The rain started suddenly. One moment the sky was clear. The next moment the water fell. It fell in mass, hardly separated into drops. Meanwhile, the golden sun continued to shine.

Just beyond the break, a half-dozen surfers continued to rise and fall with the waves, waiting for the right opportunity. They were clustered together, careful not to collide, just south of the pier. A few people on the boardwalk watched the surfers bob up and down.

Then, almost as quickly as the rain arrived, it left. A new haze of humidity rose from the previously baked streets and sidewalks. The intensity of the sun returned, unmitigated by a wall of water.

Then something unexpected happened. From the tangle of stolons between the road and the beach and from the fortress of saw palms filling the vacant lots, a little insect emerged. Then came another and another and another—hundreds of them, small white moths.

They daintily took to the air, following a seemingly whimsical flight plan that was too erratic to anticipate. They fluttered up and around and around—and then were gone, just like the rain.