I do not live on the edge although I have plenty of friends who do. My friend, Paige, jumps her 18 hand Hanovarian over water- hazard fences for pleasure and in her spare time pushes her kayak over rock ledges to splash nose first in white water. A physician I work with is a rock climber and when he tells thrilling stories of his near death experiences while traversing ice crevices I just grit my teeth in fear listening to it.
In my family we ride the Merry-Go-Round at Busch Gardens and watch the Alpengeist free-fall with horror. We all hold hands when walking adjacent to the street. We play tennis with protective eye wear. We play it safe.
On occasion when I would be compelled to recount my scariest moment, I would tell about my encounter with my grandfather’s Black Angus bull when I was 12 years old. That fine spring day I was in the field pulling purple globe turnips and petting some of my favorite cows when Inverness Trojan walked up. He was a short, burly bull with a broad forehead that had looked distinctly flat since the day my grandfather had interrupted a bullish charge by smacking him over the head with a shovel. This particular day Inverness gave me a hostile look and , shovel-less, I began to back-pedal toward the electric fence. The bull began to walk my way and I turned to high-tail it out of the pasture. I threw the turnips over my shoulder and hurdled the knee-high electric fence before stopping to look back. Inverness galloped up to the leafy green turnip tops and began to munch peacefully. Nearly being butted by a bull over a bunch of turnip greens had been my scariest moment until the tornado.
The tornado occurred on October 26, 1997. We were on a safe family vacation at my parents beach house overlooking the Gulf of Mexico in northwest Florida. In the early morning hours we had been awakened by thunder, lightening and torrential rain. By 7 am the rain had stopped, but the sky remained gray. Frank rolled out of bed and looked out the glass doors and saw a broad gray twister reaching from sky to water. After a quick glance I helped hustle our children, my sister and her son to the downstairs powder room in the center of the house. As it was near breakfast my family wished to huddle in the kitchen, but we deferred to my 14 year old nephew’s bathroom suggestion. The six of us crouched on the floor in the downstairs powder room beneath the stairs within minutes of Frank’s initial sighting. Shortly after settling in we heard a 5 second rumble as the lights flickered. After tense 5 minutes we emerged to find a clear day and our immediate surroundings intact. We dressed and walked out to the bluff overlooking the beach with the belief that we had imagined it all. We were incredulous to find the neighbors wooden steps splintered and strewn along the water’s edge. Fifty feet to our left windows were shattered, roofs were partially blown off and shards of plastic chairs and pieces of charcoal grills littered the yards.
Now I tell this story as the scariest time of my life. “You know we survived a tornado,” I say.
“Did you watch it?” Everyone asks.
“Of course not,” I gasp. “We were sensibly and safely hidden in the bathroom.”
“You could have taken pictures,” The risk-takers insist.
But I’m here to tell the story,” I reply.