Spring's last fling

It was late May and, given the instinct that comes from being Floridians, we should have known that something cataclysmic and transforming was headed our way, just as it always does this time of year when spring must yield to summer. Still, we set off for Cayo Costa in the boat and anchored along the Gulf side and went for a long walk on the beach, not realizing that anything was up.

You know how it goes when you're walking on the beach. You do not pay heed to the larger world. You focus on more immediate things: sandpipers skittering along the wavelets, a snook looming in the shallows, the way the sunlight glints off broken pieces of shell making the beach seem like a giant jewel box all yours for the plucking. Beyond that stretch of sand other things seemed simply not to exist. After all, isn't that why we go to the beach? To keep the rest of the world at bay?

So the storm caught us unaware. We heard it before we saw it-a deep rumbling to the northwest, as if the heavens had a nasty case of indigestion. When we looked up, the thunderhead was towering like some angry dark god, roiling and churning and destined to conquer. We seemed small, very small, before it. There was a flash of lightning and more thunder.

"We'll never make it back to the boat in time to beat the storm," my wife said.

Far be it from me to argue. The definition of a fool in Florida is someone who defies an impending thunderstorm and thinks himself impervious to lightning. Besides, the boat would be fine, with anchors stem and stern. It would ride out the storm. As for us, well, that was yet to be determined. We sought shelter along the narrow dune line, found a hidey hole of sorts among the sea oats, hunkered down and waited it out.

Oh, it was a magnificent storm....

At first there was that beautiful eerie stillness that portends big things to come. Colors changed and seemed more defined-the sand whiter, the Gulf almost purple, the sky an aching, enveloping gray. Not the colors of a postcard, but something much more true. I have often thought that if the Gulfshore were to adopt its own official flag, then it should be a tricolor banner depicting beach and water and sky, crystallized in those moments before a thunderstorm cut loose.

And did it ever cut loose. The squall line hit with fury and vengeance, making froth of water and tiny bullets of sand. Lightning brought instant thunder that seemed wrenched from the earth itself. I hollered. My wife hollered. We held each other tight. We're talking terror on a grand scale here. And in between the terror, fleeting moments of sheer awe. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. Ditto with those facing off against a Florida thunderstorm.

The rain came in big, fat, warm drops. They chewed up the sand like machine-gun fire, and we were slaughtered, drenched through and through. Baptism of the season. Say hallelujah!

Then just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. We stood and stretched and looked about. We breathed easy. Another bullet dodged.

We walked back to the boat. The sun came out. The Gulf was flat.

Yes, spring was surely gone, washed away by the first thunderstorm of Florida summer. The heat fit like a soft old glove, and it felt good.