LIFE’S A BEACH
the tide. We put the word out on Facebook that we needed help filling sandbags. Within an hour, friends and family showed up, bringing shovels and coffee and doughnuts. Three strangers who had travelled from an hour away arrived in a white van with their own chest waders.
That morning, stinky septic water began seeping from the base of the toilet. The septic system was so full of water that it was backing up through the toilet pipe. I wondered if this was the chore that was finally going to break us.
The next day I stepped out of bed into ankle-deep water. The lake had moved in since our last pump check. Even though we’d known it could happen, it was still shocking to wake up to a full-on flood. We’d become complacent, even moving some boxes back onto the floor. Everything that could float was now floating in dirty lake water. Twenty-three days in, and it seemed as if Mother Nature had won.
We were surprisingly calm. Together, Linda and I raised the pumps up out of the water and throttled them up to high speed. We had no idea how the water was getting in, so Linda waded around the cottage to look for anything unusual.
I had decided a week earlier what key items I wanted to save: my quilts, my photos, and my cottage scrapbooks. They were already packed and ready to go should an evacuation be necessary.
I have to admit that a small part of me was relieved. It meant we could now give up the battle and return to drier ground, where we could hear the birds sing, watch the tulips bloom, flush the toilet, and sleep for eight hours.
But then Linda’s brother-in-law Gerard showed up full of hope and promise, telling us we hadn’t lost yet. He was going to figure out where the water was coming in. While taking a smoke break, he discovered a hole in the sandbag wall — and patched it. With the help of the pumps, the water drained out of the cottage, doing minimal damage. Exhausted, Linda and I left the cottage for a break in nearby Wilno.
Later that evening, chaos returned. At midnight, Linda and I got a panicked call from our friends minding the cottage saying they needed more gas. The sandbag wall had collapsed again and water got into the gas cans, causing two pumps to stop. Linda offered to race to a 24-hour gas station in Pembroke. I went along to keep her awake on the drive.
On the way back to Wilno, I had my “dark night of the soul” moment. In my dehydrated state, I cried waterless tears, wailing loudly while Linda silently held my hand and drove. I said I couldn’t fight anymore and that I was ready to let it all go — the cottage, the contents, everything. I wanted everyone to get out safely while they could and didn’t want anyone to get hurt.
As if my tearful prayers had been answered, the situation stabilized, and except for the leaking toilet, things were calm. Thankfully, the water had peaked and was starting to drop. We were finally able to turn the pumps down to a lower speed, which meant we could sleep for three hours at a time. As the weather warmed, I would pull on my hip waders to go for walks around the cottage, amazed by all the minnows and tadpoles in the water. Bloated earthworms floated everywhere. A perennial garden, which I had planted the previous season, had been washed away — all the bulbs and soil taken with it. A few of the hardier plants were still clinging to the rocks.
Recalling my dream, I now know how it ends. As I watch the tsunami coming across the lake, the answer is obvious: I stay and face the onslaught.