Blast!

"The cold droplets of rain lashing against my bare head, soaking my hair, dripping down to run in rivulets across my face; the rush and roar of the wind, which presses upon the sails and whips through the rigging, tugging against my coat; the rushing waters of the seas all around, the waves crested with white; the roll and surge of the deck beneath my feet and the feel of the wheel in my hands, as I brace my feet to hold the ship upon her course; the fear that every moment one of the men might slip overboard or the sails rip to shreds in the wind or the rudder fail: thus it is to be a captain aboard a ship in a storm."

"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."

-Captain Nic Blaknar

Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.

As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.



Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.

Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.

Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.



Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.

Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.



This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...

EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.