I love boats. I love the faded paint that decorates their sides. Worn, experienced--almost wise. This boat knows the heat of the sun and the coolness of the water, the rhythm of the waves lapping against it, and the weight of the fishermen's bodies. When they climb in, they are hopeful. When they climb out, sometimes relieved and joyous, sometimes empty and disappointed.
I love the way that the boats sit on the shore. Like the fishermen, they too are hopeful, expectant. Sinewy muscles and the firm grip of calloused hands cooperate with oars, inching into the deep waters. As they launch, both the men and the boats are empty, and longing to be filled. Trusting that the sea has what they are looking for.
In Haiti, as in many places, the sea is less and less able to deliver the promise that its inviting lapping belies. The fish are fewer and fewer in the polluted waters closest to shore. The little boats, powered only by human strength and will, are not able to withstand the waves and currents further from the island's desolate beaches.
And still they sit. Waiting. Beautiful. With hope.