SUNDAY, AUGUST 4
Certain movies stick with me. One is “The Last Wave,” directed by Australian filmmaker Peter Weir, an apocalyptic story based on an Aboriginal tale about the flooding of the earth.
Welcome to Sunday.
I woke to the same sound of rushing water that I remember from “The Last Wave,” a gushing waterfall. Strange, I thought, it never rains that hard in Ireland, or does it? I went downstairs to see if everything was okay, and holy shit…it was the last wave. A massive quantity of water was pouring from the drawers below the sink, the beautiful new drawers in the renovated kitchen. The floor was flooded.
The water was a half inch deep in the kitchen, and quickly filling the livingroom and solarium, heading down the hall toward the bathroom and toward the front door. Poor Saffi looked up at me with wide eyes. Her bed, at the foot of the stairs, was soaked through.
What to do? I had no idea. I just knew we were in trouble. It wasn’t yet 5:30am. I pulled open one of the drawers, and the bins used for recycling and rubbish were so full of water. I grabbed a cup and started scooping the water from the bins and throwing it out the front door. Then I took a bowl. I yelled to Chloe. She came running downstairs, and immediately started scooping and hauling as well.
Panicked, I grabbed my phone, not really knowing who to call. It would be hard to know who to call in Vancouver at 5:30am on a Sunday morning, but here…then remembered my phone doesn’t have reception in the house.
I would run to the neighbors.
KEEP BAILING
“Keep bailing,” I said to Chloe as I ran like a mad woman out the door and down the street, in the dark of early morning, wearing Fiona’s bathroom, and my sandals. I saw a light on upstairs at the neighbors down the street and went to the door and began banged on it.
“I need help,” I yelled. No answer. I banged and yelled again. Nothing. The light stayed on but no one came down.
I ran back to the house. Chloe was bailing away. What now? I have to go to Mary’s house, I said to Chloe. Sweating, probably hyperventilating, I jumped in the car, backed out the driveway and roared down the street, crossing the causeway and pulled into Mary’s driveway. I ran up to the front door, banged and yelled again. “Mary, Mary, I need help. Fiona’s house is flooding.”
No answer. I ran around the back of the house. I saw a light. I probably woke her and John. I banged on the window. “Mary Mary….”
“Okay, Anne,” Mary’s sweet, lilting voice called out. “We’ll be right there. John and I’ll come and help. We’ll be right there, Anne.” Mary repeats names all the time, as does her husband John.
MARY AND JOHN TO THE RESCUE
I drove back to Chloe, the water deeper now in the kitchen and further into the other rooms. It wasn’t five minutes before Mary and John arrived, and took charge. They were calm but quick moving. We found tools. John worked turning off the water source behind the sink. The pipe had burst from pressure and was hard to get to. Mary told Chloe and me to get all the towels and linens in the house, and we threw them on the ground. We sopping up the water, rang them the towels, mopped, sopped, rang, mopped….
Mary and John moved furniture out of the way, took up the soaking carpets. An hour passed, and the surface of the floor was dry. Carpets were outside draped over benches and chairs, piles of towels and linens were heaped by the side of the house, and furniture was upturned and pushed into corners.
Olive drove by with her daughter, a horse in a trailer pulled behind them at about 6:30am. Things were under control at this point. First thing she said when we told her what was going on, “Don’t tell, Fiona.” Mary assured us that Olive and Peter would take care of things. Then Mary and John left, after struggling a bit with their truck which wouldn’t start at first.
AND AFTER A NIGHT OF PARTYING
Poor Mary and John, they had been out the night before until 3am for the big wedding party. Mary started the day before early, fixing the bride’s and all the bridesmaid’s hair. She also was speaking at the Church service and dinner afterwards to 300 guests. She had been nervous. And yet, she and John save us, saved Fiona. Their kindness in this crisis is hard to describe. Always kind. Fast but not hurried. Calm.
I wonder how many times this happens around here, where neighbors come to the rescue of neighbors without a thought or hesitation. It must be that floods, fires, natural catastrophes have been dealt with like this for generations. Isolated as these homes are, dependency on the support of each other is fundamental to survival.
ALONE AGAIN WITH SAFFI
We were alone again. The floor was damp as it would be for days probably. Everything was up ended. So much for our easy time! I was absolutely exhausted, mostly from my hysteria. It’s one thing to freak out when it’s your home, but quite another to do it in a home you are caring for and in a foreign country.
And poor, poor Fiona. Would the floor be okay, would it buckle? Would it rot underneath? Would the entire kitchen have to be redone?
We ate and napped. The heavy rains started around noon and into it we went with Saffi for our long walk. We stopped for a long chat with Mary and John. The rain became heavier and heavier as we walked. A wind came up. Every bit of us was soaked through…like the floor.
An exhausting, full on, Water day. No more Waves, please.
