In North Kohala the weather is moody as a tired child. One
moment the sun beats down desert-hot rays; the next it’s raining sideways.
Another minute and the sun returns to steam moisture from the ground.
This morning I walk down the lane to the highway, smell of
night-time rain still in the air, Allen Sapp clouds in a sky so blue it would be
unbelievable if painted on a canvas. Another day in paradise and I’m on my way
to meet the other Inkwells, our Wednesday morning writers’ group.
When the dog and I walk down the highway I notice dark
clouds move in. But the rain only threatens until we’ve walked a mile. Then,
just outside the credit union, the monsoon strikes. I have an umbrella, but the
wind picks up and nothing can withstand the trades when they work themselves
into a squall (like that over-tired child having a tantrum). In thirty seconds
the dog and I are both drenched.
A white van pulls up across the road, blue bubble on the
roof. It’s Jonathan, one of the dog’s favorite people and the police officer
who provides procedural advice on the murder mystery I’m writing. He passed us
when the rain started, then turned around to offer us a ride. We pile our
sodden selves into the van and he drives us the remaining mile to meet the
other Inkwells.
North Kohala – there’s no place like it.
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