It had been stifling hot for weeks on end, and like the old ladies here, I took to carrying a cloth to wipe my neck and arms as the humidity climbed to high-five the temperature already in the 90s.
We got up at five to go on our daily beach walk with the dogs, and even so they were panting and scouting for water on our return. If we slept in until six, it was too hot. By noon all of us melted like chocolate bars left on a dashboard in a Texas summer. In the suffocating heat, dogs retreated under chairs or my desk to lie flat-out on the cool floor, and I spent most of my days at my desk with a fan blowing.
Over the weekend the weather seemed to swell like a boil. The afternoons stifled any activity except the buzzing of insects. Evenings gave us no breeze; it felt like a sauna.
And then Sunday night the rains came, pit pitting at first, and then they burst forth in a wall of water that thundered down soaking the earth. The smell of moss and grass and primordial jungle rose up and blew in the warm wind. I saw flashes of lightning and counted out the miles–one-one thousand, two-one thousand–until the bang. Sometimes the air filled with electricity but the thunder was way off up the coast or out to sea. But these tropical storms are unpredictable, and by two in the morning it had swung over our heads. The sky lit up casting shadows in the night and BANG! BANG! BANG! the thunder shook our bed like an earthquake, letting us know the storm was right here, right now. That is when all the dogs, both inside and outside dogs, came in the house for the night.
There have been news reports of widespread damage along the southern Caribbean, but we are safe. Not even any leaks. The past few days have been cool in the mornings and the world is fresh again, revived after the storms.