WUFT | News and public media for north central Florida
What are the odds?
By Kaitlyn Tarakji
December 23, 2025 at 1:51 PM EST
On an early September afternoon in 1993, a Florida meteorologist was about to get the shock of his life – inside his own home.
Brown packing boxes stood stacked and scattered all over the Sussman family home in Jacksonville. Brad Sussman shoveled random items into any available container while his two young sons played a few feet away. He taped boxes and dusted corners. The movers were on the way. After 15 years as a meteorologist for WJKS Channel 17 in Jacksonville, Sussman had accepted a job at a TV station in Cleveland, Ohio. The family was only hours away from starting their 900-mile move out of Florida.
Of course, the weatherman was leaving in a hellacious storm. Rain hit the window so loud it sounded like metal pellets ringing against the glass. But as a Floridian of many years and trained meteorologist, Sussman was used to afternoon thunderstorms. He was also highly informed about lightning, and wouldn’t be so naive as to step outside.
Quicker than he could think, however, Sussman noticed a puddle pooling inside the house. The screen-porch window was coming open. With his right foot soaked in the puddle and his right hand on the window frame, one glance down and Sussman noticed every hair on his arm was suddenly standing vertically.
"Now would be a good time to leave,” he thought to himself, two seconds too late.
A bright, white flash was all he remembered before being thrown 18 feet across his living room, landing flat on his back with a searing burn on his right shoulder that intensified as he was pressed against the hard wood.
Brad Sussman today in Cleveland, Ohio. (Courtesy of Brad Sussman)<br/> (1080x1080, AR: 1.0)
“Daddy that was funny,” his oldest son exclaimed. “Do it again.”
Moments later, his neighbor, a Jacksonville sheriff’s deputy, frantically threw open the door and found Sussman sprawled on the floor with his eyes blinking toward the ceiling. The officer had seen the bolt strike the house and ran over to check on everyone.
Sussman felt lucky the strike didn’t kill him. But the irony could have.
His first words after coming to: “How could I be struck by lightning, I’m a meteorologist?”
What are the odds? For Floridians, much better than winning the Florida Lotto or being bitten by a shark. Meteorologist and lightning safety specialist John Jensenius at the National Lightning Safety Council calculated Floridians’ risk for WUFT News and found:
Young weather nerd
Sussman spent his childhood Sunday afternoons in Golden, Colorado, eagerly listening to the crack of a baseball bat and cheering the Denver Bears on the radio. One Sunday, the umpire’s shouts and the cleats clattering on bases were interrupted by a thunderous tornado alarm blaring through the speaker. Eight-year-old Brad looked up at his mom, concerned for their safety.
“This just means the weather could get bad, but not around here,” his mom reassured him. “It’s only for the eastern part of the state.”
(1080x1350, AR: 0.8)
A year later, the same routine. Blue skies speckled with just a few cotton-ball clouds. Radio broadcasting the Bears game. But this time, 9-year-old Brad was one step ahead of Colorado’s meteorologists. A quick glance at the sky and he said to his mom “It feels just like that time last year when we had the tornado watch.”
Five minutes later, the tornado tone blasted.
“You should be a weather man,” his mom joked.
Still, Brad never imagined his interest in weather would grow into a career. Even more surprising, he never imagined how much he would grow to fear the hazards in the atmosphere.
Jensenius at the National Lightning Safety Council said it’s usually outdoor activities—along with the sheer amount of lightning in Florida—that put residents and visitors at risk of a strike.
Children fearlessly plunge into one last wave before the storm approaches; kayakers continue to paddle amid a dark sky. Jensenius says the most common question he’s asked comes down to how to protect yourself when you’re stuck outside, that is, “How can I be safe when I’m not safe?”
“You can’t be,” he said.
Protecting others
Moments after the strike went through Sussman and out his right shoulder blade, he somehow continued to pack. A lightning burn wasn’t enough to keep him from getting to Cleveland. It would be two more weeks before he went to the hospital and was cleared for any damage to his heart. He described himself as lucky to have little to no recovery challenges after what is typically a life-altering event.
After 20 more years of forecasting the weather, now adding the heavy snow and ice of Cleveland to severe thunderstorms, tornadoes and other hazards, Sussman decided he needed a clean break from meteorology.
He hung up his raincoat in 2016 and opened Brad Sussman Insurance, an auto, life and commercial insurance business. While he describes his decision to leave meteorology as unrelated to the strike that hit him, his new business very much circled back to Florida and his experience with its stormy skies.
In 1992, Sussman watched the devastation Hurricane Andrew brought to south Florida. In addition to killing 65 people, the Category 5 storm destroyed 25,000 homes, ripped tens of thousands of roofs off others, and flooded residents’ belongings. He never forgot how some of the largest insurance carriers in the country pulled out of Florida.
He was drawn to the idea that he could help people prepare for storms and other disasters with his own insurance company – not unlike how he helped them prepare as a weatherman.
“For years, I told you about the weather, but now I protect you from it,” became the Sussman insurance motto.
While he’s no longer broadcasting weather on the airwaves, Sussman has never stopped talking about lightning safety—now to Ohio schoolchildren.
At each lesson, thinking of that September afternoon he stepped in the puddle, he warns them against showering or doing the dishes when there’s a storm.
In every stage of his life, storms seemed to chase Sussman.
As a child in Colorado playfully listening to a baseball game, as a meteorologist in Florida, as a father packing up his family, as a small-business owner in Ohio, as a weather safety educator for schoolchildren. His passion for weather evolved into a passion to protect—including against that bolt, burned into his memory indefinitely.
“The flash; it came so quick, and I’ll never forget that.”
Brown packing boxes stood stacked and scattered all over the Sussman family home in Jacksonville. Brad Sussman shoveled random items into any available container while his two young sons played a few feet away. He taped boxes and dusted corners. The movers were on the way. After 15 years as a meteorologist for WJKS Channel 17 in Jacksonville, Sussman had accepted a job at a TV station in Cleveland, Ohio. The family was only hours away from starting their 900-mile move out of Florida.
Of course, the weatherman was leaving in a hellacious storm. Rain hit the window so loud it sounded like metal pellets ringing against the glass. But as a Floridian of many years and trained meteorologist, Sussman was used to afternoon thunderstorms. He was also highly informed about lightning, and wouldn’t be so naive as to step outside.
Quicker than he could think, however, Sussman noticed a puddle pooling inside the house. The screen-porch window was coming open. With his right foot soaked in the puddle and his right hand on the window frame, one glance down and Sussman noticed every hair on his arm was suddenly standing vertically.
"Now would be a good time to leave,” he thought to himself, two seconds too late.
A bright, white flash was all he remembered before being thrown 18 feet across his living room, landing flat on his back with a searing burn on his right shoulder that intensified as he was pressed against the hard wood.
Brad Sussman today in Cleveland, Ohio. (Courtesy of Brad Sussman)<br/> (1080x1080, AR: 1.0)
“Daddy that was funny,” his oldest son exclaimed. “Do it again.”
Moments later, his neighbor, a Jacksonville sheriff’s deputy, frantically threw open the door and found Sussman sprawled on the floor with his eyes blinking toward the ceiling. The officer had seen the bolt strike the house and ran over to check on everyone.
Sussman felt lucky the strike didn’t kill him. But the irony could have.
His first words after coming to: “How could I be struck by lightning, I’m a meteorologist?”
What are the odds? For Floridians, much better than winning the Florida Lotto or being bitten by a shark. Meteorologist and lightning safety specialist John Jensenius at the National Lightning Safety Council calculated Floridians’ risk for WUFT News and found:
- 1 in 545,000 chance of being struck every year
- 1 in 6,810 chance if you spend 80 years in Florida
- 1 in 681 likelihood a friend or family member will be hit
Young weather nerd
Sussman spent his childhood Sunday afternoons in Golden, Colorado, eagerly listening to the crack of a baseball bat and cheering the Denver Bears on the radio. One Sunday, the umpire’s shouts and the cleats clattering on bases were interrupted by a thunderous tornado alarm blaring through the speaker. Eight-year-old Brad looked up at his mom, concerned for their safety.
“This just means the weather could get bad, but not around here,” his mom reassured him. “It’s only for the eastern part of the state.”
(1080x1350, AR: 0.8)
A year later, the same routine. Blue skies speckled with just a few cotton-ball clouds. Radio broadcasting the Bears game. But this time, 9-year-old Brad was one step ahead of Colorado’s meteorologists. A quick glance at the sky and he said to his mom “It feels just like that time last year when we had the tornado watch.”
Five minutes later, the tornado tone blasted.
“You should be a weather man,” his mom joked.
Still, Brad never imagined his interest in weather would grow into a career. Even more surprising, he never imagined how much he would grow to fear the hazards in the atmosphere.
Jensenius at the National Lightning Safety Council said it’s usually outdoor activities—along with the sheer amount of lightning in Florida—that put residents and visitors at risk of a strike.
Children fearlessly plunge into one last wave before the storm approaches; kayakers continue to paddle amid a dark sky. Jensenius says the most common question he’s asked comes down to how to protect yourself when you’re stuck outside, that is, “How can I be safe when I’m not safe?”
“You can’t be,” he said.
Protecting others
Moments after the strike went through Sussman and out his right shoulder blade, he somehow continued to pack. A lightning burn wasn’t enough to keep him from getting to Cleveland. It would be two more weeks before he went to the hospital and was cleared for any damage to his heart. He described himself as lucky to have little to no recovery challenges after what is typically a life-altering event.
After 20 more years of forecasting the weather, now adding the heavy snow and ice of Cleveland to severe thunderstorms, tornadoes and other hazards, Sussman decided he needed a clean break from meteorology.
He hung up his raincoat in 2016 and opened Brad Sussman Insurance, an auto, life and commercial insurance business. While he describes his decision to leave meteorology as unrelated to the strike that hit him, his new business very much circled back to Florida and his experience with its stormy skies.
In 1992, Sussman watched the devastation Hurricane Andrew brought to south Florida. In addition to killing 65 people, the Category 5 storm destroyed 25,000 homes, ripped tens of thousands of roofs off others, and flooded residents’ belongings. He never forgot how some of the largest insurance carriers in the country pulled out of Florida.
He was drawn to the idea that he could help people prepare for storms and other disasters with his own insurance company – not unlike how he helped them prepare as a weatherman.
“For years, I told you about the weather, but now I protect you from it,” became the Sussman insurance motto.
While he’s no longer broadcasting weather on the airwaves, Sussman has never stopped talking about lightning safety—now to Ohio schoolchildren.
At each lesson, thinking of that September afternoon he stepped in the puddle, he warns them against showering or doing the dishes when there’s a storm.
In every stage of his life, storms seemed to chase Sussman.
As a child in Colorado playfully listening to a baseball game, as a meteorologist in Florida, as a father packing up his family, as a small-business owner in Ohio, as a weather safety educator for schoolchildren. His passion for weather evolved into a passion to protect—including against that bolt, burned into his memory indefinitely.
“The flash; it came so quick, and I’ll never forget that.”