The rain began at 6:12 a.m.
At first, it was just a gentle patter on the windows of Maple Hall — the kind of rain that makes you roll over, check the time, and think, Maybe I’ll actually go to class today.
By 6:15, it sounded like God had overturned a bathtub over Bristol.
By 6:20, the Wi-Fi was gone.
Students woke up to flickering lights, slamming doors, and the distant sound of someone shouting, “My Crocs floated away!” down the hallway.
Outside, the quad had turned into Lake Roger — a wide, rippling sheet of brown water stretching from the Commons all the way to the Fine Arts building. Dining trays floated by like lost ships. Ducks had moved in and were clearly thriving.
Sam, a sophomore with one clean hoodie to his name, stood at his window in disbelief. “This is it,” he said. “This is how I die — missing my 8 a.m. psych class because the sky decided to drown us.”
His roommate Jules peeked out from under a blanket burrito. “It’s not the apocalypse,” he muttered. “It’s just Bristol.”
A flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a crack of thunder so loud that half the dorm screamed in unison. The power flickered again. Somewhere down the hall, someone wailed, “My ramen was in the microwave!”
By 8:00, a few brave souls attempted to reach class. They wrapped laptops in sweatshirts, pulled trash bags over backpacks, and trudged out into the storm like soggy pioneers. One student tried riding a scooter. It immediately hydroplaned.
Campus Security drove by in a golf cart that looked like a submarine.
“Stay dry out there!” an officer called, his poncho flapping behind him like a heroic plastic cape.
Meanwhile, in the Commons, the floor had become a full-scale slip-and-slide. Staff members were heroically mopping, but the battle was clearly lost. “If you fall,” one muttered darkly, “you’re signing a liability waiver.”
At 9:30, a campus-wide email finally arrived.
Subject: Weather Update — Classes Continuing as Scheduled.
Body: “Please use caution when traveling between buildings.”
The group chats exploded.
“USE CAUTION?? Bro, I just saw a fish swim past the law school.”
“I think the library is an island now.”
“Someone’s literally paddleboarding down the quad.”
By noon, the rain finally began to slow. Sunlight peeked through the clouds, turning puddles into tiny mirrors. The flooded walkways sparkled. A lone student stood outside CAS, soaked from head to toe, holding up a Dunkin’ cup like a victory flag.
They had made it.
The Great RWU Flood of ’25 would go down in history — not for the damage it caused, but for the students who braved it all: the soggy, the sleep-deprived, the heroes who crossed the quad with nothing but determination and a questionable sense of balance.
And yes — they still got marked “late.”