. . . we, God Girl and me, are going through a “tropical depression” right now. Folks around here are not paying it much mind. Torrential rain, fifteen foot waves blasting the beach, sand hitting your bare legs like micro-bullets—if this is considered by the natives as “nothing,” then I would very much hate to see “something.” Before the waves hit a death-dealing hundred feet high today, surfers were going hog wild. Michelle and I walked the beach yesterday morning and watched these aqua nuts do their thing on these enormous waves. The cross tide from the south was so forceful that the kids had to go pretty far down the beach just to end up back near the parking lot after a mere one or two rides. Also, alas, looks like our fine crop of turtle eggs are finito this year. Geez. Tuff enough with every other thing in the Devil's Dominion predating on them but the babies also get massacred by Mother Nature.
On the beach the other day we saw a charter boat sinking about a mile offshore. Below is the headline.
This island is about one foot shy of being cut off from most of the free world. That’s about how much it will take for the water to over top the south road to the mainland. All this is more than enough for me to avow to Michelle that in the event we ever get an actual hurricane, even in the one, two or three level, we are so "see ya later alligator . . . after awhile crocodile." No screwing around, either.
No word yet of any geezers being killed by falling palm trees or electrocuted as they creep their walkers over downed power lines. No mention either of any pit bull or rott attacks. The proverbial cement truck did flatten some cars the other day, mashing a few folks, mussing up a few others; but other than a murder or two and some internet sex sting stuff the weather seems the big news on this battered and buffeted sand bar.
Right now I feel right at home—we are under a tornado watch until eleven tonight! If we survive, I’ll try to update all this in the morning.
Art of the Day