When all you can hear is what you see
I’d just begun reading my novel of the day. Topic, street scenes in New Orleans just before the landfall of a major hurricane (trivia hint for today). Outside, a sky that was getting heavier and darker by the minute; a colour scheme involving swirls of gray, navy blue and light black (that is a colour, you know). My overactive imagination was fertile for weather like this.
The city bus entered the first of the rainshowers within minutes, complete with shock and awe (thunder and lightning). Even the bus crowd stayed quiet, as we slowed for our exit. Traffic was much slower than usual, due to teams of policemen directing the flow in their usual, inefficient manner (guys with gloves seem to impede progress). The rainfall increased as did the tempo of the thunder.
My stop came into view (sort of) and I had a decision to make. Should I stay or should I go? Not on the bus, which would be counter to my plan for getting home; instead, the bus shelter which offered “shelter” (how cool is that?). There’s something awe inspiring about thunder that better resembles the roar of a passing jet fighter, and lightning that comes from all four quadrants. Busily counting: “one thunderbolt, two thunderbolt”, it was evident that there was little separation between me and the cells. At five seconds, it’s supposed to mean a mile, which is less than six thousand feet straight up. I was at storm centre.
I waited fifteen minutes, and then decided to take my courage in hand and run for it. Mythbusters has proven that you don’t get any wetter if you walk instead of run, but the constant thunder (better that which you hear than that which you see) kept me beating a tempo that made me consider Olympics (in another lifetime).
Home. Wet. Unstruck. The storm was over.
