The Shores of Miami
Written by Lucy Szerminski
Cover illustration by Xinyu Ding
Copyright 2019 Ripple Foundation
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may
be produced in whole or in part, by any means
without permission of the publisher of this book.
For information, please email [email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-927864-17-3
Published by Ripple Foundation
Visit our website ripplefoundation.ca
First e-book edition 2019
About the Author
Lucy Szerminski was born in Barrie, Ontario and soon developed a wide variety of interests. The first known thing that she wrote was a note reading, “Lucy dosint wont eny woder.” Her first inspiration to write was the Harry Potter series at seven years old, which she then incessantly reread over and over again in different orders. In her spare time, Lucy enjoys reading, writing, rock climbing, thoroughly searching beaches for shells and rocks, telling people why the company Nike is called Nike, and talking to herself.
Ripple Foundation is a charitable organization that aims to empower the next generation of leaders by fostering creativity and cultivating a passion for reading and writing in youth across Canada.
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Chapter 1
Hunger
I press my hand to my stomach, as if doing so could ease the pain inside it. Weeks of missing meals are taking their toll on my body. I feel as though a shovel is scraping through the inside of my stomach, pulling out remains of food and getting rid of them. There used to be a little layer of fat all around me, and I didn’t like it. Now that it’s gone; I wish it would come back.
It started with Castro. I was born in 1951 when he was not our prime minister. Life was nice then. I did not miss my breakfast, or any of the other meals for that matter. My friends and family laughed and danced. Our biggest problems were with friends and what kind of candy Papa brought home. Mama did not have to go wait in line for food and, more often than not, come home empty-handed. In my spare time I sang beautiful songs to my family – I loved to sing – instead of working my long, thin fingers to the bone.
Coming back to myself, I realize that I have been scrubbing the same spot on the wall for several minutes. It is no good lamenting about the past when I am hungry and only finishing the wall can get me food. The skin on my fingers is so tight that the dampness of the cloth doesn’t even wrinkle them. I need food. So I scrub.
I finish a while later and stretch my arms before going to meet the people who hired me. The man sits in his study, and I can see his profile. He is not as hungry as I am.
“I have finished, señor,” I tell him. “Your walls are cleaned.” I clasp my hands behind my back, waiting for what he has promised.
“Well then, child, leave,” says the man, raising an eyebrow.
“But you told me –”
“I have decided that I cannot spare the food.”
I realize that the man never meant to pay me. Anger rises in my chest, my cheeks burning. Yesterday I also got a job like this, a clean house in exchange for a full belly. And I held my side of the deal, but was sent home with no food. Today I have had enough. I am starving and I will have food. I will.
“I said I would clean your house for food! You will give me food or I will dirty your house!” I say.
“Get OUT!” he screams. I go, but in one room I stop and grab a dirty water bucket. The man’s eyes bulge in a frown that would be comical if his anger were for someone else.
“Food or dirt!” I yell. He does not respond. I dump the water on his floor and run.
Chapter 2
Escape
It is my hunger that stops me from making it to the beach. I’m almost there when pain tears at my chest, so intense that I fall to my knees. The anger had fueled me to run, but with my hunger, I have no strength. I know as I pant on all fours that I only have one option left to get food. An awful option that I have been denying for weeks. I cannot steal, I am not quiet enough. Not with this hunger that makes me so clumsy that I trip over every little thing. I cannot beg, not many have food to give me. We are all slowly starving to death. I cannot work if people refuse to pay. Today proved that. I cannot get fresh food anywhere. But there’s something that many are desperate enough to eat. I must get rotten food.
The beach by my house is usually void of people, so I am surprised by the crowd that has gathered here today. But I cannot focus on anything except the hunger that threatens to consume me. Though it sickens me to think of it, dead fish wait in the water. I can eat those and I have to.
I’m about to step into the water when I am distracted by noises behind me, a round of shouts and a loud scraping sound. I turn toward the commotion. A huge crowd of people run toward the water as one, supporting something large and wooden on their shoulders. It takes a moment for my tired eyes to understand what I am seeing. A raft. They are carrying a raft to the water. And it has food on it.
My body reacts before my mind does. I run to the crowd of people, eyes fixed on the sight in front of me. With this sight, I can ignore my pain from the hunger. The people reach the water and push in the raft. When they board the raft, I can see that they are like me, skin and bones. But more can fit. They are pulling anyone aboard, anyone that wants to come.
“To Florida!” I hear someone shout. These people are fleeing the hunger by fleeing Cuba.
I stop dead. This is illegal! No one can leave, not with Castro in charge. Though I can understand their motive as I think of my own features I saw in the mirror last night – I could easily count my ribs. There are twenty-four.
Kink! I am jolted out of my thoughts by a loud noise that comes from the raft. I whirl around and see a line of police officers at the edge of the sand. There are at least five of them, and one has a pistol drawn and has already shot at one of the containers of water. Of course the police are here, trying to leave Cuba can result in more than ten years in jail! But is it worth it? Maybe not. These people could die at sea. Or maybe it is worth it. Maybe it’s better to do something instead of waiting around until I starve. Mama thought so, but she’s not here. She’s on her second year in prison. Papa thought so, but he died, hunger taking the light from his eyes. I am on my own to make the decision. With the thought, why am I running so much lately, hovering at the back of my mind, I sprint for the water.
Chapter 3
Arianna
Seawater
splashes around my ankles as I sprint for the raft. I have to get there. I need to escape Cuba. But the raft has left and my spurt of adrenaline is fading. Desperate, I push off from the ground and latch onto the raft with my fingertips. Strong but thin arms pull me up and over the top. I catch my breath.
“Yanara!” cries a familiar voice. I jerk my head up at the sound of my name. A girl who I went to school with sits near me. We were best friends before my Mama took me out of school so that I could help her work for food.
“Ari!” I say. Her name is Arianna, but I always told her that four syllables is too long for a name. Affection bubbles inside me and I give her a hug.
We were good at being friends. I’d known her since we were born, and we were with each other almost as often as family. Our arguments were silly and over within minutes, our hugs sincere and frequent. Just like other best friends. But between us, it was somehow different. Other pairs of best friends had two hearts beating out the same rhythm, while our hearts beat two different rhythms that fit the same song. I so missed her when I was away from her, but I could function, because rather than making each other complete, we made each other happy. And thinking of her makes me happy.
I pull myself out of my reverie to eat some beans I get from a nice man sitting near a food container. Once the rumbling in my stomach has settled slightly, I examine the raft. Bunches of thick branches and half-rotten wood planks make up the part that I’m sitting on. A small motor slowly putters us away from Cuba. It isn’t pretty, but maybe it will do its job and get us away from Castro. At least it’s faster than rowing.
It’s like the raft is a match that lit a small fire inside of me. But it’s not a fiery anger, like the one that grows when I have no dinner or when I see Castro on television. It’s a hopeful fire and maybe one that can keep me warm until we reach Florida.
Chapter 4
Storm
I manage a precious hour or so of sleep before I am woken by a thunderclap. Someone screams, and I suddenly remember where I am. I am in the middle of the ocean on a flimsy raft with far too many people. And there’s a storm.
Pure, blind panic explodes in my head. The kind that shuts off all of your senses and eliminates every thought except for the animal desire to live. A scream rises inside me, but I don’t let it escape because if I open my mouth I will throw up, and I don’t want to throw up.
A wave taller than my house back in Cuba rises like a mountain over us and slams down, pressing everyone to the raft. My head smacks against a metal container of food behind me and stars erupt in front of my eyes. I feel, again, like I’m going to throw up, but I don’t want to lose what little food is in my stomach.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
I should be trying to think rationally, trying to solve this. But I can’t. All I can think about is surviving until tomorrow. And I might not if I throw up.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
If I throw up, there will be a moment when I’ll be unable to breathe, and in a raging sea that could cost me my life.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
A flash of lightning slices the air not far away, then another. I can see that everybody else is, like me, soaked to the bone. I reach out for Ari’s hand, not wanting to lose her and needing something to hold onto, but I end up just holding onto the raft. Everyone else also clings to the logs of the raft for their lives.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
Everything that isn’t tied down goes flying as a wave rises underneath the raft. I think a person flew off too and I again, must hold back a scream. The raft is lifted, and then it slams back into the ocean with so much force that my head smacks into my knees. Splitting pain tears like a knife through my skull, almost as bad as when it struck the metal container. Worse, really, because it’s just adding onto that pain.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
A burst of wind strikes the raft and pushes it upside down. A huge cracking noise fills the air. The sound of wood breaking. Most of the raft breaks away, and me and one other person are the only ones left on the small piece.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
I push off from the small piece of raft toward the large one. I am at the mercy of the cold sea. Tossed and turned like a rag doll. I do not know which way is up and down. All I know is the terror coursing through me.
Don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up.
I throw up. The small pocket of air that my head was in is gone. I gasp for air, but there’s no air and I’m breathing in water. My head bangs against something again, probably the small bit of raft, and I scream out the little bit of air I had left in me. The dizziness from hitting my head again adds to that to having no air, and then there’s the confusion of the churning sea.
I realize what is happening. I am drowning. The raft is nowhere near me, and if it is, I can’t reach it. I am going to die.
And then strong hands wrap around me and pull me up. The air chills my soaking face. I’m pushed onto something large and bumpy. The raft. I can hardly even comprehend that I’m safe before the pain of my head and the water in my lungs makes me black out.
Chapter 5
Requirements
I wake to Ari’s face looming over mine, concern filling her eyes. As soon as she sees my eyes, she yanks me into a crushing hug.
“Yanara!” she screams. “Yanara, you’re safe!” Her screams make me cringe, and I realize that my head is pounding. How many times did I hit it? I can’t remember. Everything is a blur.
“How long have I been out?” I ask. My voice comes in a croak. “Who else was on the tiny part of the raft? And who saved me?” Ari sits up and I try to sit up, too.
“No, don’t!” says a voice behind me. “Don’t sit up,” it repeats. “You’re far too dizzy. I’m guessing you banged your head more than once.” The mysterious voice is right. I can’t even focus my eyes.
“You’ve been out cold for about a day,” says Ari. “You must be famished.” My stomach growls, proving her point.
“But who rescued me?” I ask again.
“I did,” says the mysterious voice, and another face swims into view. “My name is Anay,” says the boy. “I used to practice swimming before Castro. And whoever else that was on that little bit of raft was lost in the storm.” I’d guess that Anay is about five years older than me. Plenty of time to learn some rescue skills.
“Thank you,” I say. “But that ocean… you could have died, and then two people would be dead! Three, with that other person!”
“I might have died anyway, so it seemed like that was what I should do. Now eat.” He passes me some rice and beans, all of them hard and unappetizing, but it’s the best food I’ve ever tasted.
In a few minutes, I feel stable enough to sit up. I lean against a container of water and take part in the conversation.
“Two are dead from the storm and one from hunger,” says one man. “I worry that more will go, too. We should eat more. How much food do we have left?”
“We lost more than half of our food in the storm,” says a tall woman with long black hair. “We need to cut down to one meal a day, and by a meal, I mean about a handful of food. We have to ration.” No one complains. Back in Cuba was as bad, anyway. And at least, by some miracle, our motor is undamaged. But the requirements for making it to Florida are overwhelming:
We can’t run out of food.
The motor can’t die.
We can’t run into any other storms.
We can’t be caught by the Coast Guard or we will be taken back to Cuba again.
I tell everyone on the raft my concerns.
“Well, I don’t see another storm, at least,” says Arianna. “And with rationing, the food might just work. The real problem is… whic
h way is Florida?
Her words are met by murmurs of concern, but the woman with the long hair, who seems to be a sort of leader, shows us her compass. I sigh with relief. But even if the food and storms aren’t huge problems, the two other problems hover at the back of mind. If the motor dies or we are caught by the Coast Guard, there will be nothing we can do about it.
Chapter 6
Fights
I wipe the sweat from my forehead as I shove an empty water container overboard. A problem I failed to think of was water. With the heat and the losses from the storm, we are consuming more than was originally estimated. We are likely to run out before we reach Florida. If there’s an upside to our current situation, it’s that the water and food jugs we dump lighten our load. We’re only a day away from Florida if all goes well.
I sit down for the best part of the day: lunchtime. Rachel, the one that we consider our leader, doles out food. I get a slice of bread. But I was one of the last to get food, so I can see that when Rachel takes a bit of rice for herself, she pushes the now-empty container of food over the side. Only two small containers of food and three containers of water remain.
The evening is always when the fights begin to break out. Tonight it starts with a man whose name I do not know. He wants to stop rationing and finish off the food now. Last night was a man who wanted more water, and, worst of all, the night before that it was a woman who thought we should dump people off the raft to save food. The night before that was the storm. Tonight it begins like this:
Tomorrow we will probably make it to Florida. How about an extra snack?” The question is asked by a thin but strong man with an impressive mustache. Rachel raises her eyebrows at him.
“We have all gone over this,” she responds. “It is not open for discussion. We need to have food saved.”
“Why not? We’re all really hungry,” says the man, starting towards the edge of the raft where one of the food containers sits. Rachel picks it up and holds it away from him protectively.
The Shores of Miami Page 1
