A BAD CASE OF SCARED CRAZY

It's taken me nearly 25 years to lose my irrational fear of thunderstorms. Fear that was at times equal parts terror and panic. Paralyzing fear that made be jump at the first crack of thunder and cower at the ozone splitting burst of white-hot lightning. A fear that made me scared to close a window against the rain for worry of being struck by a stray bolt. The kind of atmosphere rending blow from the mighty hand of God that felled my former neighbor Dan and his little girl.

For nearly a quarter century, what I bore witness to left me so scarred that I came to fear and loathe one of nature's most spectacular and awesome gifts - the afternoon and evening summer thunderstorm. Mother Nature's very own fireworks show, accompanied by a cooling, refreshing rain.

It was in the late spring of 1985. I was a young newspaper reporter down in Bradenton. You haven't seen a thunderstorm until you've seen the likes of one of those. They spring forth from the steamy waters of the Gulf of Mexico and surge inland with the sudden violence of an invading army. As beautiful as Cleopatra and every bit as dangerous.

My wife and I took our eldest son next door to the auditorium of the Catholic Church to sign him up for the church Cub Scout troop. Dan took his daughter to sign her up for Girl Scouts. It looked like rain so we decided to drive. We passed Dan and his daughter along the way and offered them a ride. Dan smiled and said no and waved his umbrella at us. Neither of us could know that Dan's umbrella would soon draw the wrath of the heavens to him like metal filings to a magnet.

The Girl Scout sign-up line was shorter and Dan and his daughter left while we were still waiting in the Cub Scout line. As we chatted with other parents, there came from somewhere outside an explosion that shook the building. My initial thought was that lightning had struck a transformer on a nearby utility pole. Moments later, a man ran into the building and called out for help from any medical personnel. Somebody outside was hurt bad, he said. People froze in place and gawked at one another. There wasn't a doctor or nurse to be had.

In that moment, I knew that whatever bad thing had transpired outside, I had to act as a first responder. I had the training for it from my Navy days. The kind of training you don't ever forget because it's ingrained in you. It's why so many medical corpsmen die in battle. They don't think about themselves. They just react to the call for help.

I found my friend Dan about a hundred yards across the big parking lot flat on his back, smoking like a burnt roast. Pupils fixed and dilated. Burns all over his body. His watch cooked into his wrist. It took me a few moments to realize the smoldering black gunk in his right hand was the remnants of his umbrella.

His daughter was just regaining consciousness and trying to get up. My wife ran to her and rushed her back into the building but no one came to assist Dan and me. I don't blame them. The lightning danced and popped like silver chains all around us in that parking lot. We're dead, I remember thinking.

I crawled on my belly and dragged Dan along with me, stopping briefly at intervals to give him CPR. His heart had stopped and he wasn't breathing. I finally got him to the safety of the covered walkway where another man assisted me. By the time paramedics arrived, Dan had a heartbeat and I had a case of the scared crazy that has clung to me like cold sweat for years.

Dan and his daughter survived, but he was so emotionally scarred by what happened that his marriage eventually ended, as is often the case following great tragedy.

For years, I thought nothing good could come from the sky.

An early evening summer thunderstorm passes as I write this. I listen to the distant grumble of thunder as the storm makes its way seaward. An occasional flicker of lightning, faraway and unthreatening, marks its passing. I venture outside from time to time to marvel at the spectacle. The rain has left the air smelling sweet and cleansed.

The rumbling beast no longer fills me with dread and trepidation but with awe and respect in abundance.