Our family was enjoying a summer vacation at Virginia Beach, Virginia in 1959. [We would spend two weeks there every summer until the area became overrun with tourons (tourist + moron = touron).] Significant
cumulus castellanus with black undersides were brewing on the horizon and my Navy veteran father gave the order to abandon the beach and head for our cottage. Just as we had collected our beach towels, books, radio, beach umbrella, rafts, and coolers, there was a multi-million candlepower flash and an huge explosion. We were knocked to the ground.
As we shook our heads, slowly and dizzily stood, we realized that a bolt of lightning had struck not ten feet from where we had been "catching rays"! The immense heat of the stroke had formed a glass-like bowl about two feet in diameter as well as hundreds of fulgurite tubes. Had I realized their value, I should have saved a few, though I still have paroxysmal tinnitus to remind me of the event.
Dad had brought some of his golf clubs, including his 1-iron, to the beach to practice sand play that day. After our dance with Death, Dad exclaimed: "Even God can't hit a 1-iron!" Thank Zeus!
If only He could have hit a few hundred-thousand of the tourons with accurately guided electrical charges, Virginia Beach would have remained a subtropical paradise; instead it became the world's largest and most congested resort...
- Ed