Fog rolls in from the ocean, thick and full of whispers. It fills the canyons between buildings, erasing their mountainous backdrop and blurring their tops. The air is wet, heavy; both warm and cool. I can feel it clinging to my skin as I walk through the streets, heading home.
Growing up on the high, dry plains, I haven’t had much experience with the wetter, rainier, oceanic version of weather issues. Wildfires, drought, raging blizzards, bone-shattering thunderstorms, those are all old hat for me. I know what to do when a blizzard blows in. I know what to expect when smoke blows in from the fires. I know when to look for those early, early morning thunderstorms that send me deep under the blankets while lightening splits the sky. Typhoons, hurricanes and tsunamis, on the other hand, are all unknown elements for me.
Tonight, as I find myself on the cusp of a typhoon, my first typhoon, I am marveling at the fog, wondering if I should be concerned. The storm is predicted to mostly miss South Korea and head into Japan instead, yet, if the plains have taught me anything it is that all weather is unpredictable at times. It feels as if I should be preparing myself in some manner or readying the apartment, or at the very least, worrying. Yet, everyone around me, everyone who knows tsunamis as well as I know blizzards, is going through their routines, normal as normal can be. It has me wondering if perhaps this fog is like smoke from wildfires, a mere predecessor to something that in all likelihood will not reach me. Perhaps this is simply the wetter version of my summers of smoke and ash, but this time with fog and rain. I suppose only the next few days will tell, so here we go, into the wettest season I will have ever lived through.