I saw some stock footage on television of a large sailboat packed full of Haitian refugees fleeing for America. The main sail had gone slack and was falling away from the mast at the top, flapping wildly in the wind as it did so. It made it look as if the boat had no crew, only frightened passengers. And the passengers were packed in so tight that people were actually lining the edges of the boat with their legs and arms hanging over the rail. The boat was also listing terribly to one side and, combined with the wildly flapping main sail, looked as though it were just minutes from sinking.
I wasn’t ready to feel empathy — the news shows us boats packed with refugees all the time — but I was about to be painfully empathetic.
As this floundering wreck sailed by on my television screen I saw that one of the men with his legs dangling over the rail of the boat had a little boy of about 8 years on his lap. These two were on the side of the boat that was being rolled into the water such that this guy’s shoes were just a foot above the surface of the water. And I empathized.
What if that were me and Cora? If we go into the water I won’t be able to hold onto her. Can she swim? With all these people kicking and thrashing? Can she hold onto me to stay afloat? Can I stay afloat? How can this have gone so wrong? Why did I bring us to the middle of the ocean?
That man began a dangerous journey hoping for a better life for his son. After the hope is gone it’s just a dangerous journey and all your reasons for starting it would suddenly seem pretty shabby compared to the safety of your child.