The next morning, I awaken to the thumping of the rain fly against the side of the tent.
Wind sends surges of raindrops hammering against the roof.
I pull on my fleece and rain gear before unzipping the vestibule and stepping out. The wind whips across the water, turning it a frothy white. I stand for a moment, feeling the cold raindrops pelt onto my cheeks, then I duck my head down and wander over to the others. They are serving up mochas, huddled underneath a tarp in the shelter of a boulder that stands twice my height. A pot of cold, charcoal-scented oatmeal sits neglected beside the stove, for which Buffy takes the blame.