Soaking in It

I wrap myself in an orange rain shell and pull on rain pants against the downpour.  A yellow ducky umbrella in my hand and a vinyl messenger bag at my side, I head out the door and slog the half mile to the express bus.  I say a prayer of thanks to Gore Tex, God of Intrinsic Dryness for the coat and shoes as I walk along, vaulting racing rivulets, fording impromptu creeks and giant puddles and dodging the spray from cars that can't so deftly jump over these omnipresent collections of water.

It has been but a week since the last deluge, and now the rain has returned with a Noachian vengence.  Every bit of ground is soaked, every roof and building and surface is saturated. The rivers and streams are still running high from the last round and there is simply no place for more water to go.  Nature is reminding us that this place where we live was and still is a swamp with rocks and a fickle ocean and sky.  Even the harbor holds the rivers back until the turning tide gives a reprieve, but the Nor'Easter's storm surge will back things up again in a few hours. 

Despite a day spent dodging downpours, sidestepping staircase waterfalls, and trying to find places to sit or stand inside where I won't get dripped on, some part of me actually enjoys this.  Revels in it.  Wallows in the everpresent wetness from within my orange shell.  Such is my nature and my life-long love affair with the water.  If it weren't for the sewer overflows and the notorious currents I'd be out there, in my wetsuit, swimming in the more languid floody places in the river.  I would be in the place where the water is everywhere, soaking in it.