Kona Storms

My yard is a flooded mud pit. The compost that I spent all day yesterday heaping around my trees has washed away. The small dam on my lower pond burst, releasing most of the water. Our gravel path is now a small stream.  The current casualty toll is: two milos, a papaya, and a banana.  The ducks look like children making the most of their temporary water world.  The chickens have resigned themselves to the rain and are stoically standing their ground against the elements.  My dogs are cowering under the bed. 

So it is with every kona storm.  The heavy stillness of the torrential rain will be broken by the sound of a freight train barreling down the mountain from the south west.  Due to some meteorological phenomena, the north east facing valley behind us acts as a superconductor for south west winds.  While the rest of the island is just dealing with rain and thunder, we have a gusting mini hurricane on our hands.  Alternating episodes of stillness followed by 50 mph gusts.  Because we have to close our dome and all of the windows (to keep the rain out), the Yurt ends up acting as a barometric pressure gauge.  Right before a gust of wind hits us, the yurt puffs up from the drop in pressure (because the pressure outside is momentarily less than it is inside).  And then the massive amount of moving air chasing the low pressure hits. 

It's like riding a ship through a storm. You can feel the flimsy structure straining against the wind, you can see the wind rippling through the canvas walls, and you can hear it.  Nothing compares to the sound.  Albezia trees are snapping like gunshots, pieces of flying debris (mostly leaves) are hitting the walls, and the supernatural roar of the wind consumes all.  It might be some almost dormant PTSD left over from huddling under a mattress with my brother during hurricane Iniki, but the sound of wind definitely rankles me deep inside.  That low encompassing roar created from the friction of rapidly moving air against the earth is the sound of destruction.

But then it's over.  And the only sound left is the unworldly silence of rain drops on our polyvinyl chloride roof and distant thunder punctuated by the occasional jabber of a happy duck finding a worm.   In a few hours the sun will come out.  My lake of a yard will begin to dry up.  And tomorrow I'll get to work repairing the damage. 

And so it goes for winter in Hawai'i.