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The boat was twenty-three feet long, powered solely by two small sails. There were forty-one people below and five above. All but myself and my travel partner were Haitian citizens fleeing their country, hoping to start a new life in the United States. The hold was lined with scrap wood and framed with hand-hewn joists, as in an old mine tunnel, and when I looked into the darkness it was impossible to tell where one person ended and another began.
We were compressed together, limbs entangled, heads upon laps, a mass so dense there was scarcely room for motion. Conversation had all but ceased. Twenty hours before, the faces of the people around me seemed bright with the prospect of reaching a new country. Now, as the arduousness of the crossing became clear, their stares conveyed the flat helplessness of fear. David, whose journey I had followed from his hometown of Port-au-Prince, buried his head in his hands.
Kenton, a thirteen-year-old boy, sat in a puddle of vomit and trembled as though crying, only there were no tears. It had been six weeks since David had made that pronouncement. David sold mahogany carvings on a street corner not far from the United States Embassy. He spoke beautiful English, spiced with pitch-perfect sarcasm. He offered no surname. He informed me, matter-of-factly, that he was selling souvenirs in order to raise funds to pay a boat owner to take him back.
David was not alone in his desire to leave Haiti. Just before I visited, the State Department released the results of a survey conducted in nine Haitian cities.