Stranded in a Thunderstorm on a Sublime Sunday

One crack of thunder, and we were booted out of the ferry. Stranded in a thunderstorm. It was an iconic summer day for #SublimeSunday…until the rain. Through the hammock we had to go.

Mosquitos attacked my exposed limbs with their pin-pricks. The air was heavy with that brooding feeling—a storm was undeniably near, but not yet here. With the intertwining live oak branches and muscadine vines, the hammock looked like a safe haven compared to the exposed beach. The foliage was like the snug walls of a large house, with one twisting hallway connecting them all. The buzz of life was all around us—the cicadas made sure of that. Home away from home.

“We’ve probably got forty-five minutes before it starts raining,” I said, looking skeptically at the smooth grey clouds over-head. It wasn’t like they were deep grey and spirting out lightning every direction.

Two minutes later the heavens broke open. I’ve never been good at weather predictions.

“This is why they call it a canopy,” my husband said, choosing a thick patch of vines to stand under. It was like an umbrella with a few too many holes. Big, cold drops catapulted down at random places, accumulating, until my purse had a puddle on top.

“Sing rain-rain-go-away-come-again-another-day-Little-Johnny-wants-to-play,” the tot said with enthusiasm. The tot does not know about the existence of titles. She slurs the first few lines of a song together instead - effective and humorous.

"Finally, an appropriate time to sing this song," I said.

The cicadas were singing too. Silly humans go away, try it here another day; Too big to hide, on a leaf’s underside; Silly humans go away.

I held a little hand as we walked along the slick boards, singing away. The nausea I had from the heat was suddenly gone. All the sweat was being washed away. Lately I’d forgotten how the summer thunderstorms that come almost every day renew the earth, and everything in its path. The smell of summer rain drowned out the smell of sunscreen, and every other smell.

We made it out into civilization again. Huddled under the small overhang of the public restrooms was a group of bikers. They had big mustaches and leather jackets with emblems on them. They might have been tough at some point, back when it was sunny. Poor little pussycats, afraid of the rain.

The rain wasn’t planning on going away without a fight.

But, things that come on strong seem to peter out before too long. Just like those tough bikers. As it turns out, it was still a #SublimeSunday in the end.

The view from my swing; just me, some puffy clouds, a carpenter bee, and the blue glow of dusk.