I love storms: when the raindrops lash against the
windowpanes and drum on the roof, when lightning splits the sky and thunder
reverberates in your chest, when the wind tosses trees branches into a frenzy
and howls a fierce melody. I love hiking in a drizzle, the forest quiet except
the drips of water filtering through. I love a muddy singletrack, wheels
flinging grime at you as you slide through corners and splash through rivulets,
when you have to turn the hose on yourself before stepping inside after. I love
the dripping silence as the first rays of sun shine through the cracks in the
clouds and illuminate the nourished earth. That celestial watering can imbues
new life, even in the city. Here in Chile, where storm drains have yet to make
an appearance, the rainwater trickles down from the hills into fjords we must
ford (ha!) on the way to school before they pound into the ocean. We earth-bound humans
know nothing of the ocean or the sky, but we constantly try to break the ties
to earth and gravity. That’s why I ski, bike, climb, windsurf: to fly faster,
jump higher, to test the boundaries of our existence.
