“Miami isn’t too far; it is ninety-five miles away at the most…” Maya’s cherubic features made it hard to fabricate an excuse for wanting to stay in Cuba. I knew that staying here, staying in poverty, predisposed me to a life of misery and malnourishment. The journey would be perilous, and I wondered if it was worth it. I wanted to convince her to condone the actions of the corrupt government. I longed to voice my dissent, however I knew the time had come. I was tired of living life as nothing more than a pitiful pauper, salvaging and pilfering for my next meal. Between her begging and my running thoughts, I decided to take my life into my own hands. I would begin meeting altercations with a spasmodic nature, as it was not my duty to compensate
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I stared at the erratic patterns of the waves and fully realized that I would never return to Cuba. My reputation was sullied beyond repair. I could tell the rest of the group had come to the same realization because they didn’t tantalize me even a bit as a single tear made its way down my wind chapped cheek. Not even two miles out to sea, and our boat motor began grunting and steaming. Without the fuel powered engine, we were forced to paddle with broken off edges of our wooden raft. The paddles were very cumbersome to hold and maneuver. Consequently, they soon made our hands and upper arms sore, yet it was too late to turn back. Slowly the cheap wire holding the raft came unraveled, which allowed the 2x4’s to float away. Then, we were left to dangle our legs into the water and hold onto the left over wood and support ourselves with our sore arms. Before we knew it, the dark clouds opened up to reveal a vicious storm. Despite us living on the coast our entire lives, none of us were champion swimmers. I was gripping onto Maya as tightly as possible, but Ellis had become separated from the group. We screamed until we were hoarse and could no longer speak. We sobbed and held each other while the storm pushed us farther away from the final member to our
I stared at the erratic patterns of the waves and fully realized that I would never return to Cuba. My reputation was sullied beyond repair. I could tell the rest of the group had come to the same realization because they didn’t tantalize me even a bit as a single tear made its way down my wind chapped cheek. Not even two miles out to sea, and our boat motor began grunting and steaming. Without the fuel powered engine, we were forced to paddle with broken off edges of our wooden raft. The paddles were very cumbersome to hold and maneuver. Consequently, they soon made our hands and upper arms sore, yet it was too late to turn back. Slowly the cheap wire holding the raft came unraveled, which allowed the 2x4’s to float away. Then, we were left to dangle our legs into the water and hold onto the left over wood and support ourselves with our sore arms. Before we knew it, the dark clouds opened up to reveal a vicious storm. Despite us living on the coast our entire lives, none of us were champion swimmers. I was gripping onto Maya as tightly as possible, but Ellis had become separated from the group. We screamed until we were hoarse and could no longer speak. We sobbed and held each other while the storm pushed us farther away from the final member to our