Adriana Erin Rivera

Remember to Fly

My feet ached from standing. My plastic chancletas were worn from walking to the shuttle stop from my house—at least what was left of my house. 

The streets of my neighborhood in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, were littered and lined with broken pieces of concrete cinder blocks and floor tiles, damaged and water-stained furniture, garbage bags full of soggy belongings, and water-logged, abandoned cars. Once modest, yet maintained, homes were now missing roofs and covered in blue tarps. My neighbors looked worn, like their houses, beaten by Hurricane Maria. They called it the one-hundred-year storm.

It had been four weeks since Maria left the island. The hurricane hovered over us for days with pouring rain and whipping winds that sounded like screams. Nightmares haunted me every time I closed my eyes. Staying awake wasn’t much better. Images of muddy water rushing violently through the streets and seeping into all of our homes, cars floating by down my street, the howl of the wind ripping the roof off Doña Petra’s house, the cries from my neighbors as they tried to stay above water and breathe constantly flooded my mind. We were trapped. No one was coming to save us.

I had cried so much that I had no more tears left. I had never seen my Papí cry before; Mamí wept when she thought no one was looking. I relived it every day. 

Palm trees drooped and were missing their palms. The ocean wasn’t the same color anymore, and the sun didn’t shine the same way. Nights were quiet, as the serenade of the coquí hadn’t been heard in weeks. A flamboyán tree in our backyard had lost all of its bright crimson leaves. It looked bare, empty. I sympathized with nature. They could regrow as long as their roots remained in their natural ground. My roots were being plucked from the land I was born from.

Papí was able to acquire tickets for a shuttle that would take us across the island to the capital, San Juan, for a chance to catch a flight to the mainland. We tried to salvage anything that wasn’t completely water-damaged—which wasn’t much. I managed to save some of our valuables in our dishwasher. I read an article about that somewhere. Older dishwashers like ours keep air-tight if they are locked. In preparation for our journey, I packed all of our dry belongings into my backpack, including an album of family photos.

I didn’t want to leave my island. Before we left for the shuttle, Mamí allowed me to go on my own to see the ocean and sunrise for the last time. She gave me a disposable camera to take photos to remember Puerto Rico in my own vision. 

I rode my bike down to the beach near Aguadilla Pueblo. Businesses in town were closed, with wooden planks covering their windows to avoid looting. On my way down the hill, I noticed a few buildings only had facades—there was no inside left. I continued down the boardwalk that faced the ocean. Its large concrete barrier crumbled. Farther, I found the wooden treehouse at Parque Colón left in splinters. Luckily, the thick tree at the center continued to stand. This was not the version of Puerto Rico I wanted to remember. 

“There won’t be white-sand beaches and crystal clear oceans like ours in New Jersey, Marisol. You must say goodbye to your island,” she said. “I don’t know when we will be back.” 

I could see her jaw clench. It was hard to leave, but harder to say it aloud.

At the beach, I took off my flip-flops to feel the sand in between my toes. It felt as if each grain knew why I was there. I walked slowly toward the rolling waves, kicking up the sand behind me with each step. The ocean waves warmly invited me in. I knew I didn’t have much time until our shuttle, so I didn’t dive in as I usually would. Instead, I walked into the low waves and dug my feet into the sand to feel physically like one with my island.

“¡Juracán!” I yelled to the Taino god of chaos. “You stole it all away from me. From us!”

I took a few deep breaths and closed my eyes to feel the island with all my senses. The sweetness of coconuts in the breeze. The ocean waves crashing against the rocks. The beautiful, natural colors and flavors that filled every pocket of the island. I knew I would miss it all. 

“Adiós mi isla del encato,” I whispered to my island of enchantment as I walked away from my life in Puerto Rico. 

 **

There was no going back once we boarded the cross-island airport shuttle. A typical two-hour drive traveling east from the Northwest Coast of Puerto Rico to San Juan on Route 2 felt like a lifetime. We spent the entire day on that hot, crowded bus. Mamí warned me that I should have worn sneakers. She said I would be more comfortable. She was right.

I pulled a notebook from my backpack and sketched my house, as I remembered it. A wrought-iron gate lined the property containing our cinder block house painted a shade of salmon pink. Behind two large windows and our wooden front door contained a cozy open-concept interior with a kitchen large enough for my mom to cook Christmas dinner for the neighborhood parranda. A glass cabinet in the living room showcased Papí’s record collection. Our soft, comfortable sofa held the memories of happier times together as a family. 

The bus smelled distinctly of sofrito, as if every passenger was competing for the blue ribbon for best family recipe. I didn’t know then how much I would miss that aroma. 

Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport in San Juan was our only option. The local airport in Aguadilla would have been an easier trek had it been open to passenger flights at the time. When we finally arrived, it seemed that the entire island had the same idea. The line to get into the terminal trailed toward the highway entrance. We were all waiting on the same thing: a flight out of Puerto Rico. 

Between the parents wrangling their small children, hours of standing in the heat, or the complaints from impatient late-comers, the line at the airport terminal was exhausting. I could tell Papí was getting anxious by the tempo at which he tapped his foot while standing. It gradually transitioned from a relaxed bachata rhythm to an up-tempo salsa beat. 

“¿Marisol, tienes hambre? Let’s see if we can find some food somewhere,” Mamí said. 

She whispered something in my father’s ear, grabbed her purse and my hand, and walked with purpose toward the airport terminal entrance.

“Mamí, I’m fifteen. No soy una niña pequeña. You don’t have to hold my hand.”

“Shush. We’re going to find out what’s going on here.”

As we approached the front of the line, a security guard stopped us. He told us unless we already had a boarding pass, we would not be allowed inside the terminal. 

“Por favor, señor. My daughter needs to go to the bathroom right away. It’s very important.”

She squeezed my hand and I acted out an embarrassing pee-pee dance. 

“Please. Have a heart. She’s been holding it in all day.”

I continued the dance, which ignited my impulse to actually need the facilities. 

“Please!” I exclaimed.

Reluctantly, he allowed us in and directed us to the restroom location. “You need to be back out here in 10 minutes.”

We hurried into the air-conditioned terminal and did use the restroom extra quickly. “¡Ándale!” 

Mamí grabbed my hand again and rushed to the flight call board. The last flight to Newark for the day was listed. The line to purchase a boarding pass wasn’t as long as the line outside suggested. It seemed the airport was simply not allowing an influx of people to enter the terminal. We hopped into the line. After a few minutes, it was our turn.

“Where is your destination, ma’am?”

 “Three one-way tickets to Newark, New Jersey, please,” Mamí said clearly and powerfully.

The man behind the check-in desk asked where the third person was since there were only two of us standing in front of him. Mamí lied and told him her husband, my father, was in the restroom freshening up. 

“It’s quite hot outside,” she said with a smile and handed him a credit card.

He told us the next flight to Newark Liberty International Airport was leaving in an hour. He handed us our boarding passes. According to our tickets, we would not be seated together. 

“Enjoy Newark,” he said with a less-than-enthusiastic tone.

Mamí stuffed our boarding passes into her purse carefully before walking away from the check-in desk. I was amazed by how she managed to make all of that happen when there were hundreds of people waiting outside hoping for a way off the island. With our boarding passes safely in tow, we left the terminal to find Papí in the endless line. We had our tickets to New Jersey, a new place to call home. 

My mother showed the security guard our boarding passes. The expression in his squinty eyes shifted from surprised to suspicious. So many others wouldn’t be able to fly to the mainland that day. 

“I’ve never met Tía Luisa. Is she nice?” I asked Mamí as we speed-walked toward our gate.

“Sí, Luisa es muy simpática. She moved to the States a long time ago.”

“Why would she leave Puerto Rico?”

“Well … she wanted more than what she could get on the island. She loves it. I’m sure you’ll like it, too.”

I looked out the large windows where our gate was located to see large airplanes ready to take off and send people anywhere their hearts desired. 

“Tía Luisa is married and has a daughter who’s your age. Maybe you two can become close!” Mamí said with an optimistic smile.

“Marisol, this is going to be challenging for all of us,” Papí said. “Think about it. It’s a new start.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. But I knew he was right. 

“There will be a lot of opportunities for you, mijita.” He pulled me in and wrapped me in his long, light-cocoa arms.

I could sense they were happy to be leaving the devastation that the hurricane had left behind, but sad that they would not return to their home for a long time.

“Flight 2219 for Newark Liberty Airport is now boarding at gate B6,” the intercom screeched.

I slung my backpack over my shoulder. Mamí handed me my boarding pass. 

“We’ll all meet at the end of the boarding tunnel in New Jersey, okay?” Mamí kissed me on the cheek and gave me a hug. “Te amo.”

I love you, too,” I said, stepped forward, and showed my boarding pass to the flight attendant. 

I found my seat—a window seat. A man was already sitting in the aisle seat. 

“Excuse me, sir. That’s my seat,” I said, apologetically pointing at the empty seat beside him.

He nodded and shimmied out of the row so I could fit into the tight quarters. My backpack is under my seat. I didn’t want to part with it by putting it in the overhead compartments. I had lost too much already.

I looked out the window to see the wing of the plane, paved runways, and empty gates. The sun was setting, and the sky was darkening. We were on the last flight of the day. I thought of the hundreds, if not thousands, of people who were still waiting in line outside the terminal.

“I’m sure you’re glad to get off this god-forsaken island, too, huh?” the man in the middle seat said.

I turned away from the window and raised my eyebrows at him. 

“Do you not speak English?” he said, grimacing.

“I speak English,” I said clearly, with my best manners. “With all due respect, sir, you’re talking about my island. My home.”

As I turned my body toward the window, tears fell from my eyes. The idea that he could consider Puerto Rico a “god-forsaken island” was an insult to my ancestors. We’ve been through 100-year storms and worse before. I reminded myself that I’ll return to my island again one day. 

“Thank you for flying with us today,” a voice said from the intercom. “We are on our way to our destination, Newark Liberty International Airport. The temperature there is currently 56 degrees Fahrenheit. Skies are clear and we should arrive at 11:37 pm Eastern Standard Time. Thank you again and enjoy your flight.”

The flight attendants pantomimed a safety belt and, in-case-we-crash scenario as the plane started moving. Their safety protocol distracted me from the movement at first. When the plane gained speed for take-off, I prayed to God. Once we were in the air, my nerves calmed. It was nearing sundown, but it was still light enough to see Puerto Rico from the sky. My eyes welled, and I touched the window. I whispered “Ádios. Te adoro,” as I said goodbye to my homeland.

How quickly my island disappeared from view. In moments, we lost sight of land and were flying in the middle of the ocean. The sky darkened and the view from my window seat became boring. The man sitting next to me fell asleep. I sat back and tried to close my eyes and force myself to imagine my new life in New Jersey. My mind decided against it and showed me another nightmare of the hurricanes hitting the island. I could have watched a movie, but instead, I stared into the dark abyss for the next few hours.

Eventually, lights from the land below were visible from the window. The mere sight of the glowing street lights and buildings was comforting. Electricity had not yet been fully restored in Puerto Rico. 

“Hello, Passengers. This is your Captain speaking. We are nearly ready to land.” 

I prayed again. When we landed on the runway, everyone on the plane clapped and cheered. 

“Welcome to New Jersey.”

Adriana Erin Rivera is a New York-based author of Puerto Rican descent. She has been published in Footwear News, Latina Magazine, and New York Metro. She is also a songwriter and has written theatrical pieces that have been performed on New York City stages. A magna cum laude graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, she holds a bachelor’s degree in advertising and marketing communications. Adriana was recently commissioned by a nationally-renowned institute to write a historical fiction book about Puerto Rico for children grades 3-5, which will be released in Fall 2023. She currently lives in Westchester County, NY.