There is no Hurricane.
Virginia Beach remains.

Pockets of nuttiness peppered the Midwest, but California and
Virginia formed a formidable axis of insanity. Hippies provoked a
siege mentality in conservative West Coast strongholds, and on the
other side of the country Edgar Cayce's flighty followers deeply
troubled Pat Robertson, who fretted, "The Spiritualist Church was
making a resurgence.' Despite animosity toward
Spiritualists, the televangelist often invoked metaphors originally
used by nineteenth-century mediums. Recounting his first experience
speaking in tongues, he recalled, "It seemed as if a heavenly teletype
machine had mysteriously been activated." Robertson and Cayce
both ended up in Virginia Beach because their spiritual guides—God
and The Source, respectively—instructed them to go. The evangelical
was told to start a television station there, and the mystic was led to
believe he could make better use of his power-s near a large body of
water. Upon arriving in this small beach town in the middle of
winter, Cayce and his family found little more than a hardware store,
a drugstore, a restaurant, and some boarded-up souvenir shops. They
wondered aloud, "Why did the readings send us to Virginia
Beach?"14
I asked similar questions while growing up in this seedy tourist
trap. Even though my mom and dad were never hardcore cultish
followers, they were each curious enough about the Sleeping Prophet
to move across the country to Virginia Beach. There, Dottie's and
Dallas's paths to illumination crossed, and they had a baby boy
named Kembrew. (I was born on Halloween in 1970, the dawning of
the Age of Aquarius, and grew up to be a university professor—
which likely makes me the devil incarnate in Pat Robertson's eyes.)
My parents' bookshelves were littered with standard-issue 1970s
accouterments such as pyramid paperweights, along with several
Edgar Cayce paperbacks. They were a treasure trove of wacky ideas:
Astral projection! Atlantis rising! Death rays! Perpetual Motion
Machines! Reincarnation! I also grew up watching Robertson's local
UHF channel, which broadcast cartoons and sitcom favorites such as
The Dick Van Dyke Show. It inundated me with Christian
fundamentalist PSAs, such as an antidivorce spot that is still drilled
in my head: "Love is not an emotion. Love is a decision." Those
years of Cayce whispering in one ear and Robertson in the other
helped me cultivate a fairly good BS detector.