friends are waiting in Florida. This is our chance to make it to America, to be something, to live decent … . This is our chance.”
People were staring at him, listening to Diego.
Ocho looked into the faces looking at him. He tore his eyes away, finally, looked back at Diego, who had his hand on Ocho’s arm.
“No. I am not going,” He pulled his arm from Diego’s grasp. “Go with one less, you will all have a little better chance.”
“You have to go,” Diego pleaded, and grabbed his arm.
“Ocho,” Dora wailed.
“You have to go,” Diego snarled. “You got her pregnant! Be a man!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Eighty-four people were packed aboard Angel del Mar as she headed for the mouth of the small bay under a velvet black sky strewn with stars. A sliver of moon cast just enough light to see the sand on the bars at the entrance of the bay.
The boat rode low in the water and seemed to react sluggishly to the small swells that swept down the channel.
“This is insane,” Ocho said to Diego Coca, who was leaning against the wall of the small wheelhouse.
“We’ll make it. We’ll reach the rendezvous in the Florida Keys an hour or two before dawn. Vamos con Dios.”
“God had better be with us,” Ocho muttered, and reached for Dora. The baby didn’t show yet. She was of medium height, with a trim, athletic frame. How well he knew her body.
As far as he knew, he was the only one on the boat who had brought water or food. Oh, the other passengers had things, all right, sacks and boxes of things too precious to leave behind: clothes, pictures, silver, Bibles, rosaries, crucifixes that had decorated the walls of their homes and their parents’ and grandparents’ homes.
Boxes and sacks were stacked around each person, who sat on the deck or on his pile. Men, women, children, some merely babies in arms … It appeared to Ocho as if the Saturday night crowd from an entire section of ballpark bleachers had been miraculously transported to the deck of this small boat.
The breeze smelled of the sea, clean, tangy, crisp. He
took a deep breath, wondered if this were his last night of life.
He pulled Dora closer to him, felt the warmth and promise of her body.
Well, this boatload of people would make it to Florida or they wouldn’t, as God willed it. He had never thought much about religion, merely accepted it as part of life, but through the years he had learned about God’s will. He was not one of those athletes who crossed himself every time he went to the plate or prepared to make a crucial pitch, vainly asking God for assistance in trivial matters, but he knew to a certainty that most of the major events of life—be you ballplayer, manager, father, husband, cane worker, whatever—are beyond your control. Events take their own course and humans are swept along with them. Call it God’s will or chance or fate or what have you, all a man could do was throw the ball as well as he could, with all the guile and skill he could muster. What happened after the ball left your fingers was beyond your control. In God’s hands, or so they said. If God cared.
For the first time in his life Ocho wondered if God cared.
He was still thinking along these lines when the boat buried its bow in the first big swell at the harbor entrance. Spray came flying back clear to the wheelhouse. People shrieked, some laughed, all tried to find some bit of shelter.
People were moving, holding up clothing or pieces of cardboard when the next cloud of spray came flying back.
The boat rose somewhat as she met each swell, but she was too heavily loaded.
“We’re not even out of the harbor,” muttered the man beside Ocho. His voice sounded infinitely weary.
Dora hugged Ocho, clung to him as she stared into the night.
She barely came to his armpit. He braced himself against the wall of the wheelhouse, held her close.
The boat labored into the swells, flinging heavy sheets of spray back over the people huddled on the deck.
The
People were staring at him, listening to Diego.
Ocho looked into the faces looking at him. He tore his eyes away, finally, looked back at Diego, who had his hand on Ocho’s arm.
“No. I am not going,” He pulled his arm from Diego’s grasp. “Go with one less, you will all have a little better chance.”
“You have to go,” Diego pleaded, and grabbed his arm.
“Ocho,” Dora wailed.
“You have to go,” Diego snarled. “You got her pregnant! Be a man!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Eighty-four people were packed aboard Angel del Mar as she headed for the mouth of the small bay under a velvet black sky strewn with stars. A sliver of moon cast just enough light to see the sand on the bars at the entrance of the bay.
The boat rode low in the water and seemed to react sluggishly to the small swells that swept down the channel.
“This is insane,” Ocho said to Diego Coca, who was leaning against the wall of the small wheelhouse.
“We’ll make it. We’ll reach the rendezvous in the Florida Keys an hour or two before dawn. Vamos con Dios.”
“God had better be with us,” Ocho muttered, and reached for Dora. The baby didn’t show yet. She was of medium height, with a trim, athletic frame. How well he knew her body.
As far as he knew, he was the only one on the boat who had brought water or food. Oh, the other passengers had things, all right, sacks and boxes of things too precious to leave behind: clothes, pictures, silver, Bibles, rosaries, crucifixes that had decorated the walls of their homes and their parents’ and grandparents’ homes.
Boxes and sacks were stacked around each person, who sat on the deck or on his pile. Men, women, children, some merely babies in arms … It appeared to Ocho as if the Saturday night crowd from an entire section of ballpark bleachers had been miraculously transported to the deck of this small boat.
The breeze smelled of the sea, clean, tangy, crisp. He
took a deep breath, wondered if this were his last night of life.
He pulled Dora closer to him, felt the warmth and promise of her body.
Well, this boatload of people would make it to Florida or they wouldn’t, as God willed it. He had never thought much about religion, merely accepted it as part of life, but through the years he had learned about God’s will. He was not one of those athletes who crossed himself every time he went to the plate or prepared to make a crucial pitch, vainly asking God for assistance in trivial matters, but he knew to a certainty that most of the major events of life—be you ballplayer, manager, father, husband, cane worker, whatever—are beyond your control. Events take their own course and humans are swept along with them. Call it God’s will or chance or fate or what have you, all a man could do was throw the ball as well as he could, with all the guile and skill he could muster. What happened after the ball left your fingers was beyond your control. In God’s hands, or so they said. If God cared.
For the first time in his life Ocho wondered if God cared.
He was still thinking along these lines when the boat buried its bow in the first big swell at the harbor entrance. Spray came flying back clear to the wheelhouse. People shrieked, some laughed, all tried to find some bit of shelter.
People were moving, holding up clothing or pieces of cardboard when the next cloud of spray came flying back.
The boat rose somewhat as she met each swell, but she was too heavily loaded.
“We’re not even out of the harbor,” muttered the man beside Ocho. His voice sounded infinitely weary.
Dora hugged Ocho, clung to him as she stared into the night.
She barely came to his armpit. He braced himself against the wall of the wheelhouse, held her close.
The boat labored into the swells, flinging heavy sheets of spray back over the people huddled on the deck.
The
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