The summer of 2015, I spent several weeks driving around Puerto Rico, the island where my parents met and married, where I was born, and where I spent the first eight years of my life. I went back as often as I could—and still do. Late one morning, I drove into the mountains toward Comerío, riding fast along the rolling hills, past rivers and bridges, Héctor Lavoe on the radio, the humidity rising, fogging up my windows. I parked at a roadside chinchorro, sat under the shade of a mountain, drinking water, eating alcapurrias. It was over 90 degrees. I was drenched in sweat. I was happy.
Puerto Rico was, and is, home.
I stayed in San Lorenzo, Humacao, and San Juan, and every morning I was on the road before sunrise, hot café colao in my thermos, notebook and camera in my messenger bag, no map, no GPS. I drove up and down winding mountain roads, cruised by seaside towns like Rincón, and found myself unexpectedly in the middle of la Plaza de Fajardo, photographing the Catholic church. I let the road signs guide me until, on a whim, I’d make a right turn just because it felt right. Sometimes I got lost. Sometimes I found a place I hadn’t been looking for; a river or stream I remembered from a childhood road trip taken with family, something I hadn’t even realized I’d forgotten.
I was guided by impulses, convinced that my audacity and sense of adventure were all I needed to be my truest self, to see Puerto Rico, to know it. It had always been home, but this was the first time I’d gone without a plan. I ate whenever and wherever, stopping at carritos de pinchos on the side of the road, getting last-minute tickets for the ferry to Vieques, then hopping in a stranger’s van for a lift to Sun Bay Beach.
All summer long I found these places. And all summer long I noticed the bodies of water that seemed to be drying up. Water was being rationed all over Puerto Rico, the water reserve levels lower than they’d been in several years, the entire island living under drought conditions. It was the worst sequía Puerto Rico had seen in decades.
I tried not to think about it. At Sun Bay, the wild horses trotting along the shore, I stood under the palms feeling like I’d arrived, like the whole world was possible. Traveling alone, I felt connected to Puerto Rico in a way I hadn’t in years. I felt more like myself, but also, the island itself felt even more like home.
As I drove southwest toward Ponce, the road almost deserted, the island turned into something resembling a desert. The trees leafless and dry, grass sunburnt and yellow. In the distance, the mountains of the Cordillera Central looked golden and fading, like they were dying. Most of the places I'd gone to that summer had been green, very green, even with the drought. But on the side of the road I began to see spots that were burnt to crisps, ashes, a black strip that went on for miles, a spot where a brushfire had burned an entire strip of trees.
All anyone wanted to talk about was the sequía. Because of the water rationing, some houses only had running water two or three days a week. Others had water every other day. Some people had been so desperate, they’d devised ways to store water, using cisterns kept on rooftops.
The drought lasted all summer, and then Tropical Storm Erika came.
At first we thought it would be the much-needed rain we'd been praying for. But parts of Puerto Rico were flooded and hundreds of thousands of people left without power. My family and I spent an entire day clearing debris and fallen bamboo trees from outside our home in San Lorenzo. We lived a week without power, relying on neighbors for updates about the rationing, and about the flooding all over the island.
We braced ourselves for the unexpected: more drought, more storms. And then, two years after the drought, Hurricane María happened.
I have traveled to Puerto Rico almost every summer for years, but when I returned a year after María, I felt that something was definitely gone. A cousin had lost his house; other family members were still struggling with their own repairs. And when I returned to the house that had been my grandmother’s when I was a kid, I found a shell of what it had once been—the walls crumbling, shattered glass everywhere, doors gone, broken wooden boards hung haphazardly where they had been covering up some of the windows. Seeing my abuela’s house destroyed, it felt like grief. But I’d also lost my sense of calm, of stability, that the island would always be there.
After that first post-María visit, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had limited time, even though I knew all about the strength and resilience of Puerto Ricans across the island and in the diaspora. As I was heading to the airport, boarding the plane, strapping myself in, I was already thinking of returning, of coming home.
Over 4,000 people died as a result of Hurricane María, and the damage sustained throughout the island was insurmountable. And then, in early January, the earthquakes started—one earthquake, then another, and another. So many, I’ve lost count.
As of writing, the structural damage remains catastrophic: schools, churches, bridges, roads collapsing; thousands of people have lost their homes; over four thousand are still sleeping at emergency shelters. Approximately 300 buildings have been destroyed, and 1,300 have been damaged. Natural wonders like the Punta Ventana rock formation in Guayanilla have collapsed, completely disappearing. The Faro de Punta Borínquen, the lighthouse ruins in Aguadilla, have also collapsed. These are places I visited as a child when my father drove us around the island, my mom riding shotgun, all of us packed into our small Honda Civic, ready for the day’s adventure.
Traveling around the island has changed for me since the summer of la sequía—and even more so after María. Returning now, I’m reminded of all the people who’ve died since María. And along with all those lives, we’ve lost something that can’t be counted or measured: our sense of safety. Some of us feel forgotten. Some of us have left. Some of us cannot leave, but have stopped calling for help because we know that help will not come. Some of us have been waiting for help, for relief, since September 2017.
Every time I leave the island now, my connection to Puerto Rico feels precarious. Like maybe the next time I try to return, nothing will be the same. I’m no longer looking to just know Puerto Rico, to drive around aimlessly like I once did, letting the road take me wherever it leads. Now, I’m looking for something else: to preserve what I’ve seen, to document what we’ve lost. I’m no longer returning to places, but people, my people.
