This past March I had the opportunity to return to my hometown of Udaipur, India, located in the western portion of the country within the state of Rajasthan. I spent the better part of my childhood around three of the city's five manmade lakes (built more than 400 to 600 years ago by the feudal kings who ruled the area), and the visit reminded me just how much the city impacted my choice to become a water resources professional.

You see, India's ability to prepare for their two-month monsoon season was aided by centuries of repetition. As the country modernized, peak flooding levels and rainfall schedules were noted, and infrastructure was designed accordingly. Now, thanks to climate change, nearly 90 percent of the rain comes in six days for this part of India. It falls fast and runs off before ground infiltration can occur, leading to increased erosion and depleted groundwater.

This shortening of the season rendered many of the designed infrastructure systems obsolete. Bridges risked catastrophic failure and wells became a lifesaving commodity: you survived if you had a good one and became a migrant worker if you didn't.

1988: The Final Year of a Four-Year Drought

Towards the end of the summer of 1988, villagers had begun to prepare their fields for the upcoming monsoon crop. This was the fourth year of a drought so bad that it was killing entire teams of cattle. I once even saw a heartbreaking scene of a boy guiding a plow being pulled by his father because they had no more bulls left.

That was the summer I signed up with an NGO to create jobs and improve resiliency by developing wells. Not long after that day, my supervisor and I were about an hour from our field office when it began to rain. We were just sitting down for lunch and decided to leave after the rain had stopped. It was the middle of a four-year drought and so assumed the rain would be short-lived.

Three hours later the rainfall showed no signs of stopping. At that point, my supervisor recognized what was happening and said with urgency, "We've got to go." He remembered the many low bridges we crossed on the way into town and knew what three hours of rain would do to them. After sloshing over the last bridge, we stopped on the other side to warm up with tea. Sipping the last drops of my masala chai, I glanced over the lip of my cup and saw a truck barely make it across before the bridge was swallowed by a wall of water.

Needless to say, 1988 was the final year of the four-year drought, the first time I saw the real danger of India's shortened monsoon season, and the first time I really realized that I wanted to become a water resources professional.

From Jeans and Sneakers to a Sarong and Flip-Flops

While on break from university in 1993, I had the opportunity to go back home and intern on small dam projects that captured runoff and increased groundwater recharge. One day we were heading to a far-off village, and getting there took most of the morning. The downpour we happened to be driving through didn't help.

As the day (and rain) wore on, my colleagues showed no signs of packing up, so I didn't think twice about the rain. Later in the day, our jeep driver had other plans. He detoured into a small town and cut the engine in front of a grocery store, explaining that we wouldn't be going home for a while and needed enough food to outlast the rain. Having dealt with the monsoon of 1988, I knew we would be in for a long night.

We actually ended up being stranded in that village for three days, and the rain was so persistent that I had to abandon my soggy jeans and sneakers for a sarong and rubber flip flops. With no cell phone or landline, we had to focus strictly on food and shelter with no contact to the outside world—a powerlessness that brought to life just how much these heavy rains impact rural villages.

Driving Boats Over Roofs

Nowadays, I'm in the U.S. managing a remap of the greater New Orleans area's flood hazards, information that will help surrounding communities understand and mitigate their risks. During one of our times in the field, we asked the local engineer how high Hurricane Katrina's floodwaters were. He pointed to some single-story houses with peaked roofs and said in a thick Cajun accent, "Well, we drove boats over those rooftops right there…"

Experiences like these are why my respect for nature continues to grow. Nature is in harmony and constant change all at the same time, but it's up to us to fit into it. The more we help our clients achieve resilience with nature (instead of against nature), the less chance they'll have to drive boats over rooftops ever again.