At 4:43 p.m., the river overtopped its banks where my mill pond used to be. The water had nothing to hold it back.
At 6:08 p.m., my landline rang.
I picked it up on the second ring.
“Rowan.”
It was Heather. Her voice was shaking.
“Rowan… we need help.”
There is a phrase engineers use when a preventable disaster unfolds despite clear, documented warnings: The river does not vote. You cannot argue with water.
“Heather, where are you right now?” I asked.
“Our basement,” she sobbed. “The water is coming up the stairs. We called 911, but they said the road is underwater.”
“How deep is the water in your basement?”
“Four feet! Maybe five!”
“Get to your second floor,” I commanded. “Unplug everything you can. Ration whatever food you have upstairs. Do not try to drive. A rescue boat is going to come when it can.”
“Rowan, please—”“I am hanging up now, Heather, because other people in your subdivision are going to need the phone lines, and the cell towers are about to go down. I will see you on the other side.”
I set the receiver down. I looked out the kitchen window. The sky over the valley was the color of old zinc.
By 9:00 p.m., the local fire department, the sheriff’s dive team, and the National Guard were working Cascade Meadows Estates in boats.
Forty-seven luxury homes had water destroying their first floors. Two homes on the lowest lots had floated partly off their foundations. The local baseball field was under nine feet of water.
By midnight, every single HOA resident had been evacuated. Thankfully, no one died.
The next morning, I drove my truck down to the edge of the floodwater. Stellan Brink was already there with his excavator and two flat-bottom boats. The National Guard captain in charge recognized me from a workshop I had taught years ago.
