On the local public radio station, on local websites and news, all sorts of places where worrying can fly high and wide, I’ve been hearing about the rising sea level, along side the melting glaciers and whatnot. I gather from the experts in another hundred years or so, it’s all gonna be a good three feet higher.

Naturally, I had to look up the study for myself, and thanks to the world-wide webtubes and the Pacific Institute, whose study is oft quoted, I got to look at the maps.

Now I clearly realize that when you are strolling down the street from your house and figure out where the Tsunami Evacuation Route is, you’re flying in the danger zone. I’m generally skittish about the whole earthquake thing that happens around here every now and again, historically speaking.

We can hear the waves on stormy nights, so I know the water is out there.

Me, my lemons, this little guy, could all be washed away.

Or, we could be sitting on a veritable gold mine, if we both live a while too long on the old mortal coil. We could end up right up there, owning some beachfront property. If you look at the pretty maps from the clever folks over at the Pacific Institute, you can close in on a chunk and look at the pretty blues and pinks that spell underwater doom. My ‘hood is somewhere up in here:

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If all goes well, and by well I mean tragic and flooded and sad for everyone else, we’ll be able to watch the gentle lapping of the ocean’s beauty off the lawn across the street from us. We, though, we’ll be sitting on the front porch of ocean view. I’m pretty optimistic I’ll have a rocking home when I’m 145 years young.

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