Enrique points to his head. “Your head is what will keep you alive, not the boat. Remember that.”
All the things that Enrique tells me are like rain on a dry field. I listen and try to remember every word. I ask questions about anything I do not understand. As Enrique talks, I stretch my feet under the deck. Angelina tickles the bottom of my foot. This is a game we have played many times, but tonight I cannot tickle her back because I must listen to what Enrique says. I wiggle my toes and hear her giggle.
“Before it is needed, you must practice lowering the sail,” Enrique tells me. “When a storm comes, that is not a good time to do anything for the first time.”
“What do I do at night?” I ask.
“If there is a bad storm, or if you get too tired, find protection if you can. There are empty islands and shallow reefs with mangrove patches. If it is hard for you to see the shore, then nobody on land can see you. That you must remember. Also if you sail inside the reef, you will lose the strong current that pushes you north.”
“And what if I cannot find an island?”
“There will be those times. Then you must learn to sleep sitting up. The hardest time will be once you leave land at the north end of the Yucatán. Then you will sail day and night for almost two weeks. Your uncle Ramos talked to me of this journey many times. It was his dream. There will be little rest. You will find sleep in moments, not in hours. Be very careful when you are tired. Many sailors with big boats fear crossing the Gulf.” Enrique smiles. “But this is also a very good time of year to be foolish. With luck the weather will be kind to you.”
Angelina stops playing with my toes, and I think that maybe she has fallen asleep. I look out across the lake. It is hard at night to know where we are. All the lights seem far away and look the same. Alone, in the middle of this lake, I feel very small. What will it feel like on the ocean?
In the dark I cannot see Enrique’s face. I see only the shape of his body against the sky. He has a proud chin and a big chest like a bull. I know he is an old man, but listening to him in the dark, I hear the excitement of someone whose heart this night is much younger.
“I wish I could make this trip with you,” Enrique says after we have talked for a long time.
“I wish you could, also,” I say.
“If a storm gets bad, keep Angelina close to you,” he says. “If the boat tips over and she is caught under the deck, she will drown.”
“Okay,” I say, staring at the lights that grow brighter on the shore ahead. I did not know this trip would be this hard.
Enrique points into the dark. “We are passing the Island of the Birds,” he says. “Soon we will pass under the bridge at Fronteras.”
I look at the bright lights ahead. So much has happened so fast. Only last night I arrived in Fronteras in the truck of maíz. Last night Angelina and I sat in horse dung, afraid we might die with a drunk man in a pickup. And only last night all the people I knew and loved were killed. Even now I blink back tears. Yes, life is able to change very fast.
As we sail under the big bridge at Fronteras, Enrique becomes quiet. I watch the lights of the cars and trucks pass above us and then behind us. When Enrique does not speak again for a long time, I ask him, “Is something wrong?”
“We are on Lake El Golfete now,” he says. “The fishermen say that there is a military boat guarding the entrance to the Río Dulce. This might be a very big problem.”
“Why did you not tell me this before?” I ask.
Enrique smiles again. “Because you already have too many problems. This is the real reason I have come with you tonight. To try and help you get past the military boat.”
9
WHITE BUTTERFLY
WHEN THE LIGHTS of Fronteras disappear behind us and we enter the water of the smaller lake, El Golfete, I feel a change. The wind blows stronger now. The waves splash against the front of the cayuco.
Enrique points. “We will stay along the north shore. If the winds blow strong, the middle can be very dangerous.”
Enrique’s words worry me. If a small lake can be dangerous, how will the ocean be? I use the rope to pull the sail pole in closer to the cayuco and use the paddle to turn the front toward the shore.
Enrique looks into the dark. It is as if he knows my thoughts. “On the ocean one meter waves will not be a problem,” he says, “because they are far apart, and the cayuco can float up and down as they pass. El Golfete is a shallow lake and the waves are close together. A boat does not have time to lift back up from one wave before it hits the next. This makes El Golfete very dangerous.
“That is Cayo Largo,” Enrique says, pointing to the dim shadow of an island in the night. Later he points again. “There is Cayo Julio.” Now the wind changes direction and we follow the shore. The cayuco has slowed. I swing the sail to the other side and steer the front toward the open water. We move faster. Enrique nods his agreement. When I can see his face in the light of the moon, he looks worried. He keeps looking ahead and searching the shore.
I know now this trip from Lake Izabal could not be possible without Enrique. In the dark night everything looks the same. Between the clouds I see the North Star. But until we reach the open Gulf, the star does not help me. Even the compass would not help me if I could see it, because the shoreline is a dim shadow in the night that changes directions like a mountain trail.
Enrique speaks suddenly. “Now we must go to that shore.” He points across the lake. “It will be darker there. When we reach the shore, we will take the sail down and paddle close to the trees. It will take longer,” he says, “but if the military ship guards the mouth of the Río Dulce, this is the only way we might escape.”
Soon I have changed directions, but crossing the lake is very hard. When the waves come straight from behind or from the front, the cayuco rides flat. Now the waves come from the side and make the cayuco want to twist and tip over. I push hard on the paddle to hold my direction.
Enrique stares into the dark. “This is the only way,” he says.
Angelina is awake, and she crawls out from under the deck. Quietly she sits on the floor in front of my knees. I hear her breaths catch and see that she is crying, but I cannot take the paddle from the water now and hold her. Even now the cayuco tips very far to the side. Enrique lies almost flat on the deck to keep his weight low.
“If we tip over,” Enrique says, “grab Angelina and hold on to the cayuco. It will not sink.”
I nod. The cayuco does not want to obey me, and I struggle with the paddle. These waves are not good. The rough wood on the paddle makes my hands burn as I fight to keep from tipping or changing direction. I try to ignore Angelina’s crying. It is a lonely and hurt sound.
“This is practice you need before being alone on the ocean,” Enrique says.
“How much farther to the shore?” I ask.
Enrique shakes his head. “We will reach the shore when we reach the shore. Thinking about time only makes time pass more slowly. Remember that.”
And Enrique is right. A thousand times my thoughts ask when this crossing will end. But the sky does not listen to me, and my questions do not make the cayuco sail any faster. My mind is numb before the shore finally appears like a dark shape out of the night. Tonight the sailing cayuco is not a butterfly gliding over the water. It is an angry cow being led through mud.
“Pull the sail down,” Enrique tells me, his voice now only a loud whisper. “You rest. I will paddle until we reach the Río Dulce. Now we must be very quiet.”
I do not argue. My arms feel like dead branches hanging from my shoulders. I keep my body low as I crawl to the front of the boat and untie the rope holding the sail up. Carefully I let the sail drop. My fingers are weak and blistered as I tie the sail and the sail poles together.
Angelina begins to cry louder.
Enrique speaks roughly. “She cannot cry now. Cover her mouth if she will not stop.”
I know Angelina needs to stop crying, but I also know she will cry m
ore if she is scared. I take her arm and say quietly, “Angelina, come sit with me. We will play a game. Help me look for butterflies.”
Her crying stops with deep breaths that are like hiccups.
“Yes, butterflies,” I say. “Come help me look. Quickly.”
Angelina climbs onto the deck with me. “Where are the butterflies?” she asks.
I shrug. “I do not know, that is why you must help me look.” I hold Angelina close to me on my lap and whisper, “We must be very, very quiet or the butterflies will be scared to come near, okay?”
Angelina nods and stares into the night.
Behind me Enrique begins to paddle. “There are small islands along this shore that will help to hide us,” he whispers. He paddles so carefully that not a sound enters the night.
“Keep looking for butterflies,” I whisper to Angelina.
She nods. “I think I see one,” she whispers back.
“Where?” I ask.
She points her fat little finger at the black night. “There,” she says. “See, it is black.”
“I see it,” I say.
Soon Angelina points again. “There is another black butterfly.”
“Don’t talk anymore,” I whisper to Angelina. “It scares the butterflies.”
Enrique paddles close to shore, each stroke strong and with purpose. Tree branches from the thick forest hang low out over the water like arms trying to grab us. We all stare hard into the black night. Enrique and I look for the military boat. Angelina looks for butterflies.
A loud splash under the trees scares me.
“It is only an alligator surprised by our passing,” Enrique whispers.
Angelina rests her head against my shoulder and soon she falls asleep. Enrique stops paddling, and I look back at him. He has a finger to his lips and is pointing out at the water. I search the water but see only black. Still Enrique points.
Then I see the boat, dim, still, like a big bus waiting in the night. It is the military boat. I think I see flickers of light. Maybe it is a soldier lighting a cigarette. Maybe it is only the moon shining from a wave.
Enrique paddles again, moving even closer to shore. Every movement now is slow and takes great thought. I feel like a worm that crawls past a sleeping lizard. I hold my breath. The cayuco slows, then without warning, a branch breaks above us and falls into the water with a loud splash.
Enrique grunts his surprise as a bright searchlight comes to life on the military boat. I look up and see our mast has broken a low branch of a dead tree. The searchlight sweeps across the water and finds the shore ahead of us. Enrique paddles hard now, trying to move us sideways and hide us under the hanging branches. Still holding Angelina with one arm, I grab at branches and vines to help pull us into hiding.
The bright beam of light sweeps over us and searches the shore behind us. Angelina is awake again, and I have my hand gently across her mouth, ready to stop any sound she might make. She stares out from the hanging branches toward the bright searchlight with big eyes.
Again the white light flashes across our hiding place. It stops but does not find us, then it pokes into the trees behind us. Enrique and I hold our breath. The hanging branches hide us well, but I look up and see our mast above the branches. I hope the soldiers think that our mast looks like a dead tree.
Then the bright white light is turned off. We wait to see if the light will come on again. After we have waited a long time, I hear a deep breath come from Enrique’s lips and a small hand taps my shoulder. Angelina pulls my head down so she can whisper in my ear. “I think I saw a big white butterfly,” she says.
10
THE LAST BUTTERFLY
ENRIQUE DRIFTS the cayuco out from under the branches and paddles ahead like a ghost along the shore. All of the world seems to stop, even the wind, until the military boat disappears into the darkness behind us. Finally we can pull up the sail again. Enrique crawls back on top of the deck, and again I sit in the back with the paddle. Angelina wants to be near me, so I let her sit between my legs.
For the next half hour we do not speak because still we are scared of the military boat. We stay in the middle of the river where the current and the breeze are stronger. Also we do not want to be seen. There are many small homes along the shore.
The homes are dark now, and the people sleep. But during the day, I know this place is like my own village of Dos Vías before the soldiers came in the night. Cooking smoke lifts up through the trees with the sound of children playing. Always there is the echo of firewood being cut with machetes. Some days people gather to help put new reeds on a neighbor’s roof. During harvest, trails are busy with men bending forward against their head straps, bringing heavy loads of maíz on their backs down to their homes. The women grind the maíz in the village or they line the shore, washing clothes, rubbing and beating them against flat rocks.
As the cayuco moves closer to the canyon, the Río Dulce becomes narrow, and soon we can see both shores in the moonlight. Because the river bends and turns, the wind always changes. I cannot sail very long without pulling the sail closer to the boat or letting it out. Sometimes the wind disappears and I paddle. The night is not quiet. I hear birds and crickets and splashing fish. The sharp calls and humming of the frogs make the night seem alive.
Enrique whispers to me, “You do not have passports or immigration papers. That means you will be leaving Guatemala illegally. In every country you pass, you will be illegal. That is why you must not go to any shore until you reach the United States, unless it is to save your life. In the United States of America, maybe they will let you stay because you are children and your family has been killed. That is something you must hope for. That is your only hope.”
Ahead of the cayuco, the shore becomes steep and the wind blows harder as we enter a gorge. Soon cliffs lift high on each side of us and hide the moonlight. It is so dark I cannot see the front of the boat. Enrique turns and stares forward into the night, watching. I narrow my eyes to see. I do not want to hit anything. It will be good when the current takes us out of the gorge.
For a long time, we sail slowly through the big canyon. Once we pass a small fire burning on the shore. The light lets me see down the river. Then all is dark again. Sometimes the light of the moon drops between the cliffs and lets me see. My eyes grow heavy. Between my legs, Angelina sleeps, and I wish life could give me a moment of her sleep.
“Soon we will be out of the canyon,” Enrique whispers. “Then it is not far to the old Spanish fort where I must leave you.”
“Why is there a fort?” I ask.
“It is something the Spanish made hundreds of years ago to protect the lakes from pirates. Now it is a museum. But remember, there are still pirates on the ocean that will take all you have and kill you if they can. That is another reason you must stay far away from the shore.” Enrique thinks, then speaks again. “You do not have a gun to protect yourself, so you must hide Angelina and use your head if a military or a pirate boat comes near to you.”
“What can I do?” I ask.
“Do not speak Spanish. Pretend you do not understand them. You must smile and speak Kekchi. Pretend the day is good and nothing is wrong. They might give up if they think they cannot speak to you and that you have nothing for them to steal. They will think you are only a poor crazy campesino who is fishing very far from shore with an old cayuco.”
I do not like the talk of pirates and military boats, and I do not like that Enrique must leave me soon. He makes it easy to be brave. I think when he steps from the cayuco, I will be very scared.
Soon we leave the canyon. Now there is enough light to see the shore, but clouds fill the sky and rain starts to fall. The river current is weaker here. Ahead there are lights along the shore. Beyond those lights, I see nothing but black night.
Enrique points. “That is the ocean. Sail far out before you begin your journey north. Even then, stay far from shore. And there…” He points to a large dark shape on the bank. “That is the S
panish fort, the Castillo de San Felipe de Lara. Take me there. That is where I will leave you.”
Obediently I steer the cayuco toward the dark fort. Again the air has the smells of smoke and motors. This lets me know we are near people.
“When we reach shore, it will be very dangerous,” Enrique whispers. “There will be no time to say good-bye, so I will say good-bye now. What you are doing is very brave. You will be in our prayers. I hope that your journey is safe. I hope also with all of my heart that you will arrive at a place where you can live without fear and tell the story of what happened in Dos Vías.”
“I will try,” I say. “Thank you. You have taken many risks to help us.”
Enrique shrugs. “I am old. I do not have much life left to risk. But you are young. Be very careful, and do not trust anyone.”
“I trusted you,” I say.
Enrique smiles. “Do not use up all your luck.” He looks up at the sky and then says, “I have taught you everything I know about this trip, but that will not be enough. Now the ocean will be your teacher. You must learn well from her. I think you can make it to the United States of America, because you have a heart that does not quit, and because you have a mind that always thinks. Yes, if the journey can be made, you will make it. Buena suerte,” he says, wishing me good luck.
And those are the last words I hear from this kind and very brave old man. Pointing with his hand, he guides me toward the shore. Carefully I pull in the sail pole, and we glide without sound closer to the old Spanish fort. I know Enrique has done all he can for me, but I also know he has never sailed a cayuco to the United States of America. I wonder if we will live through all the lessons that the ocean waits to teach us.
The silence of the night is filled with many feelings as the small cayuco nears the old fort. The rain falls harder now. I want to say something to Enrique, but I do not know what. Maybe I only wish to hear his voice again.
We are very close to shore now. As I let the sail swing free to slow the cayuco, Angelina wakes up. Enrique reaches out and rubs her small head and smiles, then he crawls to the front of the boat.