My father is from Jamaica, and as a child I spent many holidays there. I remember the weight and drenching wetness of that hot rain, as I experienced it in my childhood, not only for itself, but for what it represented for me. In England, rain was thin and cold, and made you hunch up inside your coat, walking home from the bus stop. In Jamaica it was wide and thick and invited you to step into it, and see how wet you could get, and be thrilled that it was warmer than the sea and warmer than your skin; it was abandon.
Sadie Jones, for Powells
While my father is from Jamaica, that isn't what resonates here, as we didn't spend summers there. But this perfectly describes the tropical rains of my home- a friendly, affectionate rain that felt like a warm lake. We'd go mud sliding in it. At the end of the day we'd be cold, but in such a good way.
And once, on a visit here to Dallas, before I lived here, there was a sopping rain. My friend and I stripped off our clothes to run around in the back yard, swimming in the rain. (It was as close to a skinny dip as I've come here.)