To anyone who lives in Puerto Rico, even just a few years, hurricanes become a fixation. In other places, it could be earthquakes, tornadoes, blizzards, life-threatening diseases or, as it is here in the Inland Northwest, wildfires. Perhaps true of most disasters, awaiting a hurricane involves a swirl of excitement mixed with the uneasiness, and surviving it confers more than a few bragging rights.
Hurricane over Puerto Rico, courtesy Navy
A hurricane figures into my not-yet-published novel, The Irony of Tree Ferns. A main character, Pamela Palmer, makes a remarkable discovery in the middle of one storm. I recently reread the chapter, and it brought back memories.
In the following paragraph, Pamela prepares for the hurricane:
Pre-hurricane
When my hurricane pins confirmed the storm’s Caribbean trajectory, I sprang into action. Islanders take hurricane watches seriously, especially those of us who live a block from the beach and park our cars in the street. At the local supermarket, I stocked up on water, batteries, and non-perishable foods. Once the winds touched land in the Lesser Antilles, I moved my car into an elevated parking lot; filled the bathtub and five-gallon jugs with water; and retrieved flashlights, portable stove, and battery-operated radio from storage, depositing them on the dining room table. The loss of water and electricity would be a given.
Before long, the storm strikes:
Post-hurricane, courtesy USACE
… Cracking open a window, I peeked out. In spite of the dangers, hurricanes are a force to behold. Bushes spun like dervishes while palms bent parallel to the ground. Fallen leaves and other street debris levitated away, and rain descended in diagonal curtains. The wind sounded like an immense fan turned to its highest velocity. Branches screeched as they scraped against each other, and untethered lawn chairs crashed into the sides of houses. A lizard lost its battle with nature—ripped off a branch, it slammed it into a nearby wall. I closed the window. No need to watch a stray dog or cat meet the same fate.
Carolina after Maria, courtesy USDA
Neither Pamela nor I ever suffered through a hurricane as disastrous as 2017’s Hurricane María. I considered one week without water and electricity—no air conditioning or ceiling fans, no baths, primitive conditions for cooking and cleaning up—a great hardship and can’t imagine how islanders dealt with those conditions for weeks, even months on end. When I returned to Puerto Rico in March, a year and a half after the storm struck, I mainly stayed in coastal urban areas, from Old San Juan to Isla Verde. Life there seemed to have returned to normal: most buildings were repaired and repainted, debris removed. Restaurants flourished and people partied. But underneath the normalcy, many spoke of the still-ongoing power outages and a lessening of faith in the island’s future.
I probably won’t experience a hurricane again. A relief in most ways, yet a part of me misses them with the sharp nostalgia of memory.
Now, back to the Inland Northwest, but I’ll return to Puerto Rico in the future.