On this day, 365 days ago, Máx entered the world of adulthood under circumstances that were anything but ordinary.

On August 25, 2017, four days before my son’s birthday, Hurricane Harvey made landfall in Texas. Before reaching Houston, it had already left behind an endless trail of havoc and destruction across its path.

Not satisfied with the wake of death and devastation it had already left behind, and after wiping out entire communities such as the coastal town of Rockport, it arrived in our city with the force of an apocalyptic angel—utterly devoid of mercy and possessed by a cruelty that seemed determined to continue the miserable task it had begun days earlier: taking lives and destroying dreams and illusions.

It arrived fierce, like a typhoon raised to the fifth power, sweeping through the outskirts of the metropolis at dusk on that tragic Friday. It made its devastating entrance riding atop the immense waves it had created during its horrific journey. It came in unflinching, as if possessed by the strength and wrath of Neptune, god of the seas and storms.

Already classified as a Category 4 hurricane and apparently bent on spreading terror and panic, it descended upon us without the slightest hesitation. It came stripped of even the most elementary sense of shame or remorse, making its fatal entrance with such cruel treachery that nothing and no one could stop it.

Enraged and more heartless than the worst of the gods, it nearly sank the city beneath that indescribable storm it had dragged across thousands of miles of open sea.

Once it plunged the city into deep darkness, it swallowed it without hesitation into an inescapable vortex. To make matters worse, the eye of the storm stubbornly lingered over the city and its surrounding neighborhoods, unleashing unimaginable amounts of water in a relentless downpour that lasted three days, deepening the misfortune of the city and every living thing caught in its path.

It hurled itself upon the city with the energy of a thousand whirlwinds, fueled by the warm ocean waters it had gathered along its fateful journey across the Atlantic.

Accompanied by an entourage of a thousand storms and wrapped in a vortex of deadly whirlwinds, it grew stronger and stronger, stopping for nothing. It continued with merciless violence, tearing bark from trees, bending utility poles as though they were made of cardboard, and lifting entire houses into the air like dry autumn leaves.

When it finally left, it departed cursed and declared persona non grata—not by the mayor, but by the suffering and contempt of the people.

It abandoned the city with the same indifference with which it had arrived, but not before leaving the metropolis battered, broken, and strewn with debris in every direction.

So that we might remember it forever, before leaving it gave us an indelible record of its visit: the devastation of that catastrophe and the misery it caused during its brief but brutal stay.

That watery cataclysm brought winds exceeding 200 kilometers per hour and waves as high as 3.7 meters. Two days later, on August 27, Houston—the fourth-largest city in the United States, home to nearly 2.5 million souls across an enormous geographic area—had become a vast lake, completely inundated by rainwater and overflowing reservoirs.

Submerged automobiles were replaced by boats and rescue craft that began navigating streets and avenues transformed into rivers and lakes, rescuing people and animals in their desperate attempts to reach higher ground.

Police helicopters courageously hovered through the darkened skies, defying hurricane-force winds. Risking their own lives, the pilots carried out, with the daring of anonymous heroes, the “impossible mission” of rescuing thousands of people who had climbed onto rooftops, taking fragments of their belongings and memories with them so they would not drown inside their own homes. In a cruel irony of fate, thousands of people were forced to seek shelter from the rain out in the open.

The poor and the less fortunate—almost always the first victims of disaster—spent days in attics and atop rooftops, waving white cloths during the day and firing flares into the night. They cried for help while clinging to pets soaked in mud and terror, waiting for rescue teams to take them to the George R. Brown Convention Center, where thousands found refuge during those tragic days.

In some places, Houston was submerged beneath as much as five meters of water as a result of the torrential rains—a kind of flood from the modern age. Meteorologists said it was the kind of event that, statistically speaking, occurs only once every thousand years.

It is almost impossible to comprehend, let alone calculate, the magnitude of the destruction, the material losses, and the staggering quantity of water Harvey brought with it during its devastating passage through Texas and Louisiana.

Nearly half a million automobiles were flooded, and losses exceeded $120 billion. An astonishing 21 trillion gallons of water fell from the sky—enough, according to reports at the time, to fill the Astrodome tens of thousands of times.

On the night of August 26, the fight between Floyd Mayweather Jr. and UFC fighter Conor McGregor was scheduled to take place. That day, a family friend had invited us to dinner. Needless to say, throughout the meal, the only subject anyone talked about was Harvey’s imminent arrival.

Some said Houston had already endured several hurricanes and countless storms throughout its long history and therefore had enough experience to deal with the destruction, epidemics, and other calamities hurricanes bring. Instead of worrying about something they could not control, they argued, it was better to enjoy the food and then, come what may, stoically wait for the arrival of the storms and lightning. Others simply hoped the tropical storm would not turn into a hurricane—or, if it did, prayed that it would not reach Category 4.

The rest of the guests, myself included, despite the fact that it is both bad manners and disrespectful, spent much of dinner glued to our cell phones, watching the rising waters in real time through cameras installed along the city’s bayous.

We watched with growing alarm as the waters of Brays Bayou, which runs near our neighborhood, rose and rose, while nothing and no one seemed capable of stopping their relentless climb. Despite those ominous signs, we still clung to the faint hope that the hurricane would change course and, instead of moving toward Houston, go off and die somewhere in the vast blue Atlantic from which it had come.

It was around 6:45 in the evening when we said goodbye to our hosts and walked home, where Rex, our incredible Boxer and survivor of two previous floods, was waiting for us. No sooner had we arrived than the sky filled with sinister clouds and a light but treacherous drizzle began—the kind so fine that the drops seem to float in the air.

That day in Houston, contrary to the old saying that “after the storm comes the calm,” the calm came before the storm.

Everything seemed to follow its normal course, just like on any other summer day: streets and highways clogged with their usual traffic; people shopping at malls; some spending the afternoon drinking lattes at Starbucks or absorbed in their everyday routines; others walking their pets through the parks and enjoying what remained of that August sunset.

Nothing seemed capable of disturbing that suspicious calm. The only discordant sign came shortly before sunset, when a flock of swallows flew beneath the bridge, like a prelude to the cataclysm waiting just around the corner.

Days earlier, Máx had asked me for permission to watch the boxing match at his friend Mark’s house, about three kilometers from ours. That Friday afternoon, when we returned home after the dinner we had been invited to, he told me, just as we had previously agreed, that he would drive his car to his friend’s house.

By then, however, I had begun to feel a strange premonition. I told him that I would take him instead in my SUV, just in case water started running through the streets. I did not want him stranded on some corner. Besides, there was a supermarket two blocks from his friend’s house, so I figured I could kill two birds with one stone: drop him off at his appointment and, on the way back, stock up on supplies and provisions to ride out the hurricane. I also told him to call me immediately after the fight so I could pick him up.

That was the first mistake I made.

Minutes earlier, Máx had told me, “I think it’s better if I call my friend and have him pick me up. In the meantime, we should take the cars to some high parking garage—one of those spiral ones—and leave them there until the storm is over.”

I answered, “I don’t think we’re going to flood in one night. If it’s still raining tomorrow, then we’ll put the cars somewhere safe.”

Lisa and Sara, who were in California, called me several times in alarm, begging us to evacuate Houston and go to Dallas or Austin, where friends had kindly offered to put us up until the storm had passed.

That was my second mistake. Had I listened to their advice, we might at least have avoided the anguish and desperation we endured during those long days.

At around eight that night, with the sky completely covered, the downpour arrived without warning in great sheets of water and unleashed a gale filled with lightning and thunder worthy of an ill-tempered cyclone. Rain fell as I had never experienced before. It was no longer merely “raining buckets”; it was literally raining oceans, and the electrical explosions of lightning made the entire city tremble.

Certain that something unstoppable was coming, I feverishly began lifting every object scattered across the floor and placing it on the granite kitchen island. I pulled as many clothes as I could from the lower drawers of dressers and closets and threw them onto the beds. I moved canned goods and other food from the lower shelves of the pantry to the higher ones.

Tired and frightened, I sat in an armchair in the living room and remained glued to the television as if someone had used industrial-strength glue on me, barely blinking as I watched the news. Meanwhile, Rex paced nervously, almost howling with fear, as if he sensed that something terrible was about to happen.

On the nine o’clock news, the governor, the mayor, firefighters, and the chief of police began issuing a public warning asking residents to evacuate voluntarily before it was too late.

After ten that night, it seemed as though the sky had opened wide. Thunder and lightning struck closer and closer, with increasing force and intensity. The rain continued without mercy, bringing torrents that seemed to have escaped from Niagara Falls or Iguazú Falls.

Entire neighborhoods had already lost electricity. Yet even in the darkness, the silhouettes of the skyscrapers could still be seen. They looked like ghostly structures, illuminated from time to time by the flashes and glow of furious lightning descending from the sky and spitting millions of volts. In their dizzying fall, the bolts formed zigzagging chains of light from some other world, disappearing and reappearing in intervals of less than half a second.

Highways and bridges began to flood, preventing some of the brave—or perhaps reckless—from escaping their homes. Families became trapped inside their vehicles, unable to open the doors against the pressure of the raging waters rushing around them like unleashed rivers.

At around eleven that night, I called Máx to see how he was doing. He told me that everything was fine where he was. It was raining, but there was nothing to worry about yet.

Then, suddenly, the news focused on Meyerland, the neighborhood where we lived.

I rushed outside to verify the reports saying that Brays Bayou was nearing its limit and that, within hours, the entire neighborhood would most likely flood, just as it had during the two previous floods of recent years.

Still glued to the television, I called my son a couple more times. He did not answer.

That was the moment I decided that, whatever it took, I had to go get him. Together, we could face anything.

I stepped outside and discovered, to my horror, that our entire block was already flooded. The water had risen halfway up the tires of my Ford Explorer.

Realizing that I was trapped and at the mercy of the storm terrified me—not so much for myself, but for my son and my dog. Panic overtook me at the thought that I could not go and bring him home. I had no news from my boy, and that was what worried me most. I tried calling him several more times, but the result was always the same: my calls went straight to voicemail.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Surely, I told myself, his battery had simply died.

Shortly before midnight, water mixed with mud and sludge began to creep silently beneath the door like a snake. It was a thick, muddy mass of an earthy brown color, perhaps because in its destructive path it had mixed with paraffin and other chemicals from the oil refineries surrounding the city.

As a precaution, I went to my bedroom. Rex jumped onto the bed and curled up beside my ribs, terrified.

What I had feared most had become reality.

During the first flood, we had lost, among many other things, our most precious treasures: photographs of my children and their scrapbooks; the scribbles and drawings they had made in arts-and-crafts classes; the videos and home movies I had made of them during their childhood; the photo albums from my wife’s family, filled with visual memories containing pictures going all the way back to her great-grandparents; and the hundreds of love letters I had written to Lisa when we were young, which she had carefully preserved for more than twenty-five years, hoping that one day my children would have the chance to read them and understand the meaning of our improbable adventure.

It is true that after the two previous floods I cried over the loss of cars, furniture, and other junk. But now I would not waste even a single tear on those material things, because that is all they are: pieces of wood, fabric, metal, and a little texture.

The memories that mattered—the few I had managed to rescue from previous disasters—I had already placed safely in the highest cabinets. Memories, those intangible moments, need no shelter. They live in the mind and in the heart, and I have no intention of losing them as long as I still have breath in my body.

At exactly 1:30 in the morning, books and little statues slid from their shelves and plunged into what my house had now become: an enormous puddle. Silver trays and Baccarat crystal glasses slipped from the display cabinets. Furniture floated freely like buoys without beacons. Chairs swam upside down, colliding with stuffed animals and a scattered multitude of mismatched shoes.

Máx’s notebooks, loose papers, and homework looked like little paper boats sailing through the perfect storm.

By then, the water was only inches away from reaching the electrical outlets. It had already risen to twenty-four inches above the floor.

The danger was obvious and immediate. I feared that once the water entered the outlets, thousands of volts would burst through the house, fry us on the spot, and leave us belly-up with our legs stretched out like electrocuted frogs.

I placed Rex on a stool on top of the bed while I mentally weighed my options—which, sadly, were not many.

One possibility was to grab an umbrella, wrap myself in a plastic poncho, climb onto the roof, and wait for the storm to pass. The problem, however, was how I would get Rex up there.

The other option was to put him on an inflatable life ring I had in the pool, go outside, tie ourselves to a tree branch with a rope, and float there until the raging current—which had already destroyed so much of the neighborhood—finally subsided.

At 2:30 in the morning, I received a text message from my neighbor Josh. He told me that somehow, by whatever means necessary, I should try to reach his house, which was still under construction directly across the street from ours and had been built according to the city’s new regulations, seven feet above ground level.

He gave me the phone number of another neighbor who had managed to reach the house only moments earlier. I called him immediately to coordinate the crossing and tell him I was about to make my way across the street.

When he answered, he said simply:

“Marco, don’t even try it—and especially not with Rex. Most likely, the current will sweep you away, and you’ll both end up drowned and mixed in with the city’s debris at the bottom of the bayou.”

Meanwhile, the water inside my house had reached my waist. Rex barked in terror, perched like a tick on the upper ledge of the makeshift tower of salvation I had hurriedly built for him. The powerful barking of my canine companion was drowned out by the colossal roar of lightning that seemed to strike directly in the center of the house, threatening to split the roof in half.

Five minutes later, I received another message telling me that Gerardo, another neighbor who lived about two hundred meters away, was waiting for us on the steps of his house with a flashlight to guide our escape. The night was closed in around us, darker than ever.

Immediately, I grabbed my cell phone, wallet, and passports—just in case—and placed them inside a double plastic bag. I sealed it with tape and tied it around my wrist.

I attached the rope to Rex’s collar and, with one pull, had to bring him down because he resisted jumping into the water out of fear.

Stumbling and splashing, we made our way to the front door. I opened it with strength I did not know I possessed, because the flood rushing down the street seemed determined to force its way inside and prevent our escape.

By some miracle, I managed to close it behind us.

Once outside, I noticed that the water had risen all the way to the windows of my Ford Explorer. My son’s car was completely submerged.

To make sure we did not become separated while crossing, I hoisted Rex onto my back, holding him tightly with the rope wrapped around my hand. And so we began that miserable journey, swimming and stumbling over hedges and garden bushes that now looked like seaweed.

We were only a few steps away from my neighbor’s house and his family, to whom I will remain eternally grateful for taking us into their home and for the material and moral support they gave us—not only during those two miserable days, but long afterward, once calm had finally returned to Houston.

It was three in the morning when Gerardo finally pulled us inside. They had kindly prepared a change of clothes for me and even gave me a towel to dry Rex.

We did not sleep a single wink that night. The rain continued, and the raging waters threatened even their new house, which, like my other neighbor’s, had been built seven feet above the ground two years before Harvey arrived.

Once we were safe, I tried unsuccessfully to contact Máx. In my desperation, I reached out through Snapchat, Facebook, and countless messages and texts, but the result was always the same.

Finally, at one in the afternoon the following day, he called.

He told me he was fine and that, indeed, he had been unable to call me the night before because his battery had died. After the fight, he and his friends had stayed up playing darts until dawn, and, like any respectable teenager, he had only just woken up.

He told me he was dry because, thank God, the house had not flooded—and that I should stop worrying so much or I was going to give myself a heart attack.

I did not know whether to cry with joy and relief or give him a few choice words for putting me through those hours of agony.

Without a doubt, those were the most anguishing hours I had ever experienced.

After hearing his voice and learning that he was safe, peace finally entered my body. Exhaustion took over, and at last I was able to close my eyes, stretched wide by fear and anxiety, and try to sleep for a while.

At eleven on Sunday morning, two days after the flooding began and right in the middle of Máx’s birthday, a police patrol boat came down the street, which had now become a river, using loudspeakers to urge residents to evacuate. The two major reservoirs north of the city were close to overflowing, they warned, and that would undoubtedly bring even more water.

After hearing the news, I contacted the family that had taken Máx in and decided that, even if I had to swim, I was going to him. I had both the obligation and the need to be reunited with my son.

We analyzed the situation and realized that the Red Cross had set up an improvised rescue station at Godwin Park, about six blocks from my house. We agreed that they would pick me up there.

I said goodbye to my neighbors, deeply grateful. They wished us good luck and, to boot, gave me a backpack full of dry clothes and other necessities.

I left almost dragging Rex along, with the water still around my ankles. I carefully felt my way with each step. Rex, meanwhile, apparently realizing that we were finally safe, began doing little acrobatics and swimming on his back.

Thank God, the waters had gone down considerably, and an hour later I was finally reunited with my son.

On the afternoon of August 29, in the company of his friend’s family and our dog, we celebrated Máx’s eighteenth birthday.

Without a doubt, it was a momentous day in his life. Very few young people can say that they came of age in the middle of a natural disaster of such extraordinary magnitude—and under circumstances quite like those.