Highlights From Hurricane Hone

Gracie, fearless.

The rain started Thursday, and hasn't stopped since.

It's Sunday afternoon.

We've never seen so much rain here on the farm (and we've seen some ridiculous storms in the last three years).

Nevertheless, here we are—with 15 inches of water in our buckets, and a steady downpour keeping us mindful that much more is likely.

The good news is, the power came back on within the last half-hour—and the first thing we did was make some coffee.

The bad news is, parts of the Big Island are getting hit much worse than we are. Flash flood warnings are in effect, which means people are scrambling to stay safe.

***

Yesterday morning we awoke to minor flooding in the barn and tack room. After getting all the creatures fed and situated, we loaded up the truck with buckets and shovels, and began moving yards of sand and gravel from their respective piles.

Three and a half hours later the water was redirected away from the building and down the hill. For all our "rain gear", Melissa and I still looked like we had just crawled out of the surf.

This is why we have contingency gear, see—so yesterday's stuff can dry while today's stuff gets wet. 

This afternoon, ALL of it is wet. So we struggle into the wet stuff that's been drying the longest and head back out. 

This is part of what we signed up for, after all. We get what we get, and we don't get upset.

***

The wind arrived last night, driving rain sideways and in directions of the compass from which it never comes. Under doors, through barely open windows, requiring us to throw down towels in places that are always reliably dry.

Let the record show that "always" and "reliably" are now relative terms meaning "almost always," and "not reliably." 

The latest updates tell us that Hone (ho-nay) continues churning west, now past Southpoint—the southernmost tip of the US. 

Yes, this image.

That image >over there> wants us to believe that the Big Island is no longer in the affected area—but our local conditions beg to differ. 

Here on the Hāmākua Coast, in fact, wind continues to be windy and rain continues to be wet. Our 3 p.m. daylight more closely resembles 6 p.m twilight—and I'm pretty sure our solar batteries are flat as pancakes.

***

This afternoon's chores were, once again, completed in a downpour. For all the good our rain gear did us, we may as well have been wearing large paper bags from Malama Market.

Most importantly, though, animals were fed and cleaned up after; dry shavings were spread, medication was given, kind words were spoken. Mission accomplished.

Melissa, covered in mud, grabbed the hose and sprayed herself down from neck to boots. I mean, why not? It's not like she was going to be any less soaked.

I waited, under cover, for Gracie Lou and her protégé Vivienne to finish their alfalfa cubes, then turned them out into the pasture. Aside from being continuously soaked for the past four days, all was right in their world.

***

It's now 8 p.m. at our house.

Lights are working, dinner is done, and everything is...quiet. No wind. No rain. Just the soothing sound of the coquí frogs.

I don't want to jinx anything here, but...it's possible this storm has passed.