New London — This was Sunday morning at My Happy Place, otherwise known as Pequot Point Beach, a slice of shoreline home to laughing several summers away. A day earlier, some of us sat in Saturday's sunny splendor amid a hurricane party, knowing that the same spot a day later would be submerged.

And we partied, a bit eerily at times, in the anxiety of whether Henri would deliver more "Sacre bleu!" than "oooh la la!" The concept of the beach failing to resemble itself on Monday, losing power for days on end or some other stormy tentacles fit perfectly within society's new and unwelcome rhythms of paralyzing uncertainty.

But then a funny thing happened on the way to panic. The Law Of Unintended Consequences afforded shelter from the storm, even with no shelter at all.

So there we were, this perfect set of strangers, all conversing amid Mother Nature's carnival, right there on the beach. Nobody asked about political affiliations or other such trivialities, not with the waves, raucous and resonant, treating the shore like the touchdown-maker does the grass when spiking the football.

Outbursts of rain and volleys of wind brought about waves that you see on television sometimes. No, not like Hawaii, but then no roadside puddle, either.

It was spectacular.

And a reminder of just where we stand in the world, especially when faced with something greater and grander, no matter how outraged we act on social media.

Some of us shot video. Others simply gazed. Conversation happened freely and happily, a lot like baseball fans between pitches. The big, beautiful white house next to the lighthouse got pelted by waves that would ricochet off the rocks. The occasional wave would make its way toward the stone wall that stretches across Pequot Ave.

It was menacing and majestic.

I couldn't help thinking that different circumstances would likely have precluded any conversation at all from us strangers. A more tranquil Sunday morning might have produced people walking along the water more pensively, or perhaps just stuck in our own stories. Funny what happens when nature puts us in our place and we're awash in something that's bigger than any individual.

Quite a lesson there.

Full disclosure: Last week was difficult. A number of recent columns about vaccines have led to my own outrage I never saw coming. And I knew it. I was becoming one of them: If you're not outraged you are complicit. I went on a social media tear and got rid of a number of friends and followers. I swore I'd never allow political polarization to affect friendships and relationships.

I was losing.

And then salvation came through rain and wind. Maybe they call her "Mother" Nature for a reason. Mothers are champions at caregiving and boundary setting. Mother Nature gave me both: hope for us, all while illustrating that you can have your beliefs and make a difference without being insufferable.

Maybe it all comes back to what Rick told Ilsa in Casablanca: "I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world."

We all have to work on our own stories. It's getting harder because of societal uncertainty tethered to a virus that's not going away and the political polarization that some folks wear like an Olympic medal. But for a guy whose life is awash in spectator sports, I watched the best spectator sport of them all on Sunday morning: Nature delivering a sobering message. We really are Bogart's metaphorical hill of beans. And somehow, there's comfort in that.

Inspiration usually comes best when it arrives from nowhere. Sunday wasn't such a bad day after all. The universe has this knack sometimes for following the advice of the Stones: You can't always get what you want ... but if you try sometimes ... you get what you need.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro