In studying the forecast, I made the executive decision to delay our departure — Lane and I — for Bandon by a day, thereby missing the brunt of the storm, I thought. Let me just say that the fluffy cloud image showing three raindrops on my weather app was an utterly pitiful representation of the cyclone we found ourselves and poor Giovanni the Honda struggling through.

I’ve forded some tough rainstorms, but this one arrived with winds strong enough to push over trees and rain enough to flood our surroundings as far as the eye could see. Every river and creek churned full, brown and angry.

Once we made it to the Canyonville rest stop, I felt such a rush of relief I teared up. Once I was able to depart Interstate 5 and head west on Highway 42, I was erringly optimistic. Yes, I had checked road cams, but that was then and this was now. Not much traffic. Gee, I wonder why. Everyone else knew enough to stay home and watch videos of goofs like me.

We decided to have lunch in Coquille while the storm raged. We parked and walked parallel with the sidewalk, making it inside the historical Coquille Broiler. That building’s weathered many a storm.

An emergency room nurse overheard us talking to the server about getting through on 42, so since he was in the business of saving lives, felt compelled to come over and advise us under no circumstances should we take that road. He “didn’t want to see us in the ER.” I watched the trees continue to sway. He said to use Beaver Hill Road and gave directions.

Back on the road, we watched for the Beaver Creek Road sign, which neither Lane nor I ever saw and the bumper-chewing jerk behind us didn’t want us to see. We turned left onto what looked like it could be a road called Beaver Hill, but it wasn’t. It turned out to be North Bank Road, which ran right alongside the Coquille River now at flood stage. Anyway, we made progress and decided to keep going until we couldn’t, which happened about halfway along when Lane announced, “That’s a tree.”

He didn’t mean one of many growing nicely stout alongside the road where they belonged. He pointed to the one lying across the road.

We turned back to the main road heading for Highway 101, found another left, and this one worked. We got to Bandon without having to hurdle any trees, though we saw several downed ones. The same cyclone that accompanied us there welcomed us to town by screaming through every vent and crack in the room.

By evening, the wind was normal-windy for the coast but the waves went wild — slashing and gnashing well into the following day. We’d been warned to stay off the beach altogether. No problem.

Next morning, the rampaging, tree-uprooting Tasmanian devil of a tantrum had been replaced with a gloriously calm and sunshiney demeanor. I could hardly believe the bipolar nature of it all. I looked at my valiant, yet disheveled Giovanni and wished I could give him treats.

We drove to Pacific Grill for breakfast, one of five restaurants within the vast acreage of the Bandon Dunes Golf Resort, and our favorite breakfast spot. Our table looked out over the first hole. As I watched the men waiting their turn to make driving history, I pictured myself on the course, having only caddied for my father.

The course is something akin to the Royal & Ancient Golf Club at St. Andrews in Scotland with its haunches abutting the open sea. I pictured the golf security personnel coming to remove me bodily from the course for the delay of everyone’s tee time.

Then I mentioned to Heidi our server, “I bet they’re glad the storm is over so they can get out there again.”

She replied, “Oh, they were out there yesterday. They play in all weather.” At this, I stood completely and thoroughly astounded.

“You mean, in that heavy wind and torrential rain?”

“Yes.”

Diehard golfers are an amazing breed. I mean, wouldn’t you run the risk of hitting the ball only to have it hurtle back into your face, before you could yell, “Fore”? I put those kinds of players in a league with the crusty seafarers who stay on deck during the squall, or on the highway.

Stay tuned for part deux of the coastal adventure where we face down a T-Rex.

Peggy Dover is a crusty freelance writer/author. Reach her at peggydover@gmail.com.