Early morning sun quickly dried what little dew had condensed on the deck overnight. No clouds spoiled the sky's high-altitude vivid blue. Apapane chittered among the ohia trees, red wings whirring as they busily collected nectar and bugs. The air was crisp, warm and dry.

How awful.

In normal times, it would have been an altogether pleasant day, but for months, there had been little rain in the area. Another sun-drenched day meant the water level in the concrete tank in the northern corner of the lot would drop another unnerving inch or two.

From the perspective of people whose water comes from whatever runs off roofs or other catchment surfaces, week after week of beach-and-barbecue weather is scary. Government's “;severe drought”; declarations merely confirmed what they already know from dwindling supplies, the wilting plants and forest around them and the growing number of water trucks trundling village roads to fill empty cisterns.

You develop precipitation envy. You look longingly at radar and satellite imagery that show rainstorms skipping north of the islands, pushing abundant moisture toward California, the Northwest and Alaska.

You get annoyed when weathercasters on television happily predict continuing sunshine across the state, unreasonably blaming the messengers for the lack of rain.

Video of a downpour in Honolulu that had city residents scurrying under umbrellas and complaining about getting wet for a minute or two prompts indignant condemnation of faint-hearted urbanites who probably leave their taps running while brushing their teeth.

Meanwhile, catchment people do without.

Though already careful about water use, the shortage pressed us to cut back even more, but as happens with many bad situations, silver linings emerge.

Looking for ways to lessen dishwashing led to cooking on the Weber and on the woodstove that did double duty, heating the house during the nippy nights while roasting ears of corn wrapped in their husks. Preparing simple meals without sauces and eating raw veggies proved more healthful and tasty.

Saving and recycling “;gray”; water stretched supplies, as did flushing only when necessary.

Bathing was the biggest challenge. Unwilling to forgo daily cleansing required wetting down quickly in the shower—usually before the hot water kicked in—and turning off the faucet.

The ritual, rescheduled from chilly nights to afternoons when the temperature had yet to drop to the low 50s, brought the side benefit of making evenings more leisurely, the excuse being that you couldn't very well pull weeds or get into some sweaty activity after bathing.

Back in the city, it would be easy to regress to water-wasting ways. Without the view of a reservoir through the living room window, the connection between tap and tank isn't as conspicuous. It's there, though—unseen, underground, quantity just as limited.

Oahu is the only island not classified as being in a drought, but rainfall remains below normal so conservation is prudent.

Thirsty? Fill the glass halfway. Still dry? Turn on the tap again and more will flow, at least for now.