It was a dark and stormy night. The campers huddled in the centre of the tent.

“Our honeymoon will be ruined,” he whined as yet another clap of thunder shook the ground like a vibrating bed gone berserk.

“Not to worry,” said she. “We’re communing with nature.”

When they embarked on their honeymoon earlier that day, the sky was as bright as their spirits. Filled with good food, encouraged by best-wishers, they hopped into his 1981 jeep and headed for the hills. A week of camping in the back woods of Ontario would cement their relationship all the while granting them calm following months of pre-marital planning chaos.

Boom! The thunder was so loud that he felt like his head was inside a cream can that was being bashed by a baseball bat. “I don’t like this,” he shouted over the din.

“It’s just a passing storm. You’ll see,” she soothed.

It was her idea to camp for their honeymoon. She grew up in a tent, could fish and hunt better than Jeremiah Johnson and paddle a canoe as well as any ancient voyageur. “You’ll love it, sweetums,” said she through puckered lips. He had wanted to go to Vegas.

Scratch, scratch. The nylon announced unexpected company. “Something’s out there,” he said.

“Just a family of raccoons who want in out of the storm,” she explained as she unzipped the tent flap and welcomed them in. They scampered to a corner of the tent, turned and looked at the honeymooners. He inched behind her and stared back.

By now the wind had picked up. The leaves overhead roared like an angry ocean, the tent pegs strained to keep the tent anchored.

Whiz. Snap. Lightening zinged through the camp so close that their hair sprang to attention. It struck a nearby tree decapitating it, sending its crown plummeting down. It landed on their picnic table with a crash. “Great,” he mumbled. “We’re going to be killed.”

“Not to worry,” she cooed, “Our week’s firewood has just been delivered.”

The mother raccoon and her two kittens huddling in the corner of the tent peered at him as if trying to figure out which pocket contained the candy bar. “I feel like I am being held prisoner by the Jessie James gang,” he said.

“Oh, they’re just curious creatures. They won’t hurt you.”

“We should have gone to Vegas,” said he. “The thieves there only have one arm and don’t wear masks.”

Pit. Pit. Pock, pock, pock. The rain started. Slowly at first but then it seemed like someone pulled the bathtub plug and all the water cascaded down on them.

“We’re going to get soaked,” he complained.

“Not to worry,” said she. “I left the water buckets out. We won’t have to carry any water tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know you were such a cock-eyed optimist,” he said sourly.

“I did bring you along camping, didn’t I?”

“Yeh. But it is our honeymoon, remember.”

“Well, there is no sense getting upset about things,” she replied. “As Nana used to say, if life gives you patches, make a quilt. We’re starting off with a queen-size one.”

He was not convinced. “I’m leaving before we get ourselves killed.” He slipped out of his bag, into his jeans and sweat shirt and unzipped the tent. “Are you coming?” he called over his shoulder.

“I guess,” she said. Wrapping her bag around her, she dashed for the jeep. They were soaked by the time they pulled the doors shut. She was laughing at their predicament; he was not.

At that instant a loud roar, like a train coming full bore upon them, enveloped them. The jeep was sucked into the tornado and sent spinning through the air.

“And I suppose you can find something good in this,” he shouted at her.

“Well at least we’re not wasting gas!”