Saint Elmo's Fire

We knew the storm was coming. The wind started around 9 pm, well after everyone was in bed. Slowly, painfully, the huge tents began to sway, gasp, then boom. Tent side panels exploded outwards in unison throwing the standbags that held them. Then the rain came; droplets the size of VW Rabbits; hammered the tents that were still standing. It was like trying to sleep in a drum. The campers huddled in their cots as the water silently rose around them. The temperature outside fell from the 50s to the low 30s in less than an hour. The chill factor was in the teens. I got up, found my knife and put on my pants. Others around me did the same. We lay back down in our cots and watched our tent above gasp and cough. I wanted to be able to cut my way out of the tent if it should fall during the night. Can you imagine such a thing?

We watched in facination as static electricity, like Saint Elmo's fire in Moby Dick, arched from tent pole to tent pole in the darkness above.

At midnight we were all awake; those with raingear were outside helping man the pumps. The tents had 4 to 6 inches of water and the slit trenches dug around the camp needed to be drained. Most everyone's gear was wet. We were cold and there was no where to go. Those with dry gear passed it out. They served breakfast at 3 am. The wind gusted over 40.

We shivered, blue, in the open sided food tent happy for the warm coffee, the company and knowing that this was the end of the mosquito season.