If you’ve ever noticed when watching a movie, television show, or even when reading a book; thunder and lightning is always the precursor to something unsettling occurring or about to occur. You can take it to the bank. Pay attention the next time, you’ll see what I mean. It could be an argument or confrontation, a killer is about to strike, something evil is about to transpire. These things and many others constitute the turmoil that follows thunder and lightning.
In real life an actual lightning strike is equally unsettling, particularly if the lightning strike happens in the general vicinity of where you happen to be. If you are unfortunate enough to beat the 1 in 700,000 odds and get struck by lightning, needless to say, that would go way beyond the descriptive parameters that the word “unsettling” covers.
Last Friday, I overheard a gentleman telling of his upcoming annual excursion to that spring wonderland, cultural mecca, and tropical paradise of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Aside from all that Pigeon Forge has to offer, you may ask what would draw a normal, sane individual to this hamlet tucked away in the northeastern corner of the state. Well ask no more! This fellow is making his annual sojourn to attend The Lightning Strike and Electric Shock Survivors International World Conference. Upwards of one hundred hearty souls will be gathering for the twentieth celebration of these miracles of modern science.
All attendees have had to been struck by lightning at least once (the man I came in contact with was a two-time winner/loser?). You can also qualify by surviving an electrical charge substantial enough to kill an individual. This is one conference I hope I’m never eligible to attend unless it’s strictly as an observer. There have been some close calls in my life even though I live in the lightning strike capital of the United States.
I saw a person get struck by lightening once. Well I didn’t actually see it, as much as saw what happened immediately after. Andy Christie was his name. He played on the freshman baseball team for the high school I attended. The JV and varsity practices were cut short due to an imminent approaching storm. The freshman remained behind to finish up before they too called it a day. Just before we reached the doors to the gymnasium, there was a deafening explosion just behind us. Many of us were knocked to the ground by the force. It was as if this enormous hand had whacked you on the back. When we rose, we turned toward those that had stayed on the field. One player did not get up. His clothes had been blown off his body. Athletic Director David Pooley acted quickly and without hesitation. He began CPR while someone else called for an emergency vehicle.
Pooley’s quick thinking probably saved Andy’s life. He missed quite a bit of school while recuperating. The whole episode scared the shit out of me. Years later I would occasionally run into Andy at The Bartley House, a local watering hole. He looked no worse for wear, but his gaze had a vagueness to it, and his line of thought could be slightly disjointed. He always said he was fine, but I had my suspicions, particularly when he’d excuse himself to take a piss all over the jukebox. I just made that part up.
As my drinking habits became more than a habit, I couldn’t help but see Andy more often. Was the drinking a byproduct of the long ago lightning strike? I can only venture a guess. My other close brushes with nature’s version of ‘Ol Sparky did not have as nearly disastrous results, and were much more entertaining. One such event happened only two years prior to the misfortune that befell Andy.
My parents had rented an efficiency apartment for the entire summer in Lavelette down at the Jersey shore. One evening around sunset I heard the bells of one of the numerous ice cream trucks that trolled for customers up and down Route 35. I could hear the thunder getting closer each time the closed blinds became illuminated in an eerie blue aura. My main concern was beating the downpour that was about to commence at any moment. Fearlessly I opened the door to head out. My stepfather swore for as long as he lived, that as I stepped down off the single riser, the lightening bolt struck no more than fifty yards from where I was in mid-step. He said that without ever touching the ground, while still in the air, I pirouetted one hundred and eighty degrees and shut the door behind me all in one fluid act. I can’t remember if I pissed myself. If I didn’t, I certainly should have. The errant bolt struck the gas station directly across the street and promptly burst into flames. However, only the structure caught fire, which was immediately contained. Thankfully the flames did not have the opportunity to ignite the fuel tanks. In the event that was likely, I’m sure we’d have been evacuated…I think. The summer of 1983 was the next close encounter. The proximity of the strike was considerably less, yet the sight of it was no less majestic.
My future ex-wife and I who were not yet married, attended a concert on the pier in Manhattan with the UPS building serving as the backdrop. The Clash was performing on this hot and humid night. The tour promoted their recently released Combat Rock album featuring the single “Rock the Casbah.” Another lesser known track “Straight to Hell” (fitting) happened to be my favorite cut.
The song begins with a kinda ghostly melodic guitar riff that is repeated later in the song. It was during this second riff that a lightning bolt struck the Hudson River a couple hundred yards east of the pier. A huge plume of water shot into the air. It was an awesome sight indeed. The crowd roared its approval. And then the rains came. People scurried for shelter. The rain was so immediate and torrential you were going to get drenched no matter how fast you ran for cover. My ex and I decided to ride it out. Our sticktuitiveness was rewarded with three more songs before Joe Strummer decided he and the rest of the band had enough as well, all adding to the mystique with which I fondly remember that night.
The last occasion occurred on a golf course. The myth is that lightening strikes more frequently on a golf course than anywhere else is not true. While golf courses see their fair share of lightening strikes, it is just as likely to happen on a baseball field (see above).
My friend Gregg and I were playing a round of golf at the Golf Club of Miami; post motorcycle accident. I mention that because due to the metal rods that have been inserted in my femurs, and the plates in my right ulna and right fibula and tibia, and my prosthetic left leg; I am no longer grounded in case I’m struck by lightning. As a matter of fact, I now attract electricity in the air. Needless to say, I get a little anxious when l’m outdoors and the possibility of lightning is high.
As an umpire, if there wasn’t a lightning warning system at the park I was working; I would just grab a hold of the wire backstop with my right arm. If lightning flashed and the hairs on my arm stood up, I knew it was time to get everybody off the field. By the way, it’s also a real howl to go through airport security.
As I recall, Gregg and I were on the seventh hole when we remarked how great it was we weren’t being held up by other golfers in front of us. We saw some lightning and heard some thunder off in the distance, but we believed it not close enough to deter us from proceeding. We had heard no warning siren from the clubhouse. No marshall drove by to tell us we had to come in. So we kept playing, finishing the front nine without incident.
When we arrived back at the clubhouse, we saw all the carts lined up in front. Inside, golfers stood elbow to elbow. Another golfer asked us where the hell had we been. We told him we were completing the front nine. He made some comment about our mental state, and told us everybody was called in off the course nearly an hour earlier. Someone had been struck by lightning on the back nine. Whoops, we didn’t get that memo.
Our laughter had an air of nervousness and devil-may-care attitude that confirmed our fellow golfer’s reservations concerning our sanity. I wonder if the folks gathered at that shockfest in Pigeon Forge find their run-ins with lightning as humorous?
I find the whole thing odd to tell you the truth. What the hell do you talk about at a convention of people who’ve been struck by lightning and lived to tell about it? I imagine the conversations must be something similar to the stories retold by World War II or Vietnam veterans describing the horrors they endured. I just can’t picture those guys laughing about what they’d been through.
From what I read, many believe they’ve been selected to be part of some “master plan.” I certainly hope this plan wasn’t the brainchild of some guy named “Frankenstein.”
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