In 1969, in Pass Christian, Mississippi, a group of people were preparing to have a “hurricane party” in the face of a storm named Camille. The wind was howling outside the posh Richelieu Apartments when Police Chief Jerry Peralta pulled up sometime after dark. A man with a drink in his hand came out to the second-floor balcony and waved. Peralta yelled up, “You all need to clear out of here as quickly as you can. The storm's getting worse.” But as others joined the man on the balcony, they just laughed at Peralta's order to leave. “This is my land,” one of them yelled back. “If you want me off, you'll have to arrest me.”
Peralta didn't arrest anyone, but he wasn't able to persuade them to leave either. He wrote down the names of the next of kin of the twenty or so people who gathered there to party through the storm. They laughed as he took their names. They had been warned, but they had no intention of leaving.
It was 10:15 p.m. when the front
wall of the storm came ashore. Scientists clocked Camille's wind speed
at more than 205 miles-per-hour, the strongest on record. Raindrops hit
with the force of bullets, and waves off the Gulf Coast crested between
twenty-two and twenty-eight feet high.
News reports later showed
that the worst damage came at the little settlement of motels, and gambling houses known as Pass Christian, Mississippi, where
some twenty people were killed at a hurricane party in the Richelieu
Apartments. Nothing was left of that three-story structure but the
foundation; the only survivor was a five-year-old boy found clinging to a
mattress the following day.