“I got out of bed in the middle of the night,” my sister Kate recalls. “And stepped into a pool of water.”
She tried to wake her husband, but he just mumbled in his sleep, “Put a towel on it.”
“I don’t think that’s going to do it, honey. The entire house is flooded.”
That was in 2005, during one of the legendary inundations that sweep through San Anselmo, California every twenty years or so. The little creek meandering through town is normally well-behaved and only shin deep. But every once in a while, when weeks of rain saturate the earth, and there’s a heavy downpour, and an incoming tide pushes back from San Francisco Bay, the creek turns into a monster, jumps its banks, and floods the town. The 2005 flood caused nearly $100 million in damages, not counting the toys and sneakers that got soaked in my sister’s hallway.
Before Rich and I bought our cottage in downtown San Anselmo, Kate warned us it was right in the flood zone. But I refused to worry about it; after all, the next inundation wasn’t due until 2025. The township has spent decades arguing about how to solve the problem, and in the meantime they’ve installed an extremely loud flood-warning horn. This gets tested every Friday at noon, startling visitors and sending dogs and babies into fits.
I’d never heard the flood horn sounded in earnest until the evening of December 20, when Rich and I were getting ready to go out to dinner. Looking out, we didn’t see any floodwaters coming up the street, so I set a land speed record for washing and blow drying my hair, flung on some clothes, and off we dashed. Luckily, it turned out to be a false alarm.
Last Saturday, weather experts warned us to brace ourselves for major flooding during the night. The neighborhood sprang into action, covering doorways with gates and tarps. Although our house is three feet above ground, there was still a chance that floodwaters could rise high enough to come inside, so Rich and I rolled up rugs and carried smaller furniture upstairs to safety. We packed go-bags with a few necessities — Kindles, chocolate, slippers — and kept boots by the door. We were ready!
Meanwhile, some residents apparently thought it was time to appeal to a Higher Power, so they went to our park and placed flowers before the statues of Yoda and Indiana Jones (donated to the town by our most famous resident, filmmaker George Lucas). I’m not saying that’s what did the trick, but once again we made it through the night soggy but unscathed.
By Monday afternoon Rich was ready to put the house back in order.
“You don’t think that’ll be jinxing it?” I asked.
“Oh, hell no.” We reinstalled the rugs and furniture, and unpacked the go-bags.
You can guess what happened next. I’m not saying we caused it, I’m just saying that on Tuesday the rain became a deluge. Rich spent the afternoon bent over his iPhone checking the creek level; when it rose two feet in 45 minutes, I knew we were in trouble. Then it went up another foot, and at 6:39 PM the San Anselmo flood horn went off, the Ross Valley siren sounded, and our iPhones began shrieking with an emergency message.
“I think they’re trying to tell us something,” said Rich. “Maybe we’d better get the car to higher ground.”
“Maybe we’d better get ourselves to higher ground,” I said, jamming my feet into rubber boots.
We ran out to our VW and drove up the hill behind our house. Whew! Then we realized we were trapped in the labyrinthine hills with no way out except back down through the flood area. We could spend the night in our car or . . .
“Let’s make a run for it,” said Rich.
As he drove back toward the main street, water was gushing out of storm drains and manholes, gutters were overflowing, and low-lying intersections had turned into ponds. But the water hadn’t gotten very deep, so Rich carefully maneuvered the car through the worst bits and we sped out of town.
“Well, that was fun,” I said. “Fancy a glass of wine?”
At the first eatery beyond the danger zone, we made a beeline to the bar. Hmmm, I thought. What wine do you pair with a flood? Maybe a light, crisp chardonnay . . . As the level in the wine bottle subsided so did the creek, and within a few hours the worst was over. By nine it was safe to head home. There was still minor flooding, but nothing like what happened in 2005.
We awoke the next morning to blue skies and sunshine.
There is nothing quite like the joy of a narrow escape. But that same morning I experienced something that came pretty close. The doorbell rang, and there stood a courier with a package from Spain.
“Hallelujah!” I shouted. “My new passport!”
This had been delayed, and I was a trifle concerned it would arrive too late for next week’s planned departure from California. Not that it hasn’t been fun here, but after the earthquake, power outages, furnace failures, and flood evacuations, I am ready for Seville and some long, leisurely Spanish siestas.
Tonight Rich and I are celebrating our double good fortune. After that, I just might bring flowers to Yoda and Indy. It hasn't escaped my notice that since they arrived on the scene, we haven't had a full-scale inundation in this town. The workings of fate are way above my pay grade, of course, but on the off chance they are bringing us luck, I want to let them know it’s greatly appreciated.
I'm taking a short break while I travel back to Seville, so I won't be posting on this blog next week.
I'm an American travel writer based in Spain and currently living in California.
As we journey through the pandemic together, my blog provides a regular supply of survival tips, comfort food recipes, and the wry humor we all need to lighten our hearts on dark days.
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