Phenomenal: A Hesitant Adventurer's Search for Wonder in the Natural World by Leigh Ann Henion

of the village, navigating open water. A boy, who looks no older than seven, is pushing the craft over to us with a long stick. When they reach the house, the boatmen circulate bread stuffed with dry cheese and guyabano jelly, and the children accept their servings hungrily.
    They cluster together on the cement floor and lean into Alan’s words. Alan has observed the Catatumbo phenomenon to have two episodes and epicenters. NASA satellites have, too. It’s actually the second storm, which is located near the center of the lake, rather than the one over the river, that’s the strongest.
    A little boy—face smeared with jelly—starts to whisper to his companions, but one of the girls shushes him. When Alan finishes his talk, the children turn their attention to the charts scattered on the ground like debris. They are not unfamiliar with the world beyond Lake Maracaibo. Few houses other than Alan’s have lightning rods, but many of them have circular satellites for television. Still, the telenovelas from Mexico and sitcoms of Hollywood give a skewed perspective of what the world beyond the lake is really like. The children, all siblings and cousins, are in agreement: The idea of year-round, uninterrupted darkness—a deadened night sky—is amazing. And, maybe, just a little bit scary.
     • • • 
    The rest of the group has gone to bed, but I’m keeping watch with Alan. He thinks it might be time for the lightning’s late-night episode—which will actually be the first we’ve witnessed—to begin. It’s just before midnight.
    “The center of Lago de Maracaibo is where everything converges,” Alan says.
    He’s talking about the winds—those coming from the mountains, which give the air a lofty boost, and the sea breezes that slip through the lake’s narrow strait—but the way he says it makes it seem like he’s talking about something greater, something spiritual. Maybe he is.
    “I believe what the pre-Columbians believed,” he says of lightning bolts. “I think they’re spirits communicating with us.” He shakes his head. “You know, I’ve had so many coincidences happen out here that it actually sort of freaks me out.”
    The most affecting happened without him even knowing. He was preparing to photograph the phenomenon, as he always does, when he saw a cloud in the shape of a giant white-feathered wing. The way the cloud reflected on the water made it appear to be half of a flight-worthy pair.
    When he showed the resulting photograph to his daughter, telling her he thought the image looked like angel wings, of the sort he’d seen in Bible stories as a child, she was amazed. She asked when the photo was taken. Alan told her, and they both gasped at the significance. Exactly one year from the night he took the photo, his youngest granddaughter had lost her life to leukemia. “I hadn’t realized that until I looked,” Alan says. He puts a splayed hand on his temple and leans against his plastic chair, face hidden in shadows.
    “I’ve told my family to come out here after I die,” he says. “I’ve told them that they’re going to see the most spectacular lightning show of their life when I’m gone.”
    He grows quiet, saying that he hopes he hasn’t shared too much. It sounds weird, he knows. But, tonight, he’s feeling a little more reflective and open than usual because it’s his birthday. He’s forty-eight years old.
    We stare into darkness, waiting. Nothing happens.
    Then, thunder!
    No. It was Romo.
    The other group members have retired to hammocks, but Romo, wearing only bikini underwear, is lying belly-down on the cement bridge between the house and the tiny island. He’s fallen asleep with a blue flip-flop hanging from his left foot, as if he fell there. Another abrupt, opera-size growl of a snore makes me jump.
    Alan laughs and says, “It does sound a little like thunder.”
    Romo may be the most dramatic person I’ve ever met, even in his sleep.
    Above, a double moon ring