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On Sunday afternoon, Jim Estes watched as a river of kitchen paraphernalia91�������הutensils, pans, beverage containers91�������הfloated out of his restaurant and into the parking lot. It was an early sign, he feared, of what was to come.

The night before, Aug. 18, 1991, gaggles of patrons, some of whom were in Woods Hole to run the seven-mile Falmouth Road Race, huddled around the lively bar inside Landfall, Estes91�������י weather-shingled restaurant, for a night of spirits, seafood, and story. With its salty vibe and expansive, open-air dining room perched just inches above the ocean91�������יs surface, Landfall was the de facto community gathering spot in Woods Hole.

As laughter erupted from the standing-room-only crowd and servers buzzed the dining room with plates piled high with fried clams, no one seemed too concerned about what was happening 700 miles (1126 kilometers) south near the Outer Banks of North Carolina. But that91�������יs where the real action was. A Category 3 hurricane, named Bob, was picking up strength. .