath.  The reporter walked over to his porch and called out, “Hey. You. Can I interview you?”

The Captain lifted his hand and motioned him to him.  “You’re not going to call this a land mass again are you?”

“I didn’t do that.”

“I know. Just messin’ with you.”

“What’s your name?”

“Luke Warr.”

Why haven’t you evacuated yet, Luke?”

“Good question.”

“You better come up with an answer quick.  You’re running out of time. This one’s a beast — a cat. 5 and it’s heading right for here.  Luke, it’s worse than Katrina.”

“How many hurricanes have you been through?” The Captain looked at the reporter.

“Lost count. And you?”

“A few. Katrina is the one I remember, though. Still have nightmares about it.”

“Know what you mean. I was in the VA home during it. Watched our rental car wash away.  I think my cameraman pooped his pants. ”

“I watched my wife wash away.” Captain Warr said nonchalantly as he looked toward the Gulf. A trickle of saltwater leaked from his left eye.

“I’m sorry.” The reporter lowered his head.

“Me, too. I was aboard the U.S.S. Cole and had burned kids die in my arms. But Katrina messed with me.  I’ve never seen death quite like it.  I helped pull a woman’s head out of a vent pipe. She drowned with the rest of her family in their trailer. And then there was my wife. They found her body a mile away, stripped and bloated. Her rings were the only way I knew it was her.”

The Devil interrupted their conversation, urged Captain Warr to go ahead and pick up the glass and take a drink. The Captain seriously considered it.

“No.” he said.

The reporter looked at the Captain and said, “Um, excuse me?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”  The Captain then turned and looked at the glass. “No. I’m not drinking you.”

The reporter looked at the glass of whiskey and then said, “You want to go on camera and say why you’re staying?”

“I want to see my wife again. I want the ocean to take me like it took her.”

The reporter was silent for the first time in years.  And then he put his arm around the the Captain and softly said,  “Luke, you have to evacuate. ”

“No, I don’t,” the Captain said.

Silence.

Both men watched as another bolt of lighting hit off in the distance.  The Devil looked at the Captain. The Captain looked at him back.  The reporter cued the cameraman and they began broadcasting.

“I’m here in Waveland, Mississippi with Luke Warr, a Katrina survivor who says he is not going to evacuate.” The camera’s light illuminated the Captain’s face, showing dark circles on the face of a man who hadn’t slept in days. “Why aren’t you leaving?”

“I’m leaving. I’m just not evacuating.”

He reached over and picked up the glass. He felt the smooth glass touch his lips as he smelled the delicious smell of Jack Daniel’s Green Label.  He began to take a drink but then he once again heard his guardian angel’s voice.  The voice of his wife.

“Don’t you dare drink that, Luke.”

The Captain immediately threw the glass down onto the beach. The whiskey poured onto the sand.

She then said, “You must evacuate.  I died but you can’t — it’s not your time. We’ll be together for eternity. But not yet. You can’t die this way. Not now.  You’re not a quitter.”

The reporter said, “Luke?”

The Captain heard his voice and looked into the camera. He then said, “People need to get out now.  I saw what happened during Katrina. It’s time to go folks.”

The reporter, stunned at the Captain’s sudden reversal, said, “You heard it here folks. It’s time to go.”

The lights turned off and the reporter said, “What the Hell just happened?”

“Got room in that truck for one more?” The Captain smiled. “I need a ride out of here.”

As they walked toward the truck (and then safety) the Captain looked back at the Devil lying in the sand. “You’ll never win as long as I have my guardian angel looking out for me.”

At that moment, as the worst hurricane in recorded history barreled toward the Gulf Coast, Captain Luke Warr’s guardian angel saved him once again.