I imagine that there are a few moments in everyone's lives when something outrageously absurd or terrifying happens that momentarily cracks the shell of mundane reality enclosing our daily existence and allows us to catch a fleeting glimpse of the Truth flickering through from the vast beyond. For a brief instant, it's as if you suddenly get it, the blazing lightbulb of insight blinks on over your head and the great cosmic joke makes sense.
You are the punchline.
And just as you're grappling with the enormity of it all, the hot bulb burns itself out in a blinding flash, the fissures fuse and answers are again out of reach beyond the protective shell of comprehension's limit. You're left standing alone, unsure of your footing, your confidence that the world is unfolding as it should shattered. And in answer to all the questions now fumbling about in your mind, only the empty dark.
*-*-*-*
Today was a crazy weather day of scudding clouds, glints of sun, and sporadic downpours. Unsettled weather is not uncommon for February in San Francisco, and in truth, I look forward to these days for their atmospheric drama, which, as I've mentioned before, is usually in short supply here.
Not so ten years ago, as El Nino gripped the California coast and the headlines, unleashing the 2nd wettest rainfall season on record with 230% of the average precipitation, and a record 119 days of measurable rain. Records fell for daily rainfall, monthly rainfall, and even the number of broken records. Drama was played out daily in the sky, on the streets, in the news. Hillsides slid into the sea, dry creekbeds washed away homes, the Bay became muddy brown and was littered with debris and the contents of people's upstream homes.
Thus, on a fateful February day ten years ago, not unlike today, on the first weekend day in ages that sun gleamed between rolling cotton-topped clouds, I resolved to resume my long-dormant outdoor adventures. Knowing that my window of opportunity would be brief , I grabbed my roommate's large umbrella as insurance and set out on foot from my North Beach apartment, determined to walk all the way to Ft. Point at the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge and back.
By the time I'd crossed through the Marina, puffy black clouds had billowed before the sun and I heard the distant unfamiliar rumble of thunder from beyond the Golden Gate. Crissy Field in those days was still derelict runway and fenced-off landfill with a worn path just up from the surf, lined by a few tall palms. Just as the rain began, I took shelter beneath a small stand of cypress trees on the shore, Bridge in view. The shower was brief, as expected, and I set out again hoping to reach my destination before the next wave of dark clouds swept in. Another warning peal of thunder, closer now, echoed from just outside the Gate, but I paid no heed, lightning and thunder being so infrequent in the Bay Area that I felt only a slight thrill in its improbable presence.
As I passed the last palm tree, about a half mile from Ft. Point, it began spitting icy rain again and I opened the large umbrella swinging by my side, its taut yellow & black nylon vaulting overhead reassuringly substantial and defiant. I set out across the last bleak stretch of exposed weeds and sand, and laughed off the momentary thought that I shouldn't stray too far from where the trees were taller than I.
And at that exact instant, several things happened at once: a bright flash of blue-white light filled my vision, the air cracked and ripped overhead, cinematic blue electricity curled down the umbrella spring behind me reflected in my glasses, and a sharp shock of buzzing pain seared at the back of my head.
I knew immediately what had happened, threw the traitorous umbrella to the ground and reached up to where my scalp tingled. My head was tender but didn't seem burned; my hair, now wet, was all in place. I put my hand over my heart: it was still beating. My pulse was racing but strong. I had feeling in all my limbs. For some reason I checked my hiking boots too: still on my feet, soles intact.
I stood there agape for several moments, rain running into my wide eyes and soaking through my clothes while I tried to comprehend it.
Looking around for witnesses, all I saw was an empty expanse of old asphalt and weeds up to the nearest row of buildings, and above that the ceaseless traffic of the Bridge approach. No one else was foolish enough to be out. Unsure of what else to do, I resumed, trudging the remaining distance to the path leading up the wooded bluff towards the road deck and the tourist viewpoints above the Fort. Thoroughly soaked now, I stood for a time partway up the trail surrounded by lush calla lilies and nasturtiums whose blossoms impatiently awaited the waterlogged sun, staring blankly at the Bridge and moody hills beyond, having reached my destination but still baffled by the bolt from above.
I stood there trying to read meaning into the improbable, wondering why me; wondering how this could happen here, in San Francisco where lightning is seen only once every few years, instead of my Front-Range home that is one of the most lightning-riddled places in the country; wondering if anyone would believe the absurdity of my story or would simply assume I was making the whole ridiculous thing up; trying to decide if I was incredibly lucky to be unhurt or terribly unlucky to have been singled out at all; going over it again and again in my head.
Finally, as the pelting rain gave way to another patch of sun, the unfazed vermilion Bridge arching gracefully across the steely grey waters into the indifferent purple distance, I picked my way back down the slope and worked my way back the way I had come, stopping to pluck my umbrella out of the puddle in which it lay. My apartment, when I finally returned, was empty and suddenly lonely -- the roommates having gone to Tahoe for the weekend -- and not knowing what else to do, I called home.
"Mom? I just got struck by lightning. No, no, I'm fine, really I think I'm ok..."
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