‘Then, I Could No Longer Stand’

I drove into the heart of the storm, my police scanner screaming, the radio broadcasting warnings of the approaching storm.

The sky turned midnight dark and hail pounded the roof of my car.

Then the rain stopped and there was no more hail. Just quiet. An eerie quiet.

Suddenly, debris flew and I saw it--the funnel cloud, a quarter- to a half-mile away, straddling the highway.

I have chased tornadoes for a quarter-century, but this was the first I had seen on the ground. I stood there, a half-mile away, shooting pictures.

I got back in my car and began driving. I stopped and shot more pictures. By now, it was so close I had to use a wide-angle lens.

I drove, I stopped, I shot. And then I realized the storm was so close I had no place to hide.

I got out of my truck at an overpass and spotted a woman standing beside her van. I yelled at her to get against the pillars supporting the overpass. She ran to the side of her van for her two young daughters.

I helped her get one girl out of the car seat, then I pushed and shoved them to the pillar and put my back to the storm. I stopped shooting when the funnel was maybe 150 feet away. By then, I could no longer stand.

I was hit by flying debris. I felt one of my two pagers slide out of its holder and bang against me. The pager went up in the tornado and vanished.

I hugged the little girls and the woman and kept telling them it would be OK and to keep their faces down and not to look up.

Then it was gone. The funnel crossed the expressway and we were OK.

As soon as I could stand, I began taking pictures again. The wind was still strong. The funnel cloud was less than 50 yards away. The wind was howling and I could barely stand, but the storm was moving away.

The woman asked if it was safe to continue on to Lawton, and I said it seemed OK.

In all the confusion, I forgot one basic rule of journalism.

I never got her name.