Hurricane

In front of the cottage, there was a sign next to a water faucet with a short hose.

"Please rinse off.  Keep the sand on the beach."

Dad, my sister Liz, and I were returning from a morning collecting sea shells between dashes in and out of the waves.  Liz and I were too hungry to slow down.

"Hold up, you forgot something,"  Dad said, pointing at the sign.

Liz and I got most of the sand off.

"I'll finish the job," Dad said, taking the hose, turning the water up, washing off what we'd missed, and using a beach towel to dry us off.

After eating, we lay down for a quick nap, awakening to find Dad watching the changing face of the ocean.  Dark clouds were being blown across the sky by a rising wind.  The waves were almost up to the cottage.

"Grab a few things," Dad said, "we'll drive inland."

We piled into the van, with water passing both sides of the cottage.  Dad turned onto the narrow access road toward the village at the end of the beach.  The van plowed through rushing water as Dad sought out the road.

A cottage collapsed as we passed.  Looking back I saw pieces of it being carried across the road.

At the village, our favorite hot dog stand had fallen in.  Smoke was rising from the wreckage, the grill having started a fire.  Suddenly, Dad swerved away from it.

"Propane tank," he hollered.  A fireball roared toward us, but Dad had turned in time.

At the far end of the village, Dad turned North and outraced the rising waters.

"You guys are going to have quite a story to tell Mom," Dad said.

We've been telling that story ever since.  Now, dear reader, you've heard it too.