Our dogs were pulling at their leashes – eager for a romp on the beach – when I reached the end of the calle. Two guys dressed in camo were getting out of their pick-up truck and started to get their hunting dogs out of the back, taking them to the beach. Couldn’t swear to it on a witness stand, but I think it was to hunt…other people. I yelled at them and told them they couldn’t park there and to leave. Something in my demeanor must have sounded ominous because even without adequate Spanish they looked at me and then looked down, got into their truck and left.
With Amber and Jazz lead
ing, I crossed over the small dune onto the beach. I looked east, knowing I would see the yola (“fishing boat”). It was there about 300 yards away, painted blue, just like the last one. About 35 feet in length and perhaps 10 feet across at its midsection, plain wood covered over with a thin glaze of fiberglass. And painted a children’s “big crayon” blue.
It sat sideways to the beach, its prow pointing east and its plain wooden stern facing me, pushed up against the karst by the tide. Not 12 hours earlier, it had landed – mid-morning, full of people fleeing the Dominican Republic and trying to find sanctuary and a new life in the U.S. The timing was unfortunate for those aboard: a landing in broad daylight usually means that the yola has been seen and may even be accompanied by a Coast Guard cutter and/or have a Border Patrol helicopter hovering overhead as the boat hits the beach. There is much open beach, little cover and several acres of flat grassy fields in the immediate vicinity.
The inside of the boat was similar to the one I had seen before – rough hewn beams, open to the floor and everywhere evidence of the bodies it had held crammed together. A bucket that smelled (possibly a “chamber pot” of sorts). A half-eaten avocado. Plastic packets of water, most emptied. A pair of leather shoes. Heavy blue jeans. A t-shirt. A backpack. A sodden cap.
But, it was the clothes and personal hygiene items scattered on the sand around the yola that was my tipping point. Don’t know why – it just was. Seeing them I just stood and cried. I felt as if I had been expecting to greet someone I knew and had waited to see and they hadn’t been able to come. It was selfish. I wanted the chance to say “hello” and at the same time realized I wasn’t even going to be able to say “goodbye.”
After a few minutes I began to walk and pick up what I could, to free the beach of litter and face what had been dumped in the plunging rush of humanity immediately after they landed. I was struck by the little things heaped in piles on the sand – a doll without clothes and a pair of saggy jeans shorts; 3 toothbrushes (o
ne even had a plastic holder), and travel-size deoderant sticks; a pair of athletic shoes, men’s briefs and a toothbrush where the waves lapped the sand, a long-sleeved sweatshirt, and packets of soda crackers; empty plastic water bags, hand-sewn rucksacks, a half-used packet of motion sickness tablets (someone chose to be in an open vessel for 3 days, standing crammed against dozens of other people when s/he knew s/he was likely to be seasick?), and 2 pairs of jeans; dental floss, more toothpaste, a bra, a pair of rubber boots, and a silky peach-colored top with shimmery buttons sewn on it. I later was told that most of the people coming from the Dominican Republic by yola bring with them a few small toiletries and a single change of clothes. The idea is that the person will wear a single set of clothes for the 3-day crossing by sea and then change immediately upon landing so as to appear drier, cleaner, more suitably dressed, and less suspicious amongst the locals. Looking at the human detritus strewn on the sand in ever widening circles from the yola, I believe that many of the people on this vessel found there was no time to do anything but drop whatever they were carrying and run!
I know many of the statistics, but going back to yesterday, I am always amazed at the variance in the rumors and person-to-person grapevine news that flits and hovers through the neighborhood like a hummingbird.
“There were 150 of them on this boat.”
“There were 80 but Border Patrol has only found 25 so far.”
“They’ll all be caught soon.”
“I heard most of them got away.”
“Be careful, they will steal your money, food, clothes.”
“I saw some of them looking at a car parked on the road.”
“They caught the people who were driving the van to pick them up.”
“They’ve picked up 120 so far, and they almost got the pick up van, but it got away.”
In the meantime, the small road in front of our home and Ola Lola’s crawls with Border Patrol SUVs, vans, cars, and police officers in cars and motorcycles. Across the road, I can see BP agents walking through the fields. At least one agent has brought out dogs. A small engine aircraft makes continual passes overhead. By mid-afternoon – just before I go to walk on the beach – the helicopters are beginning to conduct their air-to-surface searches. They’re loud and hover directly over the side of our house. I look out the window and find I am torn between wanting to wave and flipping them the bird.
My heart is heavy. I do not understand how the same people that can talk about giving stray dogs in the neighborhood water and food to survive can turn around and arrest a person for giving another human being, who has just spent 3 days at sea without adequate supplies of either, water and food also. I do not understand how we can draw lines on maps and then use them to call the people on one side of the line “us” and those on the other “them.” I don’t know why with freckles and pinkish-beige skin and still unable to speak Spanish adequately, I am welcomed by most people to this island, yet a person from another island with chocolate brown skin and only a slightly different Spanish accent will be forcibly ejected without any other reason than place of origin. I know I carry my own prejudices, but to me we all “look the same.” I say welcome them – and us – home.
Our nephew Jordan spells out our message on the dune.
