Tornadoes & Waterspouts & Storms, Oh My!

Water Lilies: That day I flew like Dorothy in Kansas while camping at an SCA event

Once upon a time I was cast as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Well, that role turned out to be slightly prophetic. And no, Toto, we weren’t quite in Kansas anymore. We were camping just north of Kansas City when the region got pounded by monster storms and multiple tornadoes.

No shit, there we were, at the SCA’s annual Lilies War—

Oh, you didn’t migrate here from my Olde Blog so you don’t know that, while I was a History Major in college, I started doing medieval reenactment, belly dance, and heavy-armored combat in the Society for Creative Anachronism? I’ll get you newcomers caught up as we go. For now you can glimpse what that means if you have no clue what the SCA is and you missed this video:

June 1998
25 years old
Kingdom of Calontir, War of the Lilies
(a.k.a. Water Lilies)

It’s the perfect afternoon for an SCA event. Sunny with a sweet breeze and just enough puffy clouds to paint the sky gorgeous. Pavilions and tents in a myriad hues surround us. More nestle into the clumps of trees that dot the flat expanse up here. Grass and more sparse groves sweep down the hill to where the lake shimmers, offering up an idyllic setting for our lunch.

Thyra and I kick back on her bed in the shade of her pavilion, letting our meal settle and enjoying some girly time like we haven’t had since I moved away from Minneapolis. She’s in Wisconsin now and I’ve moved to Colorado Springs, so this event is the perfect midway point for us to spend a week together.

I call her camp dwelling a “pavilion.” Hah. This thing is like a sprawling half-city. Thyra and her boyfriend, Rikard, have constructed it out of PVC piping and white tarps. It’s shaped like one long tunnel with a steep, pyramid-sloped roof.

(Remember that. It’ll be important later.)

Two interior walls section off the bedrooms at each end, one for them and one for Philomena and Godwyn, with general living space in between. Since Thyra is the consummate seamstress, the design is period, even if the materials are not. She’s cut fancy dagged trim from a red tarp and sewn it to the edges where the roof meets the exterior walls. So cool!

The wall tarps are all rolled up right now and secured to the PVC frame by ropes. With the furniture and interior belongings exposed this way, it looks like a decadent, boho-chic maze topped with a forty-foot-long sunshade, but it lets in the fresh air, as well as the picturesque hilltop view.

When a sudden gust swoops up under the roof, shaking the whole structure, I roll across the mattress so I can glance out at the sky. Ugly, dark clouds have crawled up over the tree line to our right. Puffy white ones still smile happily down on the left, but we’ve already been pounded by one awful thunderstorm that flooded my temporary home in the Outlands camp and downed a bunch of pavilions.

Thankfully not the one I share with Saphira.

Bolting up off the bed, I say, “I gotta close up our pavilion, and then I’ll be back to help you get these walls down.”

Thyra is already off the bed, too. “Okay, thanks!” she says, and then she’s calling for Rikard. He and Godwyn are already headed back from the neighboring sunshade on the double. The wind flips like a coin out here in this rolling landscape, and storms come up fast.

I am even faster. Still in my fighting boots with my surcoat belted back on over my under-gear and this morning’s battle sweat, I race across the hilltop. Other people sprint in varied directions, while still more stride with single-minded focus. Anytime our eyes meet, our looks and knowing smiles acknowledge that we all know what we’re about.

On my run it occurs to me that I’ve never traveled to a camping event without being under the sheltering umbrella of experienced SCAdians before. At my first Pennsic, I was the quintessential newb. (Why not throw myself into the largest role playing event in the world for my third event? Pffft…no biggie.)

(I’m tellin’ ya, this Fire Sign does nothing halfway.)

As such, I was guided by all my mentors from the Shire, olde tymers all. After that, I camped with my first household, my ex-boyfriend’s big house, and now my Knight’s household, many of whom have been playing forever, some of them since they were teenagers. The heads of each camp always had a radio stashed in the depths of their tent and gave us warnings about inclement weather well in advance.

Not this time.

Although Saphira and I are set up in the Outlands encampment with the rest of the Colorado and New Mexico denizens, we are pretty much here alone, surrounded by strangers, a handful of acquaintances, and some individuals who plaster on saccharine smiles (while silently labeling us as hostiles for a variety of reasons, particularly our household affiliations and the fact that we live north of Raton Pass).

Geez, some corners of the SCA really are modeled after medieval rivalries and palace intrigues.

As I sprint through the woods, I take mental dictation on a Note To Self: Get battery operated radio. Do convincing rendition of hawk every day to keep appraised of the weather, especially for Lilies next year.

I mean, come on, Toto. We’re near Kansas City and it’s June.

Once I’m past the trees that mark the boundary of the Outlands camp, I hit the road and pound dust until I get to the period pavilion we’ve borrowed from our Baron for this event.

Saphira is nowhere in sight, so I check our anti-flooding measures to make sure they’re still as they should be.

We’ve learned the hard way that heavy rainfall makes an impromptu gully that sweeps directly to the center of our pavilion’s back wall. We got flooded during that first big storm, so now a deep trench lines the back wall and both sides, diverting all rain water into the natural ditch alongside our tent and out to the downslope of the road.

Just in case, I get anything precious up off the floor, then grab our belongings from outside and chuck them onto our beds. After tying the entryway shut, I lower the awning over it, stomp on all the tent stakes, and check the ropes. The only other thing I can do is bid the pavilion good luck before barreling back up the hill toward Thyra’s camp.

The wind is against me now—or is it behind? It jostles me around as if uncertain which direction it would really like to blow, but I beat the clock against the rainfall. The sidewalls of Pavillion City have been unfurled from their tidy rolls. The guys all battle to get them tied back together and staked down.

A couple other people have pulled trucks up in case the weather gets so bad that we need to evacuate the campsite. So far no tornado warnings, so they’ve pitched in to help with Thyra and Rikard’s pavilion, because it’s so huge and it was completely opened up.

The gusts are really catching that sharply peaked roof now, lifting up the plastic-footed PVC legs and slamming them back down against the ground.

Thyra has ahold of one of the crossbeams in the center of the tent, trying to hold it down, so I grab the other one. The loose sidewalls flap in the wind. Un-staked ropes snap around like whips. The whole structure convulses and ripples while any light objects inside blow to the ground.

When the stake gets ripped out of Rikard’s hand by its rope, he swears, losing his grip on the whole side wall. It undulates and snaps out, making it impossible for him to re-grab it.

I grit my teeth and pull down harder on the crossbeam, trying to stabilize the frame. My glance flicks out across the hillside. The trees bend and thrash. To our right, the sky has gone completely gray. So has the lake, except for where it’s crested white. The surface of the water starts to churn and beat.

Then it starts to revolve.

My eyes fly open.

When the water rises up in a swirling column between the lake and the clouds, all I get out is, “Holy shit, is that a—“

A grinding roar of air blasts up my right shoulder and punches into the peak of the roof. The frame buckles as the whole structure shoots straight up, folding PVC and tarps all around me.

I am airborne, holding onto that crossbeam for life.

A half-second later, I slam into the hillside like a wet dishrag hurled down amidst the tantrum of some petulant godling. I and the pavilion go rolling down the hill. My spine smashes PVC into the grass. I’m tangled in the tarps.

Even so, some ancient ninja-acrobat overtakes my body. In three decisive moves, I’ve ducked-swiped-shoved my way free. My feet land solid on the ground. The pavilion keeps tumbling down the hill.

Huffing like a racehorse, I hunker with my arms braced out, fingers wide, eyes on a back-and-forth scan.

Just as quickly as the waterspout rose, it has dissipated. The lake is merely a-churn with whitecaps again. There is no revolving water, no revolving clouds. It’s just ugly out here, with battering winds shifting direction.

Thyra bolts into the smaller tent she uses as a garb closet. “It’s collapsing!” She grabs the domed frame in front of the opening and stands beneath it, trying to keep the whole thing from being crumpled in the sideways gale. Bracing up beside her, I try to convince her to let it come down. I’d much rather be back outside where we can find some better shelter or at least get off this hilltop.

She will not be budged. As the pissed off godling’s hand smashes the frame down on top of us, Thyra starts to scream.

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You remember that I am generally a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, right? You remember that it only takes one unexpected poke or the slightest tickle of my own hair against my arm to shoot me—SPROING!—up to shiver with my claws embedded in the ceiling?

But in a legit crisis, something inexplicable happens. This is what I meant when I told you that I am notorious for being utter shite in a tournament and especially in a medieval melee, and yet…

Apparently my Warrior Princess self is good for something, because every once in awhile, when it really, really matters, SHE shows up.

I actually don’t remember how that storm ended. I’m pretty sure I was concussed. For certain I was battered and bruised. The next morning, I would discover that I had black and blue lines snaking up one side of my back and ram-rodding down the other.

I only know that my friend wouldn’t leave that dome tent and I wouldn’t leave her. I could see the others outside. They weren’t evacuating. They were just trying to hold things together so, side by side with Thyra, I helped her keep the frame from being crushed down upon us.

More importantly, I helped keep her from being crushed by panic.

For me, from the second I had been hurled down onto the grass, the world had gone that strange sepia-hued slow-motion I have only experienced a few times in my life. When that color paints my vision, my lungs become the most efficient air-circulation devices in creation. My mind goes as calm as the eye of the storm and everything becomes very, very quiet even if the world is swirling and whipping in every direction around me.

It happened while I wrangled my careening car out of a head-on collision and a roll-over.

It happened the day I faced down the infuriated 6’5 man throwing things at my head and refusing to let me leave his house.

It happened the night I stared into the eyes of the guy who had just threatened to rape me. SHE whispered up my spine, “Not again,” and I agreed.

It all becomes sepia.

It all goes slow-mo.

It all turns to pin-drop, unwavering focus.

SHE by Kirk Lanier

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The wind rages against the dome tent. The godling crushes the frame down upon us. Beside me, Thyra screams and screams and screams. I brace the tent frame more securely with my right hand, then slide my left over until it covers hers and grips.

My head swivels left. Our eyes lock. Hers are huge and wild. She drags in a ragged breath.

I dip my head at her.

Calm. Resolve. I’m right here.

Her teeth grit down. Her expression hardens and she stops screaming. With our hands mortared and our legs and backs braced firm, we groan against the weight of the wind together.

Water Lilies: A Close Call

In the aftermath, we all creep out to assess the damage. To our shock, the place where Thyra’s pavilion once stood is marked by a long, tidy strip of belongings and furniture still in their original places. A line of holes in the ground mark the perimeter where tent-stakes once pierced. Over on the far side of two trucks, the pavilion itself is a mangled heap of tarps and PVC piping.

My heart goes THUD and then races.

Two trucks.

As I stand midway between the strip of belongings and a big, black Silverado, I glance back and forth between them, blinking, scanning, assessing, analyzing. A smaller white truck is parked on the far side of the black one. Beyond them lay the remains of the pavilion.

The place where I crash-landed and shucked it off.

“Holy shit,” I murmur again, still holding onto Thyra’s hand. “I flew over both of those trucks, didn’t I?”

She nods.

“I couldn’t believe you didn’t let go,” Rikard says.

“I couldn’t.” Unblinking, I keep staring at that wreckage and at the trucks. “I was in the air with the whole thing wrapped around me before I could let go.”

Over the stunned comments and mutters, my gaze sweeps back and forth across the trajectory I must have taken. Then I glance down at the empty tent stake holes.

Finally, I can’t deny it any more.

“If the guys would have actually gotten that pavilion more staked down, I might not have cleared both vehicles. With just enough drag, I would have flown head-first straight into the side of that truck. Wouldn’t I?”

Everybody stares at me.

Then at the pavilion’s old spot.

Then at where it now lies in a heap.

“Holy shit,” Godwyn says. All he can do is nod and murmur, “Yeah.”

We don’t say anything else about it, just get to work picking up our pieces in the wake of this divine tempest-tantrum.

---

Perhaps now you begin to understand how much it means to me when I’m the one buckling under the frame, trying to brace it all up and keep everything from collapsing. When I’m screaming and screaming and screaming for a decade without breath and I feel your hand mold around mine as you help me push back.

Even when the storm becomes too much and it’s not your tent so you just can’t anymore, the fact that you were here with me for a moment—I don’t forget that. Sometimes a moment is all it takes to let me get a claw back up on the ledge.

Perhaps you begin to understand why I never hesitate to tell you what I need to tell you. Why I don’t hesitate to take action when my guts insist, “NOW.” Because you never know the next time you or someone you love is going to be French-kissed by Death on a gorgeous, puffy-cloud afternoon.

© 2023 Hartebeast

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1. SCA

• War of the Lilies

• Extreme Weather at Lilies

• Society for Creative Anachronism

2. Severe Weather

• Severe Weather 101: Tornadoes

• 10 Myths About Tornadoes Debunked

• Severe Weather Safety Tips for Campers

• Nerd-Out: The History of Tornado Forecasting - once upon a time, the dread word “tornado” was banned from weather advisories because it was believed that it would incite mass panic. But then lots of people were killed so…they stopped doing that and came up with another plan. It works a lot better.

• Nerd-Out: The Start of Tornado Forecasts

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Another dangerous storm at an another SCA event—very different experience:

A bit more about how I became a fighter chick and got into armor:

A big more about when SHE shows up: