Let’s Talk – Driving Rain

Screens off? Settled in your favorite nook? Or at the dining table? Then, when was the last time you remember driving rain?

I’m not talking the incessant drizzle here in the Pacific Northwest that can drive you crazy if it lasts for days on end – maybe that is some different kind of driving rain. Neither am I talking those sudden rainstorms that pour down with the vehemence of a massage shower head. I’m talking the kind that comes with the force of wind. The kind that creates memories. You may shake your head now, but they can really stay in mind for decades. Let me tell you about mine.

It was May 1986. There had been a row of gorgeous, warm days. But nobody was outside; even farm animals were driven back into the stables. Everybody was hunkering down inside unless there was a reason, a purpose to go outside. The nuclear power plant in Tchernobyl had had a melt-down, and winds from the east were driving invisible clouds of strong radiation all across Europe. I went to school on my bike instead of walking, to shorten the time of exposure. I remember that day when I was at school in the afternoon, and I watched the clouds brew in the sky, shaping up to become a thunderstorm. Would I be able to beat the storm on my way home? I knew about fall-out. I hastened outside as soon as the bell rang and made it home half-way when the clouds broke. Thunder, lightning, strong gusts of wind headed against me on my bike. I fought against the pelting streams of rain. I was wet to the skin by the time I got home. My mother had me slip out of my clothes and under the shower as quickly as you can say Jack Robinson. The shower was meant to provide decontamination. Did it do the work though? The fear of rain stayed for as long as the clouds from Ukraine hovered in the air. Over the years, that scary year became a fainter memory although specific wild mushrooms and venison are still contaminated in Southern Germany, especially apparently Bavaria.

Another day of driving rain comes to mind. This time, it found me on the German North Sea island of Wangerooge. It was a gray day, and I knew it would rain. I thought I was well-prepared. I was wearing a Macintosh (umbrellas at the coast are as useless in Germany as they are over here). I had finished my beach walk in the dry, yet, and was headed for lunch when the rain hit. The gusts of wind drove it against my rubber coat, and from there it dripped off relentlessly onto my pants which soon were soaked. I finally reached a restaurant, dry on top, wet on the lower half of my body. Ah, the warmth of a tiled stove!

My happiest memory of driving rain is from the Washington coast, though. It was a cold December day around Christmas about a decade ago. My husband and I had headed out there for razor clamming. We had managed to book a room in a dank, little motel whose heating was failing and whose hot water supply was off because the furnace was broken. We went to the beach in the last rays of sunshine. Clouds were already moving in as we began digging with the outgoing tide. Farther and farther out we moved until we were digging on a sandbank that was teeming with clams. That’s when the rain hit. Real hard. It was biting our hands, our faces. My hair was dripping wet in spite of the hood I had pulled over it. The hood got soaked. Horizontal rain bit through my jeans, and yet we were so close to our limits. A huge wave crashed against us out of nowhere, almost knocking me off my feet, filling my rubber boots with brine. As everything in me protested against the elements, I became even more determined. Once you are wet to the skin, it cannot get worse, right? We kept digging, with the incoming tide sloshing around our ankles and the rain driven against us in unforgiving gusts. We cleaned our limits in the motel’s clam kitchen, still in our wet gear. Our little propane gas stove perceptibly warmed the air. So did our little electric heater that we had set up in our room. It was never enough to dry our clothing, though; we were just glad to have brought another set of clothes. We went into the howling mixture of wind and rain again, to get ourselves some dinner. We arrived wet at the tavern on the little bay and shed our jackets to dry. Oh, that dinner has never been forgotten! Because it warmed body and soul after an adventure that made us so one with water … from above and below.