In an old wooden house in a storm it’s a bit like I imagine it would have been in the hold of one of those big, old sailing ships. Through the windows and floorboards come the drafts, the curtains billow, the wind lashes the rain across the side of the house, the walls groan, and the cat skitters about.
Standing on the path at 10pm sawing a bit of our fence which had collapsed while the rain came lashing down I found myself thinking about the fire service. What a hell of a night for them. The news in the morning said there had been over 500 call outs overnight. Every time I went outside you could hear the sirens wailing across town. In the morning I went out in the car to drop people off. It was a bad night for trees in Wellington. They’re down all over the place. A huge one has smashed the fences behind Wakefield Park. It is sobering looking at a piece of steel creased in half.
On Island Bay the fishing boats are tugging lustily at their anchor chains, and the white wave heads crash and tear at the shore. Concrete storm walls ripped out, and debris all across the roads. Watching the huge, surging, bulge of waves looming in with their fraying white heads spitting and frothing puts you in your place. Puts things in perspective. Nature tearing at itself is something to fear. A day off school is something to celebrate.