It was my first vacation, visiting with relatives, to the little town of Fajardo, Puerto Rico. I was born there but had never returned. We stayed at my Aunts house in a small community known as Monte Mar. I would think about this name later on because Monte Mar translated means mountain by the sea. Little did I know that it would almost become a mountain in the sea. It all started when an unexpected rain made its appearance. It was a hot day and the sun was bright. Its rays reached down and touched my face. I was playing in the front car port when I noticed the beginning of what I thought was a light rain shower. One drop, A few Drops, A drizzle falling, falling, splashing on my head. Then, pitter patter on the ground. Faster the drops danced. pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pattering on the ground. Tapping on the roof, plink, plink, plink, drumming, splashing, pounding. An orchestra of sounds. I ran out into the open road and waited. It was One drop here, one drop there, Splashing on my head. I welcomed its coolness and excited anticipation of relief from the summer heat.I stretched out my hands and closed my eyes, looked upwards toward the heavens and waited for droplets to splatter on my opened palms. I am waiting for the drip, drip, drip, to become more intense. My pulse rapidly beating to the tingle of each mist like drizzle. The water was cool and although it was more of a tickle it still felt refreshing. Maybe it was the idea of the crisp liquid consuming my body bit by bit.
I danced with my face uplifted, mouth opened, experiencing its gentle flow. The rain is now running down my face and spreading across my neck and shoulders. I bask in the invigorating light stream. Not too cold but tepid. No cold shocks. In a trance, I leave my body, the outer world disappears. The voices of other children silenced. It’s just me and the rain. This is Puerto Rico where rain is as magical as the first snow in New York. It is a cool, harmonious blend of sounds. Beginning with a gentle murmur and slowly rising to a crescendo of orchestral music pounding its island chant on tin roofs. It is harmony, music, dancing, a live performance created for my solitary pleasure. This was to be my first experience with a rainstorm anywhere.
I am from New York. In New York we look forward to the first snow. Quiet, majestic flow of snowflakes making its way to the ground. There is no sound. A band does not play as it falls. It is an unspoken beauty to behold but not enjoyed until it lays like a soft blanket. I build a snowman, maybe a fort; I sled down a hill, make snowballs and have a battle as I hide behind an ice fortt. It is a lot of fun. Snow does not wash away. It quietly fades into melting puddles of mush. We mourn its passing and watch the virgin layer turn to splatters of black and grey. It is not a pretty ending. The magic is gone. The game is over until the next snow. Except for the sounds of snowballs swooshing past your ear or splatting on your face or chest; The sleigh wooshing down a hil;l Sleigh bells and screaming occupants break through the sounds of silence. There is no orchestral magic. Snow does not drum, it does not plink, it merely sticks. We see only the beauty of fresh fallen snow covering the ground and trees. Snow is more like a painting that adorns the landscape. I, of course, have never been stuck in snow. My moms car was stuck and had to be shoveled and pushed , but I was not ever isolated, stuck, or in danger.
But, on a bright, Puerto Rican,sunny day, I basked in the beauty that is rain. I experience its beginning as it continues to intensify. Others run out to join me, barefoot jumping in puddles. Splashing water, sitting in the cool stream that flows from the mountains above. It is like a natural waterpark. The rain falls on my head and the hot sun dries my clothes. It continues dropping from the sky, making a sudden change from drops, to light steady rain, and then a flash of lightning and it becomes a roaring heavy waterfall. I am soaked but still I laugh, I twirl, and jump for joy.I feel its gentle warmth engulf my body. A refreshing shower.
I look up and I see that in the midst of it all, the sun is still bright. Then, a curtain of heavy torrential rain drops down blinding me. I lose all sense of direction. I hear my Mother yell “come in!” I hear her scream “Angelo, Angelo!” I can tell she is afraid.
I run to the sound but I can’t see. The rain is too thick. I look to my right and see a swelling river of water, mud, and fallen shrubs speeding down the mountain path. I watch as cars are pushed forward and sideways with its force. A big boulder rolls down the hill covering a grate and causing stagnated water to form and rush into a neighbor’s house. The area is not safe. I see the family run out and seek refuge in a nearby home. The river, the debris and the ominous moving houses will not let me join them.
Getting my bearings I determine that the burial ground is in the opposite direction. Yeah. That’s right, my aunt’s house has a family burial ground at the end of the road. I try to walk in that direction but the torrential rain blinds my path home. I am stuck.I can still hear my mom continue to hysterically yell my name, Her voice almost silenced by the thundering rain. The swelling river runs fast. Houses from the mountaintops move with the Roaring/Rushing water and I watch in fear. This is no longer a concert exhibiting a symphony of sounds. The beauty has turned to horror. I frantically look around for shelter, and I see an abandoned shell of a house nearby. Thank God for the community of Monte Mar where unfinished and abandoned homes are intermingled with occupied domiciles. I run towards it and duck inside. Sheltered from the once inviting rainfall I check my surroundings. A quick inspection of the barren domicile confirms that there is nothing that I can use, in case of rising water, to keep me safe. Nothing to climb, nothing to hold onto. Outside the tall palms sway low, touching the ground and then flinging up like a bungee cord. . No help there. I knew I was caught, trapped, stuck.
Slumping down onto the cold tiles I think about my family, they don’t know if I am safe. Frankly, I don’t know if I am safe. My eyes are fixed on the mountains, the rushing water mixed with debris, and the moving houses.They look like giant walking concrete monsters come to life. It makes me think about mudslides that I heard the grown ups talk about. They spoke how in other parts of the Island rain had turned the earth into lava like mud that slid down a mountain and covered an entire town. The rain I frolicked in did not seem so innocent. Tears form in the corner of my eyes and a tiny drop falls down my face. I am alone and afraid. Will I be buried alive? I don’t know. Panic rises. The curtain is heavier now and when I step out to look around, I am blinded by its downpour. I can not see what is happening and I fear for my life. I begin to shiver.
And then, as quickly as it started, it ended. It was a faucet that was turned off and the shower curtain tossed open. I cautiously stepped out and looked up.The giant concrete houses had walked a third down the hill and stopped. They stood in a different patch of land and looked unstable. I wondered if they could fall the rest of the way down the mountain and into the cul-de-sac below. For now they stand silent and still.
The rain has stopped but the river it created still flows. It keeps me from venturing out and finding my way home. The rain has stopped but I am still stuck. I look down the hill and watch as the streams of dirty muddy water continue sending debris down the road and into the cemetery below, making it unsafe to wade in and run home. I am hungry, wet, and for the first time since I turned ten want my mommy.
It feels like days but finally the swelling water begins to slow and turns into a small ribbon like stream. I can manage the trip home without being battered by branches and rocks. I begin to walk down the road, looking back from time to time to make sure I am not being followed by the houses that have been dislodged. Rocks still stumble down the mountain but stop short of where I am. I can see the graveyard now. I am close to home but the aftermath of the storm promises that the ordeal is not over. Running water made its way down the mountain and then emptied into the small cemetery at the bottom of the hill, eroding the dirt and exposing caskets in the old burial ground. Caskets rose to the surface and skeletal remains popped out and were carried down the stream into homes. Mr. Tomatin, a neighbor who owned a car shop near there, found bodies floating in his garage. I could see the parade of bobbing caskets as well as an occasional skeleton making its way toward the house. It was like a scene in a horror movie. “The rise of the living dead”
In spite of all this I continued to make my way home. I looked away from the graveyard and up to the mountain and saw that a magnificent rainbow appeared and covered the sky above in an awe inspiring hug. It was a signal that the ordeal was over. I knew the adults had their work cut out for them. Families gathered to clean up the cemetery and begin the reinterment process. Women and older children unclogged drains and picked up debris so that the waters could recede.
Families living in the cul-de-sac just below the mountains inspected structural damages and the residents of the travelling houses reached out to government officials for help in stabilizing the homes. I wondered if maybe they too were stuck and would have to settle closer to the town and give up their private mountain homestead.
And Mom….more beautiful than ever, is running frantically down the road yelling my name. I turn my back on the mountain and I run with open arms. I am safe. I am no longer stuck in the rain. I think back on this nightmare and I look at it as an adventure.
When rain falls again we still run out and frolic. What can I say, “I am young. Being stuck is not a big deal. At least once it’s over and I am safe at home.