It was shortly before 9 a.m. and Hurricane Charley was picking up steam as it crossed into the Bull's Bay area, dumping rain in squalling bursts as the wind howled and peeled limbs from swaying trees.

Garner and a handful of other shrimpers rose at dawn to make sure the nylon lines that held their boats in place were tied down tightly. If they'd had more time, they would have moved them to an inland creek. When they learned Charley was coming straight at them, it was too late. The tide had dropped and escape was out of the question.

As they hunkered down among old generators, winches and welding tanks in a dark dockside workshop, close at hand were memories of Hurricane Hugo, which pummeled this fishing village in 1989, leaving its boats beached and stacked like so much cordwood.

"We're very concerned," Garner said, as his chocolate lab, Reba, sidled up beside him, her fur slick with rain. "All it takes is one line to pop and one boat to start moving to mess up the whole fleet."

On nearby U.S. Highway 17, the few cars on the road struggled to stay in their respective lanes as gusting rain and wind lashed at the land. The buffeting increased and visibility dropped the closer one got to Georgetown, where roiling water spilled from manhole covers and flooded several city streets, covering some abandoned vehicles up to their hoods.With his raincoat snapping in the stiff winds, a public works employee struggled to stay on his feet as he set up a barricade on a flooded road. He need not have bothered. The roads were all but deserted.

The lone business open along the main drag was a Hardee's restaurant. People had jammed the restaurant earlier in the morning, hoping to get breakfast before Charley hit. By the time the crowds left, workers decided it would be safer to stay.

Alberta and John Gainey of Georgetown eat breakfast at Hardee's every morning. They weren't about to let a storm disrupt their routine. They soon became trapped inside their favorite eatery, watching as rainwater oozed under the doorways and wind whipped the trees outside.

"What can you do?" John Gainey said, turning back to his newspaper. "In a storm like this, you just have to stay put in some place that's solid enough to take care of you."

One employee pointed out that at least they had power. Seconds later came a zapping sound, and the restaurant plunged into darkness at 10:25 a.m.

Down the road at the Days Inn, the Long family from Indiana huddled by a soda machine in a covered exterior hallway, smiling and snapping photos as the storm increased in intensity, whipping papers, leaves and other debris through the parking lot.

The vacationing Hoosiers had hoped to see some churning seas during the storm, but they were booted from their Myrtle Beach hotel Friday night as part of a mandatory evacuation of areas east of Highway 17 in Horry and Georgetown counties. Ed and Sandy Long weren't quite sure how the Days Inn and its neighbors were any safer than the evacuated hotels just across the road, but they were content to have somewhere to spend their last day in town.

"Hey, is checkout time still at 11?" their son Corey asked with a laugh as the hotel manager dashed past, her shirt soaked with rain and hair askew.

Minutes later, at 11:20 a.m., the wind suddenly died down, the rain slowed to a drizzle and patches of blue poked through the swollen clouds. It happened so abruptly that some people were hesitant to step outside, worried that it was simply the storm's eye passing over. It took a minute or two to realize that this was it.

Charley was gone.

Soon, the streets were bustling again. Laughing young boys rode bicycles down a street knee-deep in water. Storeowners checked their businesses for damages and sighed with relief after finding just a little water on the floors. Residents began raking branches, leaves and muck from their yards.

They seemed to offer the same sentiment: It wasn't as bad as it could have been.

"This was one of the fun ones," said Brian Melackar, as he watched cars struggle down his flooded street.

Back in McClellanville, satellite news trucks from television stations as far away as Knoxville, Tenn., pulled up along the shrimp docks to broadcast from the picturesque setting. As many locals were happy to attest, this wasn't Hugo. Aside from some fallen limbs and waterlogged lawns, the village had been spared.

Working under a baking midday sun, shrimpers took on the task of pulling in their extra lines and cleaning small debris from their boats. Now that the storm had passed, they turned to other challenges, such as battling to stay in business in a market flooded with cheap, farm-raised shrimp imported from overseas.

"There wasn't nothing to this," said shrimper William Thomas with a shrug.

Fellow shrimper Richard Billington nodded. "Imported shrimp, that's the only damage being done here. "That's the story, not this hurricane."

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