Policy Limits

In this country, insurance is sold as the solution to most problems.

Most problems include health (or the waning of it); and accidents, 
which even in medieval times meant undesirable events 
that come by chance.

The Latin phrase si quid cui accidat means if anything should happen; 
which is another way of saying in case I die.

I am advised to write up a will, in case I die. 

It's funny when you think of it that way— in case— as if there are 
other instances, however few, in which we might remain if not 
immortal then still indeterminately alive.

 In all the stories that come from some ancient past, the immortals 
live in some lofty space: maybe a luxe condo in the mountains, 
a temple with porticoes in the sky.

This week, my daughter and son-in-law began looking around 
for their first house—nothing fancy, though a sleeping loft is nice.

Besides home insurance, we had to buy flood insurance too; we 
have a little green house a block from the river.

We are surrounded by rivers; and we're constantly reminded of 
how cars can float away in just three inches of floodwater.

Bluegreen, kelp green, cobalt or indigo—people still want to live 
close to the water. 

When the navy calls a sortie order, it sends its fleet to open water 
in a hurricane.

Those who can't leave might hold hurricane parties—sharing 
perishables and the company of others, while the power is down 
and rain and wind shred the coast. 

That's the thing, though—everything's perishable; perish, 
from the French périr, to be lost or shipwrecked, destroyed.

Not all losses can be covered; there's a saying—if we're going 
to perish, it might as well be from pleasure.