Backpacking and Bipolar II. Taking Manic Depression on tour.
Today I experienced my first tropical rainstorm. Whilst sat working on removing an erroneous rivet from an RD350 stator (the fifth out of a batch of fifteen I had to do), I entered a state of extreme calm. There should be a word for the pleasant monotony of doing the same job for a few times. If there is and I just don’t know it – answers on a postcard in the comments.
Anyway, whilst in this meditative state I failed to notice the thirty seconds it takes a boiling tropical storm cloud to sneak directly above you and prepare its payload.
Like Blackbeard’s crew the clouds above me must have hung, silently floating and encircling, awaiting the order to touch flame to fuse. Steady now… Hold..…. Hold.………..
I was still getting my Zen on, Dremel in hand, when the first volley of thunder splintered my eardrums. Against all the eloquence in the universe, and all lofty turn of phrase – I resort now to the most succinct and accurate description of what happened next:
I shit my pants.
So shocked was I by the thunder and almost immediate cacophony of what sounded like a swimming pool being dumped onto the corrugated roof that I very nearly stabbed myself in the eye with the Dremel. If I’d been any closer to my work or concentrating any harder – I might have been testing out a new stylus permanently attached to my head to address you now, dear reader.
The rain came in sheets and was moving horizontally, smashing against the house and shed. I had to quickly ice-skate on my thongs through the house, closing windows as water gushed in like a scene from Poseidon. Thirty minutes later and the sun was out, everywhere drying up.