Flood

The sun came out this morning.

Cruel, this weather is. Cruel, to lift the fog and drizzle that has hung over the city and give its residents full clarity of vision, just as the floodwaters reach their peak. Look. You must look. You must see.

Except my street is empty. It looks normal. Quiet, with a slight breeze whipping leaves along the gutters. Sunlight glinting off the bitumen. A butcher bird just chirped.

But then the roar of choppers flying overhead breaks the trance. This is a mere bubble of normality.

There is a low level hum in my head, matched by a strange feeling in my stomach.

The images are all incredible, unbelievable. But certain images shake me. The sight of the Drift Cafe sinking into the muddy brown waters, tilting forwards as it strains against its moorings, as if it's dropped its head onto its chest, resigned to its fate. Let the doors open, the owner was told. Let the waters swallow it down, before they rip it away.

My job this week is to just keep updating, interviewing, recording, cutting, editing, writing, updating, updating. It's the honourable, valuable side of the media, the role to inform and educate. And yet I feel impotent. It doesn't feel like nearly enough. All I can do is watch.

But everyone is helping. Emergency authorities, residents, friends, families, strangers. The sun is shining on them too now. But then, their good work was already well lit, even during the heaviest rains.