Beauty sometimes left in storms’ wake
The other day when we walked, the air felt as thick as grits. Halfway up the hill on our return lap, both Jilda and I were huffing. It should have come as no surprise, because thunderstorms were moving in. Even though they were still one day and two states away, I could feel their power.
When I was in Panama in 1972, a tropical storm swept southward over Cuba and into the Caribbean Sea. Sleep was difficult the evening before the storm made landfall because it felt as though I had a weight sitting on my chest.
The wind and rain swept through during the night Friday, leaving an angry surf and clouds the color of mourning doves.
Several of us ventured down to the shore in swimsuits Saturday for a firsthand look at the ocean. Ten-foot waves drove inland, and I tried a time or two to body surf, but the force of the water slammed me down hard. For days afterward, I dug sand from my hair, ears and other places.
Once I realized body surfing was unwise, I found a palm tree that had washed up with the tide and sat for a long while. Off in the distance, I could see cloud-to-cloud lightning, but it was impossible to hear thunder over the roar of the sea. I’d never felt so small before.
After breakfast Sunday, the guys in my barracks went back out for another look. The tide had taken the palm tree away to some other shore. The force of the pounding waves had dredged up long-buried shells with exotic names like Gaudy Natica and Fighting Conch. It was beautiful, but also a humbling experience.
When we go to the ocean these days, I always look for seashells but usually only find picked-over pieces.
But once, when we spent New Year’s with our friends Kaye and Ron at their new house in Blue Mountain, Florida, our luck was much different.
A tropical depression had formed in the Gulf and was moving toward the Panhandle, but we didn’t let the storm dampen our spirits. We feasted on lobster, crab claws and some mighty rad gumbo as the storm raged outside. Through the south-facing windows, you could see lightning jabbing the ocean offshore.
The next morning, the clouds had moved off to the east, leaving blue skies and a warm sun.
The temperatures were in the low 50s, but we put on our sweatpants and headed to the beach. I walked a little ahead of the others and spotted a Horse Conch, which is a beautiful shell. It was in perfect condition. Soon I heard Jilda squeal as she found a shell as big as a saucer.
Even though it was too chilly to swim, all four of us were in the waist-deep surf snatching shells from the sand. By the time we headed back for lunch, we had a treasure trove.
We shared shells with friends and family, but we still have baskets filled with the shells we picked up the day after that storm.
We live in a strange and wonderful world. Storms can sweep through, leaving a path of death and destruction, but sometimes they leave a trail of beauty in their wake.
Rick Watson is a columnist and author. His latest book, “Life Changes,” is available on Amazon.com. You can contact him via email at rick@homefolkmedia.com.