Thor’s Hammer

What is your favorite type of weather?

I woke up in a state of excitement; the surf report said to expect waist-high clean conditions with an offshore breeze. I went to the window, expecting to see a ton of people in the line-up.

Alas, it was not to be.

I’ve always loved wild storms, the clouds gathering, the wind picking up. Little bits of paper and litter swirling around as the first distant rumblings are heard. Nature in a fell mood.

The first fat drops splatter on the ground…slowly, hesitantly…and there’s a final pause. I wonder what people back in Noah’s time thought; there had never been rain until that day when the door on the ark was closed. What’s this? Water from the clouds?

The clouds open and the rain comes, shifting gossamer curtains. Streaks of lightening, both far away and close; grumbling rolls and crashing booms of thunder. Thor, striking his hammer. Everything is drowned out by the noise of the rain. This is the time to grab your coffee and lose yourself in the wildness of the storm.

After a time, its fury spent, the storm eases. The rain slackens and slows to a light drizzle, and soon even that ceases. Birds that took shelter begin to emerge again and if it’s summer, steam begins to rise from the sidewalks and roads.

The skies lighten and patches of blue appear here and there. Sometimes, the storm blows out to sea; the rain blurs the bottom of the clouds and the horizon. The cloud tops turn rosy with the afternoon sun.

If you’re lucky, a rainbow appears; a promise from God that what happened in Noah’s time will never happen again. It’s reassuring. And as the skies clear, you’re reminded again at some level that all things are fleeting; rage, elation, despair, exhilaration.

When my father was dying in a hospital, the daily vigil by his bedside took terrible toll on me. I was staying with my brother and as Pop lay in the hospital at night, machines beeping and tubes hissing, Doug and I sat, sadly recalling the Glory Years.

One night, I went a bit berserk. It was about 10:30 pm and a south Florida storm was gathering. I borrowed Doug’s surfboard and walked the few blocks to the beach. The surf was rough, and the thunder rumbled. I hesitated for a moment, then plunged in and started paddling.

I sat on my board, hardly able to see anything. I bobbed up and down, lightening streaking across the sky. Rain pelted me in the face as I reflected that the guy who had taught me all I knew, a man so kind and intelligent, would soon be no more. I wept.

After a time, the madness passed. I felt peace steal into my soul and I had the sudden feeling that it was all right, things were gonna be OK. It was just Pop’s time.

The same unspoken whisper that gave me comfort also gave me a warning: Get out. Now.

I paddled as hard as I could for the beach.

The storm had stilled the one inside me.

Photos by author

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