The Things We Don't See Coming

You're scheming on a thing that's a mirage
I'm trying to tell you now, it's sabotage
Why our backs are now against the wall?
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage

—Beastie Boys

***

The day was going so well.

The road to Hilo was spectacular, with the Pacific Ocean stretching to blue infinity on the left, and a variegated blanket of jungle, ravines, and waterfalls on the right.

Like most of our Hilo trips, this one called for stops at an array of retailers, all of whom were eager to help us fill our truck with provisions—darn nice of them since we were going to buy enough stuff to last from two weeks to two months.

"Swimming pools, movie stars..."

Supplies for two geese, three cats, four dogs, four sheep, 40 chickens, and several of the neighbor's cows? Check.

Materials for multiple infrastructure projects around the farm, including native plants, trees, lumber, tile, metal roofing, and more (always more)? Multiple checks.

Food and libations for two persistently hungry-thirsty farmhands? Check and check again.

To ensure everything on our list actually fit in the truck, careful arranging and rearranging was required at every stop—until by the end we resembled the Clampetts heading to Beverly Hills.

This cross-beam right here

Arriving home from this excursion—with the truck full of items that don't mix well with water—it was raining. Which meant we were low-key frantic to get everything inside or under cover. 

Throwing a pallet under the house, we began stacking feed and shavings and sundry other items. Until the second trip under, that is, when I hit my head on the cross-beam holding up the deck. 

Even wearing a hat, I got a bump and a nice little laceration—which I only realized later when the hot water from the shower hit my scalp.

Prior to that galvanizing moment, though, there were chicken chores to do. 

Coming down from the coop on our rain-slick ramp is always a dicey proposition. This time—a basket of just-collected eggs in hand—both feet slid out from under me. I don't recall which body part impacted the ramp first or hardest. Tailbone? Back? The back of my head? All were involved in close succession.

And yet, the eggs survived. Not one cracked, broke, or even left the basket. I have no idea how, nor do I take credit for the outcome. In fact, I would've preferred that they went flying and I somehow remained upright.

Gravity has a sick sense of humor sometimes.

I stayed down for several moments, trying to discern if I was hurt or just wet, muddy, and jarred AF. Eventually I decided it was the latter, and that the sheep weren't going to tend to themselves—so I picked myself up myself and shambled off to the Sheep Shack.

We try to keep things interesting for the customers of our 24-hour salad bar. To that end, alfalfa cubes are an excellent source of protein, vitamins, and minerals.

Until they're reduced to sheep-sized chunks, though, the cubes are a choking hazard. Breaking them down takes 15 or 20 minutes each evening, but I don't mind the work. Turns out it's one of those repetitive tasks that's also a peaceful, zen-inducing experience. 

The sheep wait close by while I work—maybe because they like baa-d jokes—or maybe because I occasionally hand-feed them during the process. Who can say.

This day's zen-fest lasted until the moment I leaned over with a handful of alfalfa shards for Frederica Mercury. That insignificant gesture caused some greedy jostling from the other sheep, which startled Freddie—who then head-butted me square in the face.

Freddie > me

Human skulls are not optimally designed for collisions. Sheep, on the other hand, are highly adapted for head-to-head contact. So, while I doubt Freddie even noticed the impact—I sure as flock did.

And so a day that began with a pleasant Sunday drive and a highly successful shopping excursion ended with me getting pummeled in the course of routine farm chores.

***

Last night the much-anticipated Tropical Storm Calvin arrived in Hawai'i, bringing much-needed rain to the Hāmākua Coast, but sparing us the predicted damaging winds.

I'm not sure where the confluence lies between these unrelated events. Maybe it's just that even the innocuous and routine can take a sudden turn for the dramatic— and sometimes drama takes a turn to the south and quickly dissipates over cooler water.

Either way, the surfing should be pretty good.

***

A sea monster night full of nothing but fright and fear
St. Christopher might not get our asses outta here
Flooded roads and trailer parks
And maybe a tornado lurking out in the dark
A perfect glide to ride into eternity

I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

I feel like making love in the pouring rain
I ain’t afraid of dying
I don’t need to explain
I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

—Jimmy Buffet, Surfing In A Hurricane