his father’s side.
The water was rising rapidly, and the ship groaned and shifted in its death throes. The refrigerator moved against the pinned man and he moaned in agony. The boy tried to maintain his balance in the shifting hold of the ship as he struggled frantically to move the icebox, crying, begging his father to hold on. His mother, already weakened from loss of blood, did her best to help, but the heavy box wouldn’t budge. The water was hip deep by then, almost to his father’s chin. Blood continued to pour from the man’s mouth and his eyes were beginning to glaze from shock.
The dying man turned his head toward the child, and with an effort born of desperation and love, reached out and clasped his son’s hand. “Go,” he whispered. “Go now, son.”
Moments later, as the waters rose over the dead eyes of his father, the boy wailed, “Noooooo! Noooooo!”
Then his mother had his arm again and he was being pulled through the cabin. With the desperate strength of maternal instinct, she dragged him through the debris-strewn water and out the hatch to the deck. By some small miracle, the Avon raft was still partially attached to the deck. Two of the four clasps that held it were gone. While the ship groaned and shuddered and began to sink, they undid the remaining clasps and freed the raft. As it slipped off the deck and into the sea, they jumped into the water next to it, and climbed in.
Gasping in fear and exertion, the two held onto the raft as the rough waters bucked and tossed them. They sat helplessly and watched as the boat that held the man they both loved foundered and sank in a matter of seconds.
A few minutes after the boat had gone down, the boy noticed the blood in the raft. He looked over. “Mom, Mom, are you all right?” It was a stupid question, and he knew it; he just didn’t know what else to say.
She lay with her head and shoulders propped against the round, inflated hull of the rubber raft. She was deathly pale. One of her hands gripped her son, the other held the boat as it rocked in the waves. The cut on her head, just above the hairline, was still bleeding, though not badly. But all the blood in the boat; where had it come from? Then, as she shifted her weight, he saw the redness spurt from the back of her leg. In the melee, something had sliced through her thigh. The wound lay jagged and open. An artery was nicked and her life’s blood pumped out every time her heart beat. She had, in an incredibly heroic effort, managed to get him out of the sinking boat while bleeding to death.
He grabbed her. “Mom . . . your leg!” He reached down with his small hands and tried to hold the wound closed to stop the flow. Tears ran down his face, falling into the crimson water of the raft.
His mother barely moved through all his efforts. Her hands had fallen to her sides and her eyes were nearly closed. As the last of her strength pulsed through his trembling hands, she mumbled, “Just gonna rest. Close my eyes for a while.”
“Please, Mom, don’t die,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t close your eyes.” But she did anyway, and she left him.
He continued to hold her long after he knew she was gone. He held her and he cried. The pain and the grief inside him welled up like a burning, angry sun and seared his very being. He cried out in helpless rage at the night and sobbed himself breathless until, exhausted, he slept.
CHAPTER 5
Battered, sunburned, and incoherent, Carlos lay on a bunk in the cabin of the sailboat. His small, dark frame shivered as he drifted into a restless sleep, his brown eyes fluttering open occasionally, shining with fever and delirium. Travis and the sensei had given him some water, and soup from one of their last cans, then put salve on his worst burns. They watched him as he struggled with slumber.
Travis turned to the sensei. “Well, he looks a little rough, but I think he’ll make it. From all the bilingual rambling about America
The water was rising rapidly, and the ship groaned and shifted in its death throes. The refrigerator moved against the pinned man and he moaned in agony. The boy tried to maintain his balance in the shifting hold of the ship as he struggled frantically to move the icebox, crying, begging his father to hold on. His mother, already weakened from loss of blood, did her best to help, but the heavy box wouldn’t budge. The water was hip deep by then, almost to his father’s chin. Blood continued to pour from the man’s mouth and his eyes were beginning to glaze from shock.
The dying man turned his head toward the child, and with an effort born of desperation and love, reached out and clasped his son’s hand. “Go,” he whispered. “Go now, son.”
Moments later, as the waters rose over the dead eyes of his father, the boy wailed, “Noooooo! Noooooo!”
Then his mother had his arm again and he was being pulled through the cabin. With the desperate strength of maternal instinct, she dragged him through the debris-strewn water and out the hatch to the deck. By some small miracle, the Avon raft was still partially attached to the deck. Two of the four clasps that held it were gone. While the ship groaned and shuddered and began to sink, they undid the remaining clasps and freed the raft. As it slipped off the deck and into the sea, they jumped into the water next to it, and climbed in.
Gasping in fear and exertion, the two held onto the raft as the rough waters bucked and tossed them. They sat helplessly and watched as the boat that held the man they both loved foundered and sank in a matter of seconds.
A few minutes after the boat had gone down, the boy noticed the blood in the raft. He looked over. “Mom, Mom, are you all right?” It was a stupid question, and he knew it; he just didn’t know what else to say.
She lay with her head and shoulders propped against the round, inflated hull of the rubber raft. She was deathly pale. One of her hands gripped her son, the other held the boat as it rocked in the waves. The cut on her head, just above the hairline, was still bleeding, though not badly. But all the blood in the boat; where had it come from? Then, as she shifted her weight, he saw the redness spurt from the back of her leg. In the melee, something had sliced through her thigh. The wound lay jagged and open. An artery was nicked and her life’s blood pumped out every time her heart beat. She had, in an incredibly heroic effort, managed to get him out of the sinking boat while bleeding to death.
He grabbed her. “Mom . . . your leg!” He reached down with his small hands and tried to hold the wound closed to stop the flow. Tears ran down his face, falling into the crimson water of the raft.
His mother barely moved through all his efforts. Her hands had fallen to her sides and her eyes were nearly closed. As the last of her strength pulsed through his trembling hands, she mumbled, “Just gonna rest. Close my eyes for a while.”
“Please, Mom, don’t die,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t close your eyes.” But she did anyway, and she left him.
He continued to hold her long after he knew she was gone. He held her and he cried. The pain and the grief inside him welled up like a burning, angry sun and seared his very being. He cried out in helpless rage at the night and sobbed himself breathless until, exhausted, he slept.
CHAPTER 5
Battered, sunburned, and incoherent, Carlos lay on a bunk in the cabin of the sailboat. His small, dark frame shivered as he drifted into a restless sleep, his brown eyes fluttering open occasionally, shining with fever and delirium. Travis and the sensei had given him some water, and soup from one of their last cans, then put salve on his worst burns. They watched him as he struggled with slumber.
Travis turned to the sensei. “Well, he looks a little rough, but I think he’ll make it. From all the bilingual rambling about America
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