Low Tide

The wind surfers’ kites

over Ocean Park

look like moths

becoming butterflies,

flying farther

into the horizon.

Since I was last here

Puerto Rico

has been damaged

by hurricanes

and by crippling

corruption.

Once, by another

sea—Nags Head, North Carolina—

another hurricane:

I was feeling fatherless

when my father

grabbed me

by the ankle

and pulled me up  

gasping,

from the undertow.

That was the year

of Hurricane Hazel,

Category 4, 95 mph.

Here’s a detour

around my father—

Black Irish,

blue-eyed. He

read Borstal Boy

by Brendan Behan

when he was fourteen,

hated the Catholic Church,

left home at fifteen,

bore grudges

for lifetimes.

In Nags Head, that year,   

we were evacuated

at 4 a.m.,

driving past

the roofless El Gay

restaurant

(no, I am not

making that up),

cans of tomato paste

whirling through the air,

as we drove north

through serious flooding.

Now, 2025   

back in

San Juan—

after deadly hurricanes

Fiona, Erin, Maria

and a nameless

mainshock earthquake—

fathers watch their sons

with awe

and with fear.

Awe, that they are here

at all;

in fear, that they

might not stay.

My father had

his own pattern

of leaving.

I am happy

almost anywhere.

My advice:

head south,

swim

at low tide.

Avoid the undertow.