Fragile Crossing
In the ripe silence of night, when the palm trees stood black against the indigo sky and the tropical air brought the tides to land, he went. Traveling heavy, encumbered heavier with the weight of his worries, he carried his craft to the crystal shore. Tirelessly, he laid his burdens on the white sand; a raft of styrofoam built loosely with wooden planks and wrapped in tar and cloth, and a small cooler with food and drink. He adjusted the nose of the boat towards the horizon and began heaving the mass into the sea. With each grunt, as the sweat from his brow poured into his eyes, he nervously checked behind him into the purple night. The beach stood still, with the only motion being the palm leaves swaying in the salty wind. But the looming threat of night officers patrolling the beach pushed his efforts exponentially. Finally, with one final anxious thrust, the boat found its balance in the water. Quickly, he leaped inside, grabbing hold of two oars to steady himself North. Pushing the flimsy oars against the tepid waters, he gazed at the island he once called home. Dimly lit by the yellow moon, the soughing trees waved in unison, as if bidding him farewell. The whimpering light barely leaked onto the shore, which basked the island in a mystical luminance. From here, he thought, it almost appeared natural; an unscathed beauty in the center of the Caribbean Sea. But he knew of the brutalities it harbored, and as the tears from his eyes fell into the sea, he whipped them away with the strokes of his oars and traveled farther into the ocean. Soon, the humid air spread a gossamer haze against the star-littered sky, and the island disappeared behind the murky facade.
It had only been a few hours of rowing before his efforts caught up to him. He opened his cooler, as the pleasant aroma of fried plantains permeated his nostrils. He took a bite, allowing the caramelized texture to graze his tongue and mouth. But as he indulged in its sweetness, he could not digest the memories attached to them. Through his indulgence, his eyes were enveloped in the lacuna surrounding him, and soon he only saw home. His mind diverged back to the cottage, sitting pitifully in the countryside, shaded by colossal Baracoa trees. And it was there, he saw her standing, barely 4 feet tall, against the blackness of the night.
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“Where are you going?” She asked.
She caught him, barely escaping off the premises, as he unearthed his illegal creation from under a mound of banana leaves. He halted his pursuit, swallowing a reluctant sigh, and kneeled down before her.
“Alita, I told you, I’m going to get us help.” He said.
Despite the growing darkness, he could see the opalescent sheen of her tearful eyes as if the somber glow illuminated from inside her.
“No,” She gasped. “You can’t leave! What if you get caught? What if something bad happens to you? What if I never see you again? What if-”
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her shaking body into a heartfelt embrace. Her eyes sprung rivulets of tears down his chest, as he caressed her long, black hair with dismal strokes. Forcing back his own sorrowful floods, he brought her gaze to his and wiped away the tears from her cheeks.
“Hey, listen to me,” he assured her. “Nothing bad will happen to me, all right? I promise you. I’m going with a lot of people, and we’ll just be out for a day. And then when I get there, I’ll send back for you and Mami and Papi and everyone else, okay? I’m doing this so we can be happy, Alita. I’m doing this for you.”
A lie, he thought. I can’t let her know I’m going alone, but anything to calm her nerves.
Her black eyes stared deeply into his, as if they sensed his deception, but could not find the words to profess the severity of her grievance. She nodded slightly and buried her head into his chest.
“I just don’t want you to leave me.” She whimpered.
He felt the turbulent rush of despair invade his eyes once again. Through bated breaths, he reassured her of his fateful decision.
“I know, mija.” He said, eyes flickering through the tears. “But I’ll see you again. I promise.”
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The rising sun released him from his awful haze and dripped orange light onto the cobalt water. The salt-filled air grazed his face, as his brown skin shone gold in the morning light. His tired eyes blinked rapidly against the brightness, as he continued setting towards the North. As he trailed along the sea, the wind picked up, and rapid waves began upsetting the buoyancy of his raft. The flimsy oars could hardly stand the violent currents, and as one powerful gust showered angry seawater onto his makeshift steed, there went an oar, plummeting into the ocean. Through drenched eyes, he dove for the precious oar, but as the feverish sea conjured more waves, there went his second oar, unknowingly consumed by the relentless waters. Soon, he found himself floating in the tempestuous sea, straying further away from his raft, with no oars in sight. In a terrifying frenzy, he performed great strokes back to his boat, throwing himself onto the brittle, styrofoam surface. He coughed up heaps of seawater, and lay back against the wooden bench, gasping for air.
As the waters calmed down, he sustained himself with the rest of his supplies. Guayabas, wrapped tightly in woven carrying nets, and freshly sliced pineapple gave him the strength to continue pushing forward. Water bottles littered the bottom of his cooler, emptying quicker than anticipated due to the stressful heat of the Caribbean atmosphere. Without any means of pursuing direction, he relied on the ambiguity of the sea. Worry began to creep upon his neck, but with every nervous thought he suppressed these doubts by envisioning the promised land against the horizon. He saw himself exhaustively crashing on the shore, kissing the wet Earth in celebration of his successful journey. He imagined his family, gathered on a sturdier, more prideful boat, in anticipation of his reemergence into their lives. How they would bask in his victory, how his father could finally rejoice in the opportunity of the free world. He saw his mother, her sallow face relieved from its eternal grimace of stress and wicked unsureness, as her eyes looked upon the comfort of this new land. He saw his brothers and sisters, gleefully playing about in their new home, behaving as kids should, without the excruciating load of dictatorship weighing on their spirits. And above all, he saw little Alita, running towards him, a smile of reassurance spread across her face. He saw her eyes, so dark, reflected the endless possibilities of the new world. All of this, he thought, would greet him at the end of his pursuit.
However, time went on; a few days, a week, maybe two, he couldn’t tell. His supply anticipated a four-day voyage, possibly five if he rationed, but as time faded into the neon water, he found himself without any food or drink. At one point, day or time unknown, only guessed by the blaring of the hot sun, his frustration took control of any logic in his mind and began a flailing frenzy. He desperately swung his arms in and out of the sea, urging his boat to travel faster. He would occasionally look up, hoping to see the holy land pierce the horizon, but to no avail. He kept on, salt water splashing in his face, to which he would, sometimes, let it drip into his mouth in hopes it would quench his ravenous thirst. His arms were like lead and his back ached from its arch against the raft, but he beat on until his body could not withstand the heavy pressure of the sea any longer. Without his control, he fell back, his body numb with defeat.
His throat shriveled to a dried pulp, and his stomach caved with the excruciating hollowness of hunger. The natural oscillation of the sea caused his mind to collapse, unable to differentiate himself from the infinite stretch of the ocean. Occasionally, sharks would circle his raft, hoping to achieve fresh game, but he never reacted. Instead, he simply swayed with the rhythm of the water, allowing the buoyancy to guide him. Unaware of the direction in which he was wading, his eyes no longer gazed towards the horizon, and instead, stared eternally into the sky. The blazing sun brought drought to his soulful eyes, and so he closed them gently to preserve their moisture. The rising static of the searing air glazed his eyelids shut, and he fell into a restless sleep.
His mind could not completely fathom any one apparition. He dreamt of forlorn figures lost at sea, bobbing in the narcotic sway of the water. Suddenly, his mind would diverge, and he could hear the imperious song of the Spanish conquistadors journeying to the New World; the air of looming pestilence guiding their sails. Diverge again, and he saw the first Arawak settlers emerge from the Amazon; noble-minded researchers and explorers who first approached his island, gave it life, and seldom took its fruitful bearings for granted. Diverge once more, and he saw himself from overhead, witnessing the ocean slowly seize his ship, as his shriveled body blended into the ultramarine sea.
He awoke to floods of water on his lap. Streams began filling his boat, and soon the lower half of his body sunk completely into the sea. But he paid no attention to the consuming ocean and instead stared at the gem-speckled sky as it began to bleed into the blue horizon. Soon he could not tell where the world ended and the heavens began. As he traversed the cosmic sea, with only the fragile air guiding his boat, the stillness of the night seemed to offer him some clarity. In the liquid sky, hypnotized by its luster, he saw her eyes once again. With no expression or thought, all she did was lower her gaze, concealing the perilous journeys of all who traversed this sea in search of prosperity. The water, now to his neck, seemed to swallow him whole. In his last conscious moment, before his eyes sank into the blue abyss, he wished upon his brothers, sisters and ancestors to carry him home, and prayed for those who would come to cross after him.
“Llévame a casa.” he whispered.
“Take me home.”
