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Irregular Departures April 28

A stiff wind is kicking up white caps on the Gulf of Paria.  Something crashes beneath the royal palm behind me, and it sounds like a row of ceiling panels has hit the ground.  These trees shed their skin in heavy pieces.  I examine the lawn flotsam, as disoriented land crabs scamper from the impact site.  The tan bark is fibrous and tightly bound, providing the flexibility of heavy tarpaulin, smooth and rubbery.  The dried fronds and shiny black stem resemble the baleen filter of a blue whale.  Falling from forty feet, this thing can kill.

The male hawksbill bobs in the rough water, his eyes finally clear and infection-free.  He disappears for interminable minutes, and I hold my breath, but he invariably outlasts me.  A pair of swallows chases bugs along the perimeter of the sea wall at reckless speeds, while pelicans high-dive like ditched spitfires.  Fifteen feet out, a large stingray leaps out of a wave, wagging its tail and shaking its head, as if hooked by a tarpon angler.  The ray’s pale mouth frowns with mock agony.

A dozen freighters and tankers on the horizon form a long line for port entry, which is the unusual number for this time of day.  Three of the oil tankers—the Min­doro, Amore Mio and the Serengeti—have been boarded, inspected, and reportedly released, despite evidence that they are carrying Venezuelan petroleum, in violation of US sanctions against the Maduro regime.  

This is another indication of PM Keit’ Rowley’s tacit support of his neighbor across the Columbus Channel.  A gas pipeline deal lies in balance.  Safe harbor here means fraudulent paperwork, to make it seem that the petrol is a Trini export when it is most likely not.  The PM reasonably argues that reduced suffering in Venezuela will soften the refugee crisis on this island, but only if the citizens see the relief.  Meanwhile, three greased ships are bound for Gibraltar, while money flows through the pockets of politicians and cronies, both in Caracas and in Port of Spain.

It is a very different kind of Venezuelan sea vessel that dominates the news today.  Another boat has sunk, on route to Crews Inn Immigration in Chaguaramas, and 33 refugees are feared drowned.  The 10-meter pirogue left the port of Las Salinas, in Guiria, overloaded with 35 passengers and their belongings, and was last spotted three day ago, off Patmos Island in the Dragon’s Mouth, La Boca.  According to Tenemos Noticias, the victims used oil pumps to keep their families afloat, but the strong currents swept them away.  TT Coast Guard has thus far rescued only two—one of them is the captain.   

The turtle rises again and faces me, looking forlorn and hopeless.  Sue thinks he hears my voice underwater—that maybe he comes just to see me, which is nice to imagine but unrealistic.  We simply keep the same schedule—the sunset call, that is all—like the Japanese fisherman and yellow-finned jack.  Hawksbill and I are not quite friends, merely fellow travelers riding the same current.  I sing to him anyway, underwater.  

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