Just as my husband cast out a line, a deep rumble sounded in the east. We looked east to see masses of blue-gray cumulus clouds. Thus far, it had been a hot, sunny day. There was just enough wind to make it pleasant on the dock where we sat.
“Looks like Culver Lake is in for a storm,” I said. That larger lake lies east of us, across route 206, and, after all, most weather comes from the west. I figured the storm had bypassed us.
Within minutes we felt rain drops. My husband reeled in his line and began gathering things—towels, glasses, the newspaper—to leave the dock.
“We’re in bathing suits. Are you afraid you’ll get wet?” I asked.
He didn’t have to answer. I got my answer from the lightening streaked sky. Then huge drops of rain splattered everywhere. We ran for shelter and watched the trees bow and shake, the lake churn, and our neighbor’s house disappear in the mist and gloom.
Ten minutes later—again from the east—sunshine lit the treetops. The lake, suddenly back into view, calmed down to reflect a clear blue sky.