Caught in a storm – Biscayne Bay

There’s an electricity up there, somewhere beyond the clouds, the neon signs, and mahogany ceiling fans. Unseen, but there. Like a camouflaged gator, eyes breaching the surface, poised, ready to strike. Oblivious to its presence, bikini clad supermodels sip pineapple seltzers, whilst squadrons of Spitfire like parakeets frantically retreat in a haze of lemon and lime, a primeval sixth sense that separates man from beast. In the bay, turquoise waters lay impossibly still, carrying a flotilla of porcelain coloured speedboats that bob lazily in the scarcely moving current, a placid tranquility that won’t last long.

A thunderous crack disturbs the idyl, its violent roar conjuring images of a lone iceberg breaking free after years of Antarctic desolation. Across the water palm fronds begin to tremble with disconcerting vigour and beyond this the stencil sharp skylines become half obscured, smudged beyond recognition. At first cinematic we sit back and enjoy the show, but natures matinee has other ideas and thrusts us into the action, the inky black vastness has about turned and is charging like an unbroken horse towards our sun dappled oasis.

The first drops kiss the skin and are barely felt but soon they take on a larger more menacing form. By now we’ve retired to the relative dryness of the poolside bar and are joined by other fascinated spectators. Some wear bathing suits, others panama hats, all become transfixed in the eye of the storm. Visibility is now almost zero, with only a tethered up dinghy still clinging to the key, the rest of the flotilla have one by one succumbed to the murk, systematically erased from our view. Candy striped loungers lie sodden under the deluge, their tangerine flashes now Golden Gate red, and the vanquished Floridian humidity has made way for a New England like chill.

Swallowed by the storm we sit in silence, consumed, devoured by its might. The forks of electric blue that we’d earlier witness decimate inlets and piers to our north have ceased their destructive rampage. Rain still falls but a calmness has settled above. The torrent’s now a downpour, the downpour a squall, the squall a drizzle, until nothingness. Slowly the bleak veneer recedes and the distant ‘etch a sketch’ cityscape begins to reappear as if merely a prop under a magicians spell. Vibrant colour floods the bay, replacing the storm with another assault on the senses. Teals, corals and apricots abound, as order is restored and Mother Earth prepares her next big blockbuster.

The Biscayne Blues