So just as I was thinking there was a little equilibrium, that the sun shone all over the world and was, if not equally shared in terms of time, benign and happy in its sharing of warmth and light,
I woke on Friday to a noisome deluge, the incessant rain alien not only in its volume, but its persistence. I have a tin roof, I sat up, listening to the noise and puzzling at the lack of wake up call the sun usually provides. Helicopters buzzed above: a sure sign something is lost.

A bit of rain is good, but there was something about this particular deluge I wasn’t liking.
Having hunted for my wet fishspawn in a torrent, photographing all the while, I now find my camera is not working.
The sea put on a 17 meter swell, and dark-green gales roared in, throwing the beach out of its boundaries and into the streets , as if to erase the traces of human habitation.
Further north from here, the highway collapsed and took with it an entire family. Tankers kicked over, all power lost. More rain in 3 days than in about 3 years, I would reckon.

Having no power made me realise the fragility of this dainty web of interconnectedness. How dependent we are on electricity, and how very real the lack of it can be.
It also made me realise how much I like hot showers and refrigerated food. And lights to read by.

Half damp, I sat today and watched the wild sea, having battled with it earlier. I have seaweed in my hair and a crust of salty rime all over me,
Now here I sit with my feet frozen, reading “The True History of the Kelly Gang”, by Peter Carey.
The book is soft and pages rough cut, it flops in my hand as I read, mesmerised, the freakish surf just visible over the cover.

The surf has put on an entertaining show. Round here, everybody rushed down to "Dead Man's", just off Fairy Bower, to watch the lunatics catch the huge waves, including this guy.
I had myself an exhilarating encounter. I can't help myself: days like these tell me just how hopelessly I am addicted to salt water.