On the day the tornado hit, there was no indication severe weather was on its way—the sky was blue and the sun had been out. The first alert my husband, Jimmy, 67, and I, 65, got came around 9 p.m., from some scrolling text on the TV Jimmy was watching. He ran upstairs to find me in our third-floor bedroom, and we changed the channel from the presidential primary debate I had been watching to our local Pensacola, Florida, station.
No sooner had we found coverage of the tornado than it was on top of us. Suddenly, the bones of the house shook, the power went out, and the wind began to roar through blown-out windows. We had three flights of steps to navigate to the relative safety of the first floor, where a closet fixed underneath a brick staircase might be the firmest place to wait things out. Everything around rattling, we struggled forward, uncertain whether we would make it.
As we reached the last flight of steps, our front door blew out. Shards of glass flew everywhere. A three-foot-long tree branch whipped, missing us by inches.
By the time I reached the closet, the tornado had been over us for about a minute. Jimmy pushed me down to the closet floor, but the wind kept him outside. I grasped his arm as the tornado constantly sucked the door open and tried to bring him with it. My knees and scalp were full of glass, but I felt no pain. If I had let go, Jimmy would have flown right out the back of the house and into the bay. Then everything stopped. In those first quiet moments, I couldn't believe it was over.
The storm lasted four minutes. Four of the twelve town houses in our unit were completely destroyed. Of the houses left standing, ours suffered the most damage. Amazingly, none of us were severely injured.
