Mountain Blood: A Story of Hurricane San Felipe II
They say a woman is made of the place that raises her, and in the mountains of Puerto Rico, we are made of fog, of stone, of stubborn little corn plants that grow sideways on cliffs. My name is Jacinta Rosario, and in 1928, I was 19 years old and newly married when Hurricane San Felipe II came tearing through our bones like a storm chasing its own ghost.
In the valley towns and the cities along the coast, they had heard of storms like this. They had radios, telegrams, ships in the harbor that buzzed with warnings. But up in the hills of Adjuntas, where we had no roads that could stand a heavy rain—let alone the clawing wrath of a Category 5 hurricane—word came too late, and the wind came too fast.
Hurricane San Felipe II: Puerto Rico’s Forgotten Storm
Hurricane San Felipe II wasn’t just a storm. It was Puerto Rico’s strongest hurricane, the only Category 5 hurricane to make landfall on the island in the 20th century. With sustained winds over 160 miles per hour and gusts that no anemometer ever lived to measure, it swallowed rivers, peeled the skin off the land, and left over 500 dead. But in the mountains—where the newspapers didn’t reach and the power poles never stood to begin with—we survived by something older than preparation.
We survived by memory. And hands. And hunger.
I remember the first sign wasn’t the wind, but the stillness. The birds stopped their gossip. The roosters forgot to crow. Even the mountain dogs stopped barking and went to sit under the guava trees like they were praying.
My husband, Joaquín, said, “This quiet is the kind you hear before things die.”
I nodded. I already had a pot of dry beans soaking, a habit learned from my abuela, who lived through San Ciriaco back in 1899. She’d told me then: “When the birds leave and the clouds look like bruises, put water in your jícara and tie your roof down. If God wants to take you, let Him find you cooking.”
So I cooked. I tied our zinc roof with sugarcane rope, which snapped before the second hour of the storm. I lit a candle before the winds took that too. Then Joaquín and I held the door shut with our bodies while the storm screamed through the cracks like it had teeth.
We stayed that way—clenched, shaking, praying—for nine hours.
When the wind finally stopped screaming, the world looked like a wet paper torn in half. The banana trees were nothing but soup. The coffee hillsides slid into the road like melted chocolate. Our neighbors’ homes—gone. Ours was a skeleton with two walls and half a roof, but we were lucky. We still had our legs and each other.
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No Roads, No Help: Mountain Survival After the Storm
That night, we climbed over downed trees and bodies of cows bloated like bread. The bridges—simple wooden things built by our grandfathers—had all been ripped apart. The rivers were too high to cross.
We were cut off from the world.
There was no FEMA then. No hurricane prep kits. No ready-to-eat meals or bottled water. What we had was what the land gave us—and what we remembered our elders teaching us before the Spanish soldiers left and the Americans arrived.
We drank rainwater off cupped plantain leaves. We dried cassava in the sun and pounded it to flour. We took the one machete we shared among five families and built a new footbridge using bamboo and vines and sap from a tree that smelled like breadfruit.
Joaquín got a fever that wouldn’t break. No way to get medicine. So I asked Doña Luz, the midwife in our barrio, what to do. She brewed him tea from the guamá tree bark and said, “He’ll live or he won’t, but he’ll know we tried.”
That’s how we survived up there—not by knowing the storm was coming, but by knowing what to do when it came.
The Human Chain
Word spread: some of the coastal towns had food—crackers, rice, sometimes salt. But we couldn’t get to them, and they couldn’t get to us. So we built what we could.
In the ravine between our town and the next, we formed a human chain, barefoot, wet, trembling. People passed sacks of rice from hand to hand like church offerings. No one took more than they needed. We gave extra to the old and the nursing mothers.
One man fell into the river. A boy dove in after him. We lost them both.
But the food made it across.
That’s how we did it. By breaking bread with our grief.
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Resilience Isn’t a Buzzword Here
The modern world loves the word “resilience,” especially in hurricane preparedness guides. But it’s not just a checklist. Not for us. Resilience is something you feel in your joints when you’re pulling a wet roof beam off your neighbor’s chickens at 3 a.m. It’s knowing which plants clean your water, which hills are safe from the landslides, and how to feed a family of eight on one yam and three eggs.
In the years that followed, we rebuilt without waiting. We used whatever the storm had left us—bent nails, bruised wood, God’s mercy. A new footbridge was built by the women and children while the men dug out the road with shovels made from oil drums.
We didn’t wait for help. We were the help.
I hear now that some people are teaching others how to prepare for hurricanes. That you’re building guides and checklists and survival kits. And I want to say: that is good. That is necessary.
But also: learn your land. Learn your neighbors. Know who has water, who has tools, who can’t walk fast and who’s got a sharp knife and steady hands.
Because the mountain doesn’t care what kind of house you live in. When the wind comes, all you have is each other.
Storms Pass. Stories Stay.
I’m old now. My hair is white and my bones hurt when the air gets heavy. But I still walk down to the ravine, where we once made that human chain. There's a new bridge now—steel and concrete. But I remember the bamboo one. I remember the boy who dove into the flood and never came back. I remember the taste of cassava that fed five families. I remember the storm that tore the mountain open, and the people who stitched it shut with their hands.
When you read your hurricane checklists, when you pack your bags and stock your water jugs, don’t forget the most important thing: resilience begins before the storm and lasts long after the wind has stopped.
In our barrio, we learned this the hard way, with blood and mud and silence. But we survived.
And so will you—if you prepare with heart, with hands, and with history.
Author’s Note:
Jacinta Rosario is a fictional character, but her experience reflects the very real strength and ingenuity of Puerto Rican communities impacted by Hurricane San Felipe II in 1928. This devastating Category 5 hurricane cut off entire mountain villages, forcing locals to rely on rainwater, traditional farming, and hand-built bridges to survive. These accounts are drawn from historical records and oral histories passed through generations.
This story was written as part of Cat5Prep.com’s mission to preserve hurricane history and promote modern hurricane preparedness for vulnerable communities—from the mountains of Puerto Rico to the flood-prone coasts of Florida and the Gulf. Learn more about protecting your home and family during hurricane season by visiting our hurricane prep guides and emergency supply checklists.
Preparedness Lessons from Puerto Rico’s 1928 Hurricane San Felipe II
At Cat5Prep.com, we believe in honoring the stories of those who endured history’s most brutal storms. From Jacinta’s mountain village to modern coastal cities, hurricane preparedness is a matter of survival, not convenience.
Key preparedness takeaways from the 1928 Puerto Rico hurricane:
Have a storm survival kit—but also learn your land and local plants.
Water sources matter. Rain catchment systems, even makeshift ones, can save lives.
Community cooperation is essential—form neighborhood prep plans before disaster strikes.
Footbridges and paths matter. Infrastructure planning should include rural access routes.
Oral history and passed-down knowledge are invaluable survival tools.
To explore more real stories of hurricane survival, and to build your own resilience plan for Category 5 hurricanes, visit our preparedness guides and checklists at Cat5Prep.com.
Because wind may tear your roof off—but it cannot erase your will.
