Had some weather. A bit of wind. Touch of snow. Not unlike living inside a snow globe in the grips of an obstreperous toddler eating chocolate. I can’t be certain how the rest of Chappy fared, as North Neck Road is alternately bare to the sand or piled with five foot drifts — not ideal driving conditions. Tom Osbourne has been working around the clock to clear the roads of snow, but is saving the best for last.

There was some shore erosion here on the northern bluffs, but nothing more than the usual for us here at our spot. The Big Camp is sheathed in ice, but perfectly intact. People often ask me how our property withstands these storms, and I have to believe it is a simple stoicism imbued by my ancestors into the property’s very fiber.

Alphonso slept through the entire storm, but is presently perturbed by the sheets of ice losing their grip on our roof and sliding off with a shotgun’s explosion to the ground. Not cool, ice.

Woody Filley nicely checked in with me before the storm, but I have yet to replace my land line battery since its demise last November, so his message just floated in the ether until he reached me by email today. Peter Wells also emailed Monday night, checking on me, Arlene and the baby-to-be-named-later. Good neighbors.

There was a small concern that Arlene might (selfishly) decide to give birth during one of the 75 mph gusts this past Tuesday, but she managed to keep everything tucked away for a more opportune time. Always the Boy Scout though, I prepped myself by watching a YouTube birthing video. So I was prepared for the first two seconds of the delivery (as far as I could make it through the video without fainting or shrieking).

I did not venture out of doors until Tuesday at 2 p.m., while it was still blowing 60. My only exit was through a window however as our lone exterior door was frozen shut by a solid block of three-foot-tall drifted ice. A quick survey proved what I had suspected: the sea, she was angry. Not just annoyed, but really ticked off. The waves seemed to be swelling in two directions at once — meeting in the middle with the violence of a jilted lover’s slamming of a door. I took a few pictures then returned inside. I hadn’t experienced that particular pain of thawing fingers since skiing gloveless in the Berkshires circa 1976 (I had lost three pairs of gloves already, and my parents flatly refused to buy another).

So now, here we sit, after the storm. I feel as if I’ve sat in this unique spot, the calm following calamity, more often than most. Chappy has a way of challenging one’s tolerance for chaos. But she also has a very special reward for those willing to put up with her.

Send your Chappy news to: ibwsgolf@aol.com.