In our two months on the road in 1978, whenever things got rough, Joe and I had a little routine. One of us would say, “It could be worse”, and the other would reply, “It could be raining.”
It only rained once that summer, and it caught us in Jackson Hole. We found shelter in a shopping center and watched hail the size of baseballs pound down so hard that the parking lot flooded. We were unbelievably fortunate.
Well, today, my first day out, it’s raining.
I’m holed up waiting for it to blow over.
And it could be worse. I’m not on the Andrea Gail.