The Landing   by Judi Goldberg                                                  (C) 2000 jgoldberg

The river came up over her banks just before mornin' light and like usual when that happens we're cut off from the rest of town. 

We knew ahead of time a'course--flood watch starts the minute she goes over twenty-nine feet at the Hacienda Bridge which she did just around midnight.  And it is a flood, a'course, when she gets up over her banks, that is, thirty-two feet at the Hacienda Bridge; thirty-four feet at the Guerneville Bridge. 

The road, to our part of town, goes under pretty near right away, but can still be navigated until thirty-five, thirty-six feet.  And the whole situation, really don't mean a thing till about thirty-eight feet, when houses in the lowest parts start takin' on water. 

Anyway it was still rainin' pretty good when people went to bed, so everyone knew what was comin'. These days it's all on the radio a' course, and the tv, and even them damn computers, but you didn't need no weatherman when it rained like it was day after day, the river told you herself what was happenin'.  What's different, is there's more people livin' here year round; more houses, and that means, more trouble.  

So now all sorts of procedures get set in motion when that federal emergency organization starts the official flood watch.

I mean on an individual basis, everyone of a thinkin' nature, already has obtained  all the necessary supplies for this particular situation. 

River people know to put up water, batteries, canned goods, toilet paper and such, like paper plates since it's a hardship to wash dishes when you run short of  water, baby supplies for the new baby, pet food & sundries, special medicine if you require it, booze to help you sleep, lots of finger dipping food by which I mean snacks, and smokes of course for them that still do that, and Roof  Patch--Lord knows you only forget that once.   I suppose some folks even get movies from the town video shop just on the off chance the power don't go out, though it usually does, but then some of them nowadays even have their own generators.  

But I also mean that they sent a sheriff to hole up with us, and there's regular fire fightin' equipment, and they set up a potable water station cause there's always some folks get caught without water. And these last couple of times there's been helicopters flyin' in and out. A regular outpost. 

And beyond that everyone just hunkers down.  And waits on the damn river.

Funny thing flood times.  Like one of them female opera singers or like a damn good whore, gets your attention and keeps ahold of it, and there's no walkin' away until the fat lady is done singin', if you get my meanin'. 

And people who otherwise never paid the river no mind, never went down to the river, or even out for a damn walk, are all of a sudden called out to do vigil, called out as if to their first communion, called out by the river, and the whole outpost is walking the road down to the river.

It's no wonder to me that Noah and his ark are in the bible, and it's no wonder that even those who know nothin' about their bible know how many days and nights it rained in that particular situation.

Funny thing flood times.  There's a common notion around here about river time, referrin' to things not bein' done in a timely manner, not like city folks and city time.  That is, river people get around to doin' things in their own good time and there's no point in gettin' too impatient cause there's just no hurryin' anyone.  But I see now, the real meanin' is truly there's no hurryin' the river; goes up and down when she's damn good and ready, and that's all there is to it. It's plain and simple about waitin', and how impatient we might be don't make a damn bit of difference.  

So people did the only thing there was to do, that is, go down by the river.

Funny thing flood times.   People flock somehow like geese or sheep or maybe just like people always did without my havin' noticed before.  Took me by surprise at first, but I noticed after a time, there was always a crowd gathered around that spot on the road, which yesterday had no particular meanin', and today meant 38 feet at the Hacienda Bridge.  Which meant a good five feet of water on the road for a good piece, that meant not even the drunk ones--who surely think they still can--drive across.  Which meant their partners didn't even take 'em seriously when they started up with each other about hell yes man, damn right this rig can make it! Which meant we were an island.  

And people walked, two three four times a day, hell sometimes once an hour to that spot which is the edge of the world as it sits now, what with the river bein' up.  I guess no matter what there's got to be a place to go, a meetin' place where we come together without a lot of fuss and bother.  A place where we can meet close up, but from the distance of regular strangers, who over time come to know something about one another that connects us, but don't bind us.  A place where we can talk about just this and that.

Though a' course people mostly talked about what the river was doing.  Just standin' there as if they were sittin' on benches, lookin' down at the waves and talking.  Talkin' about what they'd heard--about whether she was comin' up or goin' down, or just plain holdin' steady, and wonderin' about when high tide was. 

Some were tellin' storm stories, about the wind and spinners, that is the stray branches and broken off  limbs that fall out of the Redwood trees around here and can do considerable damage.  Or stories about the wind and rain and getting up on the roof. 

And some folks talked about the damn feds, and their regulations concernin' buildin' in the flood plain, and the cost of permits these days for repairin' damages. 

But the point is, there was always a regular commotion.  Never once went, when I was the only one there.    That is, it was like overnight, there'd sprung up a ferry landin', and folks was going down as if to meet the ferry to see what news had been brought from the mainland.