It rained most of the week. Not just gentle drizzle but in sheets or “stair rods” as my Mum says.
Rain crashed through the trees tearing off twigs and leaves and scattering green rubbish over the path. Wind played havoc with the rain, spewing it sideways and pushing it down the road in clouds of steam. Downpipes threw cascades of water across the car park, pavers were drowned and my shoes didn’t stand a chance.
I’m at the Sailing Club under cover, up near the kitchen. And still the rain bashes in, drenching my back, cooling my arms. I pull the big golf brolly close to my seat – if I let go for a second it marches towards me on those spindly ends, almost engulfing my chair. I stay a while longer, to soak up the wildness of the ocean as the waves tried to land on the grass. I watch the palm trees dance like wild horses tossing their manes to be free. I giggle like a schoolgirl and make jokes with my friends.
The storms in the tropics are spectacular. The rain refreshes the landscape, new growth springs into life and frogs start up an orchestra of croaking harmonies. Everywhere is lush, vibrant and green. It’s a special time in the Territory.