“I feel like it’s rainin’ all over the world.”   Brook Benton, Rainy Night in Georgia

It is the end of August and I’m just now wondering what happened to July.  Those long-ago days disappeared like the endless streams of runoff down the gullies and catch basins of Massachusetts.  For while June was about the wind, July was all about the rain.  The weathermen claim that there have been only 5 days without precipitation. Rainy days and pandemics are just not fun on a mooring.  But we have to look on the bright side, Cape Cod was a just little bit drier.  In fact, the end of the Cape is still considered to be in a mild drought.  But make no mistake about it, July was soggy.

On the last night of June, huge thunderstorms dressed most flamboyantly, sashayed along to the north as if competing with the cabarets and nightclubs on the bayside.   The squall blew over Krisanngria with a howl but left her pinwheeling slowly around the mooring on water as smooth as a pond and with a taste of things to come.  

Yet, whenever we board the ferry to go home, the weather, as if to taunt us, is good. The sun was brilliant as we crossed the bay again for the long weekend. However, by the time we tied up at Long Wharf, the leading edge of yet another holiday-weekend-nor’easter was brushing the skyscrapers.  Our return for the second annual Monahan 4^th of July extravaganza  also marked the return of the second annual 4^th of July nor’ easter.  Nearly 6 inches of rain fell in the Boston area.  The band rightfully canceled for fear of ruining their equipment..  But the party forged on, though with a much reduced group.  Our son, his girlfriend’s sister, and Krisann took to the “stage” to fill the gap left by the absentee band.  Too much food, too much booze, and too much fun left a raft of bodies strewn throughout the house the next morning.

One storm ends and another begins…  It looks as though the eye of the Elsa  could pass right over Boston with the Cape and the Islands on the right and strong side of the storm.  All the doubts and worries about securing ourselves and Krisanngria bubble up as we start game planning for the Friday event. Well before the tropical storm, still another big front blew through Boston generating a few phone calls from friends anxious about our safety.  They said it was a pretty intense storm up north but all we saw was another remarkable light show over Race Point.   Later in the evening, we had a storm discussion with our transient neighbor on the ball next to us.  They were going through the same debate for Friday- stay, or escape home to Constitution Marina in Boston. In the end, they decided to run for it apologizing in advance for the predicted 4:30 am noise.

A Reverse Sortie.  “The Navy orders a sortie during potentially extreme weather conditions to reduce the risk of significant damage to ships, submarines and piers during high winds and seas. “

The diesels of our escaping neighbors didn’t start until 5:30 as Krisann and I set out on our new-normal-summer-routine, but with one small change.  We had coffee at Café Maria (along with a delicious egg sandwich on a Portuguese roll).  Over this meal we weighed the merits of having Krisanngria banging away on the dock during the storm versus bouncing on a string in harbor. The dock could beat the boat up, but it’s passengers (us!) wouldn’t be left wet, stranded, and battered on the mooring for the duration of the blow.  So we gave the “reverse sortie” order and headed into a slip and not out to the sea.    

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Krisanngria bobbed gently in her berth on the morning of the storm as her namesake and I, equipped with rain ponchos and umbrellas( the latter which would be prove useless), headed out for breakfast anxious about the day to come.   We climbed a side-street up to Bradford and found Liz’s Café’s snug yellow and white storefront.   Rain drummed the arrival of Elsa on the windows and we truly enjoyed our breakfasts.  By the time we were returned via CommerciaI though, the wind blasted through the gaps between the buildings.  At the turn onto Ryder street we leaned into the full blow our umbrellas useless against the onslaught.   It was a slog to the boat to wait for the real storm strike in a couple of hours.  

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And strike Elsa did.  The rain tattooed the cabin top and the boat strapped up against lines while I worked from the settee.  The wind so stretched our lines such that it was difficult to step on and off the boat. On the windward side of the marina the mooring field was chaos. Mooring lines strove to rein in their steeds which pitched and bucked against the whitecaps.  Krisann spied a boat underway in the mess.  It had broken its pennant and was making a dash for the leeward side.   About six of us were able to corral, fender, and tie her off in a slip while simultaneously an ambulance arrived on the dock. A sailor had fallen and struck his head while attempting to ride out the storm on his mooring.  He now needed rescue. In the late afternoon, however, it was dry, windy and over.  We celebrated the end at Tin Pan Alley where Krisann played a command performance of tambourine filling the tip jar for the piano/sax combo. 

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Rain coats covered by ponchos could not protect us on the next crossing  After all, we couldn’t expect every trip on the ferry to be nice this year. Heading home again for some mid-month appointments, we were unceremoniously ushered out by pelting-pouring rain. 

The forecasts for both COVID and the weather were again not promising when we again returned to the Cape tip. The weather predicted more of the same-cool northeast winds and rain. On the COVID front, there was a much over-publicized outbreak connected to the Fourth of July holiday and Bear week. (The outbreak was quickly dubbed the Delta Beariant). We were therefore in no hurry to get back, but nevertheless we left as soon as possible.

Because this is the new normal; rain with a chance of COVID.