Faith in the Tempest: When the Storm Comes

—By Tiffany Amber Stockton

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August always makes me think about storms. There's something about this time of year — the heavy air, the way the light changes before a weather system moves in — that feels charged with possibility, and not always the good kind. For the communities along Virginia's Eastern Shore, August has historically been the month when everything could change overnight.

The Storm That Changed Everything

On August 23, 1933, a hurricane hit the Eastern Shore and continued battering the coast for two days. By the time it moved off, the town of Broadwater on Hog Island was practically destroyed, as were houses on Assateague. The resort on Cobb Island was totally destroyed.

Locals still call it simply "the '33 storm," and older families along the Shore speak of it the way people speak of a turning point. A before and after that reshaped everything. The storm ended what historians call the Golden Age of Virginia's barrier islands. Prior to that August, people actually lived year-round on several of these islands. After it, most never came back.

The storm produced 100-year flooding from its surge, setting records that stood for 70 years, and caused at least 47 deaths across the region. In Virginia alone, storm surge reached nearly ten feet above normal water levels in Norfolk, destroying boats in harbors and washing out roads and bridges.

A Town That Refused to Simply Disappear

Broadwater was a thriving waterman's community of about 300 people. Houses, a school, a church, a cemetery. The 1933 hurricane inundated the entire island. The pine forest that had sheltered the town for generations was killed by saltwater. The lighthouse was eventually swallowed by the sea.

But the people didn't simply walk away and leave everything behind. Many of the houses and other buildings were loaded onto barges and moved to the mainland, where they still stand today in the towns of Willis Wharf and Oyster, Virginia.

Read that again. They put their houses on barges.

These weren't people who gave up easily. They took what they had built, loaded it onto the water that had just tried to destroy them, and carried it somewhere safer. The community didn't disappear. It relocated. Schools closed. Churches emptied. Stores vanished. What had once been functioning island communities slowly became ghost landscapes of marsh grass, cedar trees, and collapsing pilings. But the people themselves, and the things they had made? Those survived.

What You Do When the Waters Rise

So, what sustained these communities through that kind of loss?

They weren't strangers to hardship. Life on a barrier island was never easy. Isolation, unpredictable weather, work that was physically grueling and economically uncertain. The storms of 1896 and then 1933 weren't the first time the sea had tested them. But the faith tradition that ran through these communities was the thing underneath everything else.

After the hurricane, immediate emergency relief was organized through local Red Cross chapters. Materials to rebuild homes, furniture, household goods, issued family by family according to need. That kind of mutual aid only happens in communities held together by something more than geography.

Psalm 46 says God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble, and then immediately: "Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea." The people who wrote those words knew exactly what it felt like to watch the ground beneath them literally shift and give way. So did the watermen of Hog Island who floated their houses to safety on barges.

The Shore Remembers

One of the things that strikes me most about researching this stretch of coastline is how long the memory runs here. Along the Eastern Shore, older families still speak of the storm in ways that sound like a turning point in local history.

Formative events become part of how a community understands itself. The '33 storm is in the Eastern Shore's bones. A shared reference point for what it means to face something enormous and find a way through it anyway.

Most of us aren't going to face a hurricane that washes away our town. But we all face seasons that feel like the ground is giving way. Circumstances that seem designed to take everything we've built. When the waters rise, what do you put on the barge? What is worth carrying to the other side?

Those island folks chose their homes, their community, their faith. They started again on the mainland with the bones of the old life still intact around them. I don't know about you, but I find that more than a little inspiring.

Phantom Ships of the Chesapeake

—By Tiffany Amber Stockton

There's something about open water and a dark sky that invites stories. Just think about all the sea shanties that have been written or the rich maritime folklore full of tales. And on a coastline with as many shipwrecks, storms, and hard histories as this one, there's no shortage of gaps to fill.

The Coast That Swallowed Ships

The waters off Assateague Island and along the Virginia Eastern Shore were among the most treacherous on the entire Atlantic coastline. Shallow shoals, sudden storms, and tricky inlets meant that ships met grief here regularly. There are dozens upon dozens of documented wrecks in this stretch of coast alone.

One of the most famous involves a Spanish warship called the La Galga. In September of 1750, she was driven ashore in shallow water at Assateague by a hurricane that rerouted her voyage from Havana back to Spain. The crew made it to shore, but the ship didn't. And according to local legend, not everyone who went down with her stayed quietly beneath the waves. It is said the spirits of those who died in the wreck still comb the beach near the Assateague Lighthouse to this day.

Now, I'm not here to argue for or against ghost stories. But when you walk that beach at dusk and the light shifts the way it does over open water, the stories don't exactly feel unreasonable.

Fire on the Water

Ghost ship legends tend to follow a pattern along the Atlantic coast. The image that shows up again and again is a ship on fire, visible from shore, impossible to approach, there one moment and gone the next.

The most famous version of this legend along the northeastern coast belongs to a ship called the Palatine, said to appear as a burning phantom off Block Island in Rhode Island. Benjamin Congdon, born around 1788, gave what he called a typical explanation for the apparition. He said the burning ship was sent by an Almighty Power to punish wicked men who had wronged her passengers. The people didn't just tell ghost stories for entertainment. They used them to make moral sense of tragedy.

That same impulse shows up all along the coast. When something terrible happened at sea and no good explanation came with it, the story that filled the space often came with answers. Greed was punished, cruelty was answered, and the innocent were remembered. The ghost ship wasn't used just to scare people. It was a form of justice that the law couldn't always provide.

What the Stories Were Really Doing

The part that interests me most as a fiction author is what the stories meant to the people who told them.

The Chesapeake region had the ideal conditions for this kind of folklore. Isolated coves, historic battle sites, and centuries of storms and shipwrecks all set the stage. These weren't just idle campfire tales. They were community memories, shaped into compelling narratives. A phantom ship burning on the water could be a warning to stay away from a dangerous stretch of shoals, a reminder of a tragedy the community hadn't finished grieving, or a way of saying that some things don't go unanswered even when no one is watching.

And there's a thread of faith underneath all of it. The watermen and island communities were deeply rooted in their churches. They didn't read ghost ship sightings as random. They read them as meaning something. In their understanding, things had consequences. Those who observed the burning Palatine shortly after the original wreck believed it to be a warning from an Almighty Power. That's not so far from a worldview shaped by Scripture.

I think about Pop-Pop's stories again here. He never told ghost stories exactly. His tales were always adventure, always rescue, always triumph. But he understood the dangers of the water. History happened out there. People died out there. And he didn't dismiss any of that reality. He simply chose to reframe the stories in a way that meant something to my brother and me.

The Light You Can Explain and the Light You Can't

Before the Assateague Lighthouse was operational, ships navigated this coastline by whatever lights they could find, and sometimes they found none at all. The lighthouse was built precisely because too many ships were lost in darkness. A real light saved lives. A false light, in some of those darker legends, lured ships to destruction.

That tension of true light versus false light runs all the way through Scripture. "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path." Psalm 119:105. The people who lived along these shores and watched for burning ships in the dark knew firsthand exactly what it meant to need a reliable light.

The phantom ships still show up in Eastern Shore stories. Some of them probably have explanations like bioluminescence, fog, or distant burning debris. Some of them are just stories that got better with each retelling. Either way, they tell you what the people who lived here feared, and what they believed.