Day Fifty-Two: Sudden Change in the Weather (Part One)

Early this morning, the howling wind woke me from my sleep. I had planned to set the fishing net in the same spot as yesterday in the afternoon, but the gloomy sky outside filled me with unease and worry.

The wind had stripped the leaves from the trees, sending them swirling around the yard. The rustling sound unsettled me, making me wonder if a typhoon was on its way. If a typhoon really did come, what would I do? Where could I possibly take shelter?

Worrying would do no good, so I decided to use the day to reinforce my little treehouse. After all, the last storm had battered it, and perhaps its sturdiness was not what it once was. In any case, strengthening the treehouse could only help.

With an axe in hand, my efficiency soared. No longer did I need to wrestle the vines apart; a swift swing of the axe brought them down easily. Besides the vines, I gathered some branches—thick and thin, long and short—each with its own use. To make the treehouse even sturdier, I felled a few small trees, far sturdier than the branches I’d used before, yet the axe dispatched them with little effort.

Once I had all the materials, I set about retying every joint on the treehouse with fresh vines, reinforcing each one. It was only as I started to work on the vines lashed to the main trunk that I discovered a serious problem. I had never treated these vines before tying them, and over time, many had snapped, and most had dried and cracked.

This was a grave issue. Had I not noticed in time, the treehouse could have collapsed even without a storm, let alone withstand one. I couldn’t help but feel thankful; if the wind hadn’t picked up today, I might never have thought to strengthen the treehouse. If it had collapsed suddenly in the middle of the night, the consequences would have been unimaginable.

Yet even reinforced, these vines were not a long-term solution. I didn’t want to live in a house that could come crashing down at any moment. I needed something more durable, something that could keep the most crucial beams firmly secured to the tree over time.

What material would be suitable? I turned the question over in my mind again and again but found no answer. Suddenly, I smacked my forehead and rushed to the lower level of the treehouse. In a neglected corner, I found something I had nearly forgotten: the mooring rope!

How could I have forgotten? Ever since I brought it from the boat, it had been piled beside the firepit, out of sight and mind. If I hadn’t wracked my brain for so long, I might never have remembered it at all.

With the rope, securing the beams was no longer an issue. The thick cables were hard to tie, but I managed to fasten them tightly. I gave them a few hard tugs; they didn’t budge an inch. To be extra safe, I braced a small tree against the intersection of the beam and the main trunk, in case the rope ever slipped.

The smaller branches I wedged into the various gaps. The wind whistling through the holes was maddening. After plugging the gaps, I wrapped the branches with vines and tied them to the protruding limbs of the treehouse.

After this reinforcement, the treehouse was sturdier than ever. I used the remaining small trees to add supports to the front, back, and sides of the house, three on each side. Now, I was confident the treehouse could withstand far worse weather.

As I finished the last of the work, the sky grew even darker, black with clouds. The wind picked up, and I saw leaves swirling high in the distance. Luckily, nestled in the forest, the wind wasn’t as fierce as it must have been in open spaces. Had I still been living in my first makeshift shelter, it would likely have been blown down by now.

Without warning, rain as big as beans came pelting down, followed immediately by a wild, howling wind. Before I could dash into the treehouse, the rain, driven by the wind, stung my face.

Thank goodness I had finished, I thought, drenched but relieved the rain hadn’t come sooner.

By the firepit, I hung my wet clothes to dry, and my stomach began to growl. Hungry, I set about preparing food. Even if it rained for a week, I wouldn’t have to worry about food. The sea fish I’d smoked yesterday were dry and wrinkled, though I couldn’t say if they still tasted fresh. Today, though, I wasn’t in the mood to try them. I planned instead to savor the preserved meat and sausages I had made some time ago.

I’d been longing for them, but they were precious stores, meant for extraordinary times. Yet now, I couldn’t wait any longer.

I sliced off two links of sausage and a generous chunk of smoked meat. Little Black was lying by the upper doorway, watching the storm outside. I scooped a bowl of rice from the sack behind him, determined to treat both of us on this dreary, rainy day and lift our spirits.

Lunch was simple. Once the rice was boiling, I tossed the washed meat and sausages directly into the pot, steaming them atop the rice. Perhaps it seemed a crude meal to others, but to me, it meant more than any holiday feast.

These foods were rare luxuries—once gone, they’d be lost forever. That sense of finality was something few could understand.

When the pot began to sizzle and the aroma grew, I knew it was time to take it off the fire and let the rice sit and swell. Little Black had already come over, unable to resist the scent of rice mixed with meat.

After a while, I lifted the lid. The sausages and smoked meat nestled among the rice, their rendered fat coating the grains in a glossy sheen. I had never been fond of fatty meat, but now, seeing the glistening oil soaking the rice, I couldn’t help but salivate.

Little Black and I devoured every grain, leaving nothing behind. As I contentedly chewed the last crunchy bits at the bottom of the pot, a tremendous crash sounded overhead…