Uncontrolled Variables

The illusion of control gets us through most days.

We humans believe that if we manage certain variables in our lives, good things will follow—or, at least, bad things will be contained.

Quite often we're right! Which is both comforting and convenient.

Sometimes we're wrong, tho, and that's when things get interesting. Yesterday was one of those days.

Morning went predictably. The alarm went off at five a.m., as it usually does. The dogs went out to romp for a while, as they predictably do. Coffee was made, chores began, conference calls ensued. 

Breakfast was served to all the creatures who wanted it, administrative boxes were checked, and a long-ish run was run and done.

All these things occurred under the kind of blue skies that have been making Hawai'i famous since antiquity. Sure, the trade winds picked up after lunchtime, as they will do, but, as usual, we managed that by closing windward doors and opening doors on the lee side.

It was one-thirty p.m. or so that we first smelled the smoke. It took all of thirty seconds to identify the source—a widening plume downslope from our farm, carried directly toward us by the trade winds.

It was, what, maybe half an hour later that the power went down.

Point of order: we have a near-new solar power system, along with backup supplied by the Hawai'i County power grid. So under nearly every foreseeable circumstance, our house should never lack electricity.

Go figure.

By three p.m. the smoke plume had grown by orders of magnitude, and ash was falling like black snow. One of our neighbors, a retired firefighter, hosed down the long, dry grass on the north side of his house, obviously worried about embers floating in on the trades.

Meanwhile, we went through our afternoon routine, making sure chickens, geese, and sheep had extra food and water. Later we noticed our clothes smelled like smoke, which was less surprising than it was jarring.

Dusk came early as smoke swept over and around us. We brought out an array of battery powered lights and joked about turning on the ceiling fans hanging inert above our heads.

We gave up the notion that power would magically come back on so we could make dinner (or even risk opening the fridge). Instead we drove into town, where everything was completely normal. Lights were on in the neighborhood pub, people sang and played ukulele at open-mike night, and a beer tasted even better than usual.

Returning home, the neighborhood was still completely dark. A generator hummed somewhere not far away, but if it was powering lights we couldn't see them.

We read for a while by the low light of an electric lantern, then gave up and called it a night.

According to Melissa, the power came back on at three-thirty a.m. 

I slept right through it.

This morning went (mostly) predictably. The alarm went off at five a.m., as it usually does, and the ceiling fan spun quietly above us. The only other sound was that of a steady rain falling on our metal roof.

So far, the breeze blowing up from the water hasn't brought any smoke with it.

It's always too early to declare a return to normal—but near as we can tell, the fire is out.