Powerless

It’s been two days since the power went out. Power outages in cottage country are often accompanied - if not caused - by extreme swings in temperature, and that was indeed the case here, when a swift and violent thunderstorm unleashed its might on Saturday, bringing down hydro lines while ushering in an intensely muggy summer swelter. As such, any cooking is being done on the barbecue. There is no internet. Nights are candlelit, water must be brought up by the bucketful for washing up and other ablutions, and if it weren’t for the chilly succour of a dip in the lake itself we would have all absconded back to the city by now.

As luck would have it, the kids hosted a house party over the weekend, which John and I were graciously allowed to both join and witness, although our days of flip cup and beer pong are mostly behind us. Along with John, who had to go back to work, most of the younger people headed home yesterday, leaving piles of damp towels and a fridge full of gently rotting leftovers. We do have a small gasoline powered generator, which we take turns hooking up to the fridge, the phone chargers and the coffee maker. After all, we’re not savages. Not yet.

With little to no electronic distraction, I am deep into my book, reading it into the night with the aid of a battery powered headlamp. It is David Grann’s best-selling The Wager: A tale of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder, the true account of an ill-fated British man-o-war that washed up on the coast of Patagonia after rounding Cape Horn under threat of war and the worst seas ever known to man. It is a harrowing story of survival under unimaginable circumstances: disease, depravation, anarchy and duplicity. It is just the thing to read when your worst problem is not having fresh ice for your vodka soda.