The wind howled as huge, grey clouds billowed above the vast expanse of blue-black water that was the Pacific Ocean.
A small group of locals gathered on the cliff overlooking the water. They clutched their jackets and leaned against the wooden railing, peering out at the whitecaps and scattering seagulls.
This was a standard evening ritual for them, convening on the cliffside walkway that paralleled the serpentine East Cliff Drive. They would gather at sunset, looking out at the ocean as the swells slowly crept towards shore, rose up, and crashed against the rocks.
Typically, these neighbors would be admiring the orange-tinged sky as a group of die-hard surfers bobbed up and down on their boards.
But tonight was different.
There was no sunset to admire, only a dark, threatening sky, and the roiling water had chased away even the most ardent surfers. The only view was of the advancing storm.
"It's a Pineapple Express," growled an old-timer. "Straight outta Hawaii."
"Hope it's not too bad," a middle-aged woman fretted. "Folks in Capitola are still digging out from the last one."
"Ocean temperatures are rising," a young surfer added. "That puts more moisture into storms."
For the folks living along the coast in Pleasure Point, California, a cliffside surf spot in the southernmost corner of Santa Cruz, these late-summer storms were a definite mixed bag.
After years of severe drought, they welcomed any rain at all. They just didn't want quite so much of it all at the same time.
These so-called atmospheric rivers brought so much rain and high wind, they left mudslides and downed trees in their wake.
A man in a parka joined them.
"Well, the power's officially out," he informed the group. "Looks like the whole neighborhood."
The group let out a collective groan.
"Not again," the woman sighed.
"Wish they'd fix the damn grid once and for all," muttered the old-timer.
An attractive, middle-aged woman wearing a shawl joined them.
"Evening All," she smiled.
"Hey Maddie," said the middle-aged woman. "Storm's already knocked out the power."
"Oh, dear," she answered.
"Now, I won't be able to watch my shows," sighed the woman.
The surfer nodded.
"No games for me tonight."
The pretty woman with the shawl leaned towards him.
"You know, Skeeter, a good book is always an option," she said, smiling.
He gave her a look of mock puzzlement.
"A book? You mean those paper things with words in 'em?"
"Very funny," she smiled, wryly.
He gave her a playful jab on the shoulder.
"I like to read, actually," he said, "but it's kinda hard to do in the dark."
She turned and looked at him, her eyebrows raised.
"Well, you do own a flashlight, don't you? Or a reading light?"
He shrugged and shook his head.
"Oh, Skeeter," she sighed. "OK, come on. I've got some extra candles I can give you."
"Aw, thanks Mrs. Engle. I appreciate it," he said.
"And I've told you before, you can call me Maddie."
She turned to the others.
"Well, have a good night, All!" she said, waving. "Stay dry!"
"G'night Maddie!" the others called.
The woman in the shawl and the young surfer started walking towards a row of bungalows.
The streets that crisscross Pleasure Point are lined with small cottages built in the early part of the last century as weekend getaways for well-heeled San Franciscans. Single-story bungalows, no sidewalks, and a laid back vibe gave the neighborhood its distinct character.
The people who chose to live there were a diverse group, but they shared one thing in common: they loved the ocean.
Maddie Engle had lived in one of these vintage cottages for the past three decades. She'd inherited the house from her mother when she was a young school teacher and had lived there ever since.
Now, she was three months into her retirement.
Elegant and beguiling, with intelligent blue-green eyes and long blond hair streaked with grey, Maddie was by all accounts a stunning woman. A bit curvier than in her youth perhaps, with full breasts and a regal bearing, she still turned a few heads when she strode along East Cliff Drive.
She loved her walks along the cliffs, looking out over the ocean and breathing the sea air, smiling and saying hi to her neighbors as they passed. With her graceful, flowing stride, she had the air of a matriarch, part aristocrat and part aging hippie. She didn't seem to be walking so much as gliding, like the brown pelicans that rode the updrafts along the sandstone cliffs.
She was striding purposefully now, with the tall, curly-haired young surfer following close behind her like a cheerful puppy.
Skeeter, born and bred in Santa Cruz, was a fixture in the neighborhood. An avid surfer since the age of five, he was 20 now and squatting at a friend's place nearby to be close to First Peak, the best of the local surf breaks.
Athletic and strikingly handsome, he had deep brown eyes and a healthy crop of curly hair. He had a particularly fine physique, thanks to his passion for surfing and his years on the high school swim team. Broad shoulders, a well-developed chest, strong arms, and a narrow waist -- he had the classic swimmer's body.
There were no streetlights and the houses were all dark. Skeeter took out his phone and turned on the flashlight, shining it on the ground in front of her.
"Aw, thanks Skeet. That's very thoughtful."
She opened the door to her cottage and they went in. It was pitch black inside.
She took a match from a dish by the fireplace, struck it, and lit a candle on the mantle.
She used it to light a succession of other candles placed strategically around the room.
He turned off the light on his phone, leaving the room softly aglow in candlelight.
A small, red velvet couch on a woven rug faced the fireplace. A dining table and a simple kitchen occupied another corner. At the back of the cottage, a large bed with pillows was flanked by bookcases and a bank of windows.
Skeeter was slowly turning in a circle, taking it all in.
"Nice place, Mrs. Eng...er...Maddie. Dang it, I can't stop calling you Mrs. Engle! I guess 'cause you were my teacher."
"Well, you're not in my English class anymore, Skeeter, so you don't have to be so formal. You're an adult now, so you can call me by my given name."
"Whoa, look at all those books!"
Skeeter walked over to the two large bookcases and began perusing the titles.
"My library," she smiled. "They're like old friends. We've enjoyed many adventures together."
"You read all of 'em?"
"Yes, just about. Some I've read more than once."
"I remember we read this one in class," he said, holding up a book.
"Ah, yes. Kite Runner. I remember you gave a very good oral report on it."
Skeeter smiled.
"Let's see if I remember. Oh yeah. 'It may be unfair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime.'"
"Not bad," she smiled. "Apparently, it made an impression on you."
He was back to scanning the book titles.
"Let's see if I can find those candles for you."
She started rummaging through a bureau.
"So, how's school going?" she asked. "You're in your second year at Cabrillo, right?"
