And just like that depression oozes in like a slow moving tidal wave, one you can see, but you cannot keep from taking the sand out from under you, taking out the carefully built and decorated shoreline, destroying the hanging lanterns and twinkling lights, pulling up stakes and embedded poles, smashing everything as it spreads slowly inward.

Meanwhile at the cool mountain retreat, water once crystal, sparkling and brisk, begins to muddy, and emits the stink of sulfur.

Grumpy and seated by a fire, with few logs to feed it, one is wrapped in ones thinnest blanket shivering against the wind that soars down the mountain.

What is that rumbling and crashing one hears?