Crossing the Strait

 

he stands by the water with

his back to Tarifa, his toes

pinching the white sand of Los Lances,

his eyes focused on

the horizon line and a barely perceptible

speck of land thirteen miles south.

the funds he is raising by swimming

across the strait will buy tons

of fish for distressed seals in the

San Francisco Bay area.

a warm and strong Levante finally

subsides into a cool breeze that

clears his head and gently carries

soaring seagulls toward the Atlantic.

he skips in place, stretches his neck,

shakes his arms to get the blood running.

his support team, excitement palpable,

stands around encouraging him,

assuring him they will be close by,

imparting upon him last minute advice

on how to pace himself.

he moves into the water and the water

embraces him like a mother her son.

he swims with deliberate strokes trailed by

boats laden with safety and medical equipment

in case of a Charley horse. a pod

of dolphins playfully glides alongside.

Moroccan coast guard boats, as if glad to see

someone for once swimming south, blaze

their fog horns and escort him into

Tangier port weary, but victorious.

a commodious four-star hotel room

awaits. a hot shower. a scrumptious

meal. a plush bed.

 

a few miles east.

another man was waiting to cross the strait.

 

he sat huddled in the corner of

a dilapidated shack on the beach

for hours listening to the howling wind,

chasing black beetles with his eyes and

fending sand flees with otiose waves

of his hand, waiting on darkness to cover

his bitter shame as it smoldered in his eyes

like a dying sun.

with a white-knuckled grip he clutched

a small black plastic bag containing all

his earthly belongings: a shirt and a pair of jeans

his mother bought him from the flee market.

waiting to cross the strait to a better life,

he spent weeks in Tangier’s Grand Socco

like a peregrine famished falcon hovering over

a desert forsaken by prey. he survived on leftovers

of pocadillos portentous tourists discarded.

at last, the light signals from the shoreline.

he hustled toward the blue rickety boat.

others came out of the darkness and the boatswain

ushered them all aboard.

he didn’t look back. Soon the boat plowed ahead

with its human cargo bearing north

toward Spain, thirteen miles away across the strait.

the sea was choppy and sprays of salt water

splashed his face and burnt his eyes as if in an

attempt to wake him up as he sat there, his hands

dug in his pockets, his chin in his chest,

a knot in his stomach. others threw up.

the boat slowed at times, sped up at others, cut east

at times and west at others.

the motor sputtered and the air was filled

with the smell of fuel and smoke and vomit.

the lights of Spain were now visible, but they were still

a few miles away when the boatswain stood up and

screamed.

police!

police!

fear ripped through his heart with ease.

they all stood up at once.

a few fell overboard.

“everybody off the boat,” the boatswain ordered.

he pushed some and punched others.

he pulled out a machete and swung it like a wild man.

“get off the boat, m***********s. off my f*****g boat now.”

he fell into the water. it was cold. he let go off his plastic bag.

he tried to stay afloat, but his soggy clothes weighted him down.

the sloshing of sea water against his ears. the pleading of drowning

men and women. the roaring of the boat heading south hoping to make

it before the crack of dawn. the lights of Spain so far, so far, further than the sun. 

 

Reviews

[Kristina Moulaison]

This is amazing....a masterfully told tale! The contrast makes it so much richer. My words are not enough, but thank you for sharing this.

[SM Davis]

Nicely done. A dark piece loaded with imagery.