The Massive Flood

I love story telling. I like to tell them myself - but I think I love most of all my fathers stories. He's got so many! I can hear the same old story time and time again and yet not tire of the interesting tales. I love gatherings when more stories will be shared. On Christmas (the first day of Christmas I should say) I begged my papa to tell a story. The one about the 1955 Santa Cruz Christmas Flood. This is basically what he told us in the living room after breakfast. He later emailed the story to a friend.

From the hand of my Papa David L. Bertsch

Dear B----;

This morning I was thinking about you and wondering how you go about your Christmas traditions. We are having a Christmas morning with no tree, no lights, and no presents for the first time I can remember. Later we will try to decorate some and observe an old tradition known as "The Twelve Days of Christmas." Elisabeth and Providence are here so we had a very nice breakfast together and then I was asked to tell a story. The one they wanted Providence to hear was from my childhood when Santa Cruz was flooded at Christmas. It's one of my favorites because my father stands out as the hero; nearly losing his own life as he saved others. It wasn't until years later that I found out, from my grandfather's perspective, what happened that day.

I was only eleven years old at the time in 1955 that Santa Cruz was experiencing one of the earliest and wettest winters in history. I believe it had rained strong and steady for about a month and the San Lorenzo river had just about reached it's capacity to carry so much water. As Christmas neared, another wave of back-to-back winter storms smacked our coastal town with more winds and torrential rains. Large trees were often seen being washed down stream on their way to the ocean. Occasionally, we watched in awe as a whole house or cabin from somewhere passed by us. Perhaps it had come from a collapsing canyon perch overlooking the river way upstream. Likely, many lower structures had been undermined, swept off their footings, and slid into the raging water. Usually the roof top or a wall section showed above the murky depths. Could this be the same river that previously was so shallow that we had played in it daily as toddlers and young children?

My father and grandfather had built an eight unit, two story apartment house between their two houses at 100 Broadway. Dad's house was built on the bank, at the edge of the river, but we didn't live there for very long. In front of the apartment building and the two houses was a very large oval driveway with a grassy center. It was big enough for some fair sized games and water fights. I once remember dad or grandpa having a goat staked out there near our house and my little brother, Paul, who could barely walk upright, got too close and was knocked over by the goat. As he tried to regain his footing, the way toddlers do, the goat saw his bottom rise up and rammed his poor little diaper covered rear end which sent him sprawling again.

I think it may have been Christmas eve when massive flooding was forcing the evacuation of the lowlands around downtown Santa Cruz. The occupants of our Rose-Anne Apartments that had not left in time, now found themselves surrounded and trapped by rising floodwaters. My father, Larry Bertsch, still had his wooden row boat handy and came to the rescue! Grandpa, Milfred Bertsch, helped by securing one end of a long rope to the neighbor's avocado tree while dad rowed across the swirling current to save the tiny panicked group, who by now were moving some important things upstairs in hopes of saving what they could. Once the boat was across and the long rope tied off, half of the stranded people got in the boat for their passage to the safety of higher ground. All went well until round two. With the rest of the passengers on board and starting towards the new shore, my grandfather watched intently as dad strained against the pelting rain, the wind, and most of all, the current. He was pulling the boat along the rope, hand over hand, when, somehow, he slipped and lost his grip. Grandpa was horrified to see dad, in all his heavy fire department protective gear, plunge headlong into the cold dark waters. He knew that dad was fit, and was a great swimmer, but that gear he wore could sink him like an anchor. That split-second glimpse of dad going under burned into my grandfathers mind as though it would be the last he would ever see of his son. Then a miracle happened! I'm guessing that my father may have tumbled enough to get his feet under him for a push off the bottom. We're just not sure. Whatever took place there in the silt laden water resulted in a quick role reversal. Those he had tried to save were now saving him!

Everyone made it to land and then, huddled and shivering, they were all invited to our old two story Victorian style home about a mile away on Windham Street to clean up and have a meal. It happened that mom had made twice the amount of tamale pie as normal and I clearly remember her remarking how it must have been the Lord moving her to make so much extra. What a feast it seemed to me. Our house was full of grateful guests and the food was so very tasty with plenty of tamale pie for all of us.