As Llano awoke to the news of catastrophic flooding in Kerr County on July 4th, many carried a particular worry. Word spread quickly that a friend and neighbor, David Griffith, was on the river in Hunt at his annual catering job that had become a tradition. For nearly 20 hours, his family and friends feared the worst. Prayers rose from churches and homes as his picture spread online, caught up in a whirlwind of missing-person reports that shifted by the hour. The rapid churn of social media often blurred fact and rumor, and David’s name was no exception.
When I asked David if he’d be willing to share his story with The News, he hesitated and insisted that we hold off for several weeks after the tragedy. Survivors’ stories, he felt, could seem insensitive while so many families were grieving. He also knew that fabricated versions of his experience were already circulating. “I didn’t rescue 32 people,” he said firmly. “I’ve always considered myself a truthful person. You got to check your facts. Even among friends, I’ll refute something that isn’t correct. People have learned to trust me because of that.”
Surviving the Flood
The truth, David said, is that five people — himself included — made it out of the flood waters that night. One did not. “I lost a cousin who was in an outside storage room that had been turned into a bedroom,” he said. “The bulk of the water washed away seven vehicles, a 24 foot cattle trailer — and him. Clayton Meadows.”
David had been on the property for his eleventh summer, cooking for the visiting family’s Fourth of July gathering. The privately owned ranch, once a girls’ camp, is bordered by the Guadalupe River off Highway 39, in the stretch that took the first force of the flooding. "We were the next property downriver past Mystic and Heart O’ the Hills," David said. "The third one that got hit.”
His second cousin manages and lives on the property with his wife and two sons, and helped David secure the job. Catering was a skill he’d taught himself decades ago to make ends meet while teaching.
On the night of July 3rd, he was busy preparing to serve breakfast for 32 people the next morning, with dinner for 50 planned that evening. While cleaning the barbecue pit, his cousin’s wife, Ginger, mentioned they were in a flash flood warning. “We didn’t think much of it,” David said.
At 1:30 a.m., heavy rain woke him. "I grew up on the Gulf coast," he said. "I'm used to hearing hard rain." He awoke again at 3:30 and the sound had changed — no longer just rain on the roof, but a rushing, whooshing noise. He swung his legs out of bed and stepped into six to eight inches of water. His cousin’s 19-year-old son came in at the same time, reporting the same thing. “I figured we’d go to the trucks and drive to higher ground,” David said. “But it didn’t work that way — the water was already three feet over the window. It just hadn’t come in yet.”
By the time they reached the dining room, Ginger was perched on top of the pool table with the two dogs. The water was hip-deep. Then the patio door blew out, and it leapt to chest level. Debris started pushing inside. “We knew we couldn’t get out to the trucks,” David said. “The kids were in their night shorts and Ginger in her pajamas, all barefoot. We worked our way toward the fireplace, because there was a little eddy created behind the wall where the current wasn’t as strong.”
There, as the water rose to their necks, David stood on tiptoe to keep his head above the surface. “We had to make a choice,” he said. “Take our chances in it, or get into the attic.” Above the mantle hung an old firearm, part of the owner’s collection. They grabbed it and started knocking a hole through the ceiling. His cousin and the two boys scrambled up quickly but the water was still rising. Ginger wasn't able to get into the rafters, so David stood on the mantle to support her from below while the others held her up from above. Then he felt it. The water started to recede.
He told the group, “This is our best chance to get out.” They dropped back onto the mantle, then down into chest-deep water. Together, all five walked out into the flood. From the moment David first put his foot into water to the time they broke into the attic, only 15 to 20 minutes had passed.
The Aftermath
Outside, it looked as though someone had wiped a table clean. The vehicles, the cattle trailer, and everything around them was gone. It was four o’clock in the morning. They began walking the 500 or 600 yards up the caliche road to the lodge and guests' quarters, water still running over it. They hollered for the others along the way, and David’s cousin pointed out casitas that were gone and one that had been shifted off its foundation.
At a higher facility on the property, they found the other 32 people who had made it there after taking on 2-3 feet of water in their casitas. “At the same time, they were coming to look for us. It was like a family reunion,” David said. “But you could have heard a pin drop.” There was no electricity, but plenty of food — David had brought enough to feed 50 people for four days. They lit candles and waited.
Rescue and Reconnection
By daylight, DPS helicopters swept low over the river. Later that evening, the National Guard arrived with pontoon boats to evacuate people stranded along the river. Red and blue lights shone in every direction, a somber reminder of the holiday it wasn't, rescue crews everywhere. The group had fifteen minutes to grab their bags before being ferried across the Guadalupe to Hunt Methodist Church. There, evacuees were checked in, photographed, and given wristbands to mark them safe. Buses carried them on to a larger shelter, where hot food and organized chaos awaited. It was 9:30 p.m. on July 4th. Only then did David manage to leave a message for his daughter, Ashley.
Earlier, a fellow evacuee had tried to call his family for him, but his phone was ruined and he could only remember pieces of numbers. But he did remember the number for his church, Lutie Watkins Methodist in Llano, and asked that it be called. Pastor Bryan later found the voicemail in his email and posted to the church’s Facebook page: “Brothers and sisters, I received a message earlier today on the church voicemail and David Griffith is safe and accounted for.” The same evacuee had asked a friend to find Ashley on Facebook. Sure enough, she received a call from a stranger in Florida, telling her that her father was alive.
Through it all, David says he never felt fear. “For some reason I had a peace. I’d just lost my wife to cancer eight weeks before. I told her, ‘I ain’t coming to see you yet — I have four people to take care of.’”
Lessons from the River
For David and his family, the only notice had been the flash flood alert the evening before - nothing to signal what was going to happen in the middle of the night. Sirens, he thought, might have helped if they were positioned directly above the houses, but even then families would need several minutes to react. By the time the water roared into the property, he said, its noise drowned out everything else. Cell service in that part of the Hill Country is unreliable, and while many homes rely on Wi-Fi, it vanishes with the electricity. ‘They need more cell towers out there,’ he said. ‘It’s rocky, it’s hilly — but you’ve got to be able to get the emergency alerts on your phone.’
His truck was later found three-quarters of a mile downstream, mangled in a tree. The cover of the bed was gone and so were his boxes of cooking supplies and personal items kept under the backseat. He salvaged a few things: his jack, his toolbox, two wire tray pans.
Back at the house, a giant cypress tree had crashed through the master bedroom where he’d been sleeping, breaking off as if it were a twig. “It came through my bedroom, took out the wall, and came through the master,” David said. “After we got to the front room we could hear the logs and debris hitting the house, it all came through. It just tore up the house.”
Despite the harrowing ordeal, David says he’s alright and won’t hesitate to return to the river. “I’m OK. People ask if I’m sure, but really, I’m OK. I’ve been able to deal with trauma in my life and in other people’s lives — I can wipe it away. We were in survival mode, doing what we had to do at the time, but when we walked outside, you see the broader picture. I’m a very faithful, practicing Christian, and I wear that on my sleeve because I believe in the fruits of the Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, and kindness.” He paused, then added, “This isn’t about me. It’s just a moment of survival.”
