Open Writing

January 26th is Australia Day. A public holiday devoted to all things Australian. This year a mini cyclone moved onto the coast north of Cairns on the 23rd and the area received six months rainfall overnight. Each evening we watched as the weather forecasters mapped the course of the of high winds and torrential rain that left communities flooded, expecting it to impact on the Gold Coast on Australia Day.

Under the impending threat of wild weather the Gold Coast Council chose to postpone the major outdoor concerts and fire works until Sunday. Fishing and boating were definitely out, as were planned barbecues and cricket matches which are the very essence of Australia Day.

Here on the home front I cleaned out the gutters, staked up plants and stowed anything that might be blown about by the wind. I checked torches and batteries and the gas camp stove and placed candles and matches within easy reach. I filled the cat litter tray so puss would not have to venture out into the wet and took down the bird feeder.

sometime in the early hours of the 26th I woke to the sound of rain drops. The pitter-patter kind that sprinkle themselves sparingly. I waited expecting more. Nothing. The pattering stopped. The wind swished through the trees and swooshed down the side of the house rattling any movable object it could find. Daylight came without sunshine and another squall of rain splattered on the windows. The dark heavy sky threatened but no rain fell.

The day passed in limbo. Without plan. I wrote letters and read, all the time waiting, waiting for the promised deluge. I wanted rain. Continuous heavy rain. Enough to fill the dam that provides the 250,000 Gold Coast residents with water. The amount of water in the dam reached an all time low last year resulting in severe restrictions for the residents while the ever flowing tide of tourists passing through, unknowingly squanders our most precious commodity.

The evening meal over, I turned on the television and, on a screen cut by flashes and jagged lines indicating a nearby storm, watched the weather report. The large white mass of cloud was now out over the sea. The threat was gone. Moved off the land. The best we were offered was showers for the next twenty-four hours. Hhrmmp!

I wondered how other people spent Australia Day? Had they thrown caution to the wind and perhaps being more in tune with the fickle weather than a transient kiwi, filled the parks and beaches and partied on regardless? I hoped so.

The wind was still strong when I went to bed at midnight and I lay listening to sounds both familiar and strange in the garden. The pattering began again. Harder, faster. Rain was falling. Steady, solid rain beating down. Drumming on the porch roof, rushing down the drainpipe. A wonderful sound and I put off sleeping just to listen.

Thirty-six hours on the rain was gone, a watery sun shining and a brisk breeze drying the washing. No floods. Just beautiful rain that left the garden green and shiny.

But I think maybe my father was right when he said, “Little boys who tell fibs end up working for the weather bureau.”