Forty-five feet high, the steel flagpole would have been conspicuous even at ground level. But when it was hoisted into the air and set atop a platform 75 feet up, it commanded the entire shoreline.

Seventy-five years ago this week, in the last days of June 1940, the flagpole capped off the clock tower at the new Ocean Beach Park in New London. It was one of countless pieces of a vast puzzle falling into place at the last possible moment.

Three days before it was to open, the park swarmed with 200 painters, plumbers, electricians and mechanics, some on double shifts.

In the bathhouse, lockers were erected and concrete floors were poured. In the Gam, pipes were connected for the kitchen equipment. Outside, the first coat of tan paint was applied. On the boardwalk, railings were being built.

The sand was raked to remove stones and shells. Shrubs were planted at the pedestrian entrance. The parking lot was paved.

This headlong rush to the finish line was more than the culmination of a construction project. It signaled the success of a complex, often contentious civic undertaking that, by today's standards, had played out with almost blinding speed.

* * *

As New Londoners wandered around in dazed disbelief on Sept. 22, 1938, it was hard to imagine anything good coming of the previous day's catastrophic hurricane. But that quickly changed when they saw Ocean Beach.

The storm tide had invaded cottages that lined the shore, and some of the first floors had washed away, leaving upper stories lying on the sand. One building was upended on its side. The boardwalk, open-air pavilion and covered pier were gone.

Yet for many in New London, this epic destruction glimmered with possibility, for Ocean Beach had become a problem that defied easy solutions.

Started as a genteel summer colony in the 1890s, it had quickly gained popularity that far outstripped what it was able to handle. The cottages became boarding houses, food stands and amusements sprang up, and the city struggled to deal with the problems of too many people in too little space.

Ordinances targeted parking, loitering, overcrowding, garbage and the longtime outrage of bathers undressing in their cars, in full view of a scandalized public. But the problems persisted.

One broiling day in 1928, so many people showed up that scores ended up sleeping on the sand for lack of anyplace else to go. Boarding houses sometimes packed multiple beds into each room, with several people to a bed. Some got nothing but a bare mattress, and a plumber once found someone sleeping on a bathroom floor.

Now the chance for real change had arrived, and the city didn't let it pass. Five days after the hurricane, the City Council announced its intention to seize the entire beach for "public improvement."

* * *

Anyone who wanted to develop a public beach in 1938 had an obvious model. Nine years earlier, to great fanfare, Jones Beach had opened on Long Island's south shore.

A mile-long boardwalk connected two immense bathhouses that included restaurants and swimming pools. Nautical details — compasses, anchors and sea horses — were everywhere, even set into the concrete.

The staff wore sailors' uniforms and picked up cigarette butts while those who had dropped them were still nearby. Carnival amusements were nowhere to be found. People flocked there by the thousands, and the word repeatedly used to describe it was "wholesome."

In early November, a three-man delegation from New London went to New York to consult with the state's great builder, Robert Moses, about the possibility of making something similar of Ocean Beach.

Soon after, two engineers with ties to Jones Beach, W. Earle Andrews and A. Kenneth Morgan, were engaged to suggest a plan of development.

A month to the day after they were hired, the engineers were in town with a bound report that held their vision. The existing beach, it said, "was so badly planned, run down and degenerated that it was a good thing for the community that a sufficient portion of it was destroyed to warrant starting over again."

What they imagined was the 10-mile Jones Beach in miniature. The beachfront, 75 feet deep, should be expanded to 300 feet with fill. Behind it would be a boardwalk, a swimming pool, a bathhouse and a second building with a restaurant, first-aid station and other necessities.

New London spent most of January 1939 sorting out how it felt about this idea. There were so many questions. How would the new beach be paid for? Who would run it? Would it attract hordes of out-of-towners? Was a pool really necessary?

When a survey distributed by civic groups showed overwhelming support for the Andrews-Morgan plan, the City Council ordered a referendum.

Almost 4,000 people, about 34 percent of the city's electorate, went to the polls on Jan. 30, and the result was plain. Those in favor of developing the beach carried the day in an 8-1 landslide.

Those who had the biggest reason to vote no were Ocean Beach property owners. The plan called for every building that had survived the hurricane to be demolished.

* * *

As a howling snowstorm changed over to sleet and rain, about 50 people trudged into the Crocker House on March 12. They had been summoned the previous day by anonymous postcards and, despite the weather, some came from as far as Hartford.

All owned property at the beach, and they heard from lawyers who told them they had some serious grievances with the city. The process of property acquisition had begun with an estimate of valuations the lawyers said was outrageous and would never stand up in court.

They said Andrews and Morgan had sold the city a "juicy lemon" by suggesting tax assessments would be enough compensation. At a luncheon in January, Andrews had told the city, "If you pay anything over the assessed valuation you are paying too much."

There was talk at the meeting of someone bringing a test case in court against the city but, for the moment, everyone waited.

A compensation board held a long series of hearings with owners who disputed the city's estimates. Sometimes the two sides were tens of thousands of dollars apart. One owner summed up the prevailing attitude: "We want more or we won't sell."

In June, as everyone awaited the board's final numbers, Myrtle B. Strickland of Waterford, the owner of several parcels at the beach, petitioned Superior Court for an injunction that, if granted, would bring the city's entire effort to a halt.

Her lawyers argued that the city was in such a rush to condemn private property that it did so "before taking steps to alleviate human suffering and discomfort" caused by the hurricane.

They also accused the city of using eminent domain improperly for a paying business proposition rather than a park. That argument would echo fatefully in New London 60-odd years later.

The judge denied the injunction, for the simple reason that the city hadn't actually done anything yet.

* * *

When the compensation board reported its final valuations, some owners were satisfied and sold. Others appealed to Superior Court. With 202 properties to be acquired, and 75 or so tied up in appeals, the city spent the summer of 1939 taking title to one parcel at a time.

Meanwhile, life went on at the beach. Arthur Rudd's bathing pavilion, the only building that had withstood the hurricane intact, opened on Memorial Day.

Danceland, the city's big band venue, reopened a month after the storm and since then had hosted Glenn Miller, Woody Herman, Teddy Wilson and Mal Hallett.

Some owners, acknowledging the inevitability of losing their properties, had pleaded with the city for one more summer to make some money. Officials were noncommittal, but the process of taking over the land stretched well past the summer anyway.

By October there were still 13 holdouts, including Rudd's, the Ocean Spray Hotel, Clifford's Pavilion and properties owned by Mrs. Strickland. Settling with the owners cost the city an extra $52,000 beyond its valuations.

Demolition of properties already in the city's hands began even as negotiations with the holdouts proceeded. The beach was in transition. When Jack's restaurant on Stuart Avenue served its last meal on Dec. 6, Ocean Beach passed into history.

Ocean Beach Park was about to be born.

j.ruddy@theday

Twitter: @jruddy64

Editor's note: This story is drawn largely from the archives of The Day, with additional material from "The Power Broker" by Robert A. Caro and the Andrews-Morgan plan for Ocean Beach. First of two parts.