It was 1985. It had rained solidly all week in Scottburgh. A three day drizzle was accepted as the norm in this coastal town of Natal, South Africa, where, ofcourse, water had an escape route. Across the bridge was the road to Durban.
No one fretted. Rumour had it that inland, up river, it also rained and livestock were in danger. By evening the rain turned the road into a river.
We slept. In the morning our bridge was gone; large chunks of concrete stuck up out of the beach near the sea; along with debris, common in a flood. Our lives controlled by the water God.