I was inspired to write a fictional immigration “thriller” based both on the song “Dead in the Waves” by Worms and true events for many reasons. One is that when I heard the song, I could see a story unfolding and two, the band is very political. When I saw Worms at Children of the Revolution festival in January, throughout their set they threw sheets of crumpled paper emblazoned with political messages at the crowd. I thought choosing to highlight the immigration and asylum issues that currently exist between Haiti (the western hemisphere’s poorest nation) and the United States would accomplish the political flavoring. The last echoing lyrics in “Dead in the Waves” is “Good to be dead,” so I attempted to weave that into the story-line in addition to a spoonful of pop culture references for good measure.

“Dead in the waves,” said Edwin aloud in Polly’s direction, but to no one in particular, inside the small time convenience store where they were both buying snacks on a break from school.

“What?” asked Polly, turning around from her place at the counter where she’d just plunked down two dimes and nickel—bringing her still yet two dimes and a nickel away from the fun-size candy bar she was purchasing.

“Dead in the waves,” he repeated, this time motioning towards the newspaper headline he was gathering his syllables from. The headline belonged to a paper serving a satellite city in the state of Florida that Rudy Giuliani would soon misguidedly come to put all his election eggs in one year later. A satellite city where residents were not only apparently,two centuries behind in choosing popular childrens’ names, but satellite enough to not even warrant a community newspaper, just a small section in the Miami Herald.

But at least the city or asylum (depending on who you speak to) of Hallandale has a beach! That’s all that really matters right? Especially with the O.C. off the air, there has to be somewhere the trials and tribulations of life can play out in a beach setting, even if ratings aren’t involved. But something beside boyfriend/girlfriend jealously issues interspersed with bouts of beach volleyball had taken hold of Hallandale’s shores.

“Drowning due to exhaustion,” said Edwin while holding the paper out in front of him in his left hand and rushing his fingers through his dark curly hair with the other.

Edwin closed his eyes, not to block the blinding sunlight darting through the store’s windows, but to put his own visuals to the cold words he’d just read.

In his mind, the present day light hours quickly evaporated to make way for the night before. Hung in the sky, the moon shown over Hallandale’s shores. For a hundred refugees spilling from a rotting ship built to hold less than half that number, the moon also provided a guiding light for the man who had made the voyage. But his body had given out just as dry land became a possibility.

Weeks at sea had taken there toll. The Haitians hadn’t thought so much about food and immediate safety as they had about the future and what living in America could bring them. Their hopes weren’t so much hinged upon on shop ownership or a reoccurring role on Heroes, just general relief from a level of poverty in which cakes made of dirt is a dietary staple.

What would happen when they arrived was the thought on everyone’s minds, not what would happen at sea.

Many had gone voluntarily overboard when hunger, heat from the unrelenting sun and lack of water had become too much to handle and escape into the sea was the only thing that could provide solace. There were small meals of fish caught while aboard, but that didn’t mean all passengers’ needs were met. Still more souls involuntarily diminished and were laid to rest over the small craft’s bow by mourning family members.

After harrowing weeks of a nightmarish reality that rivaled what they faced back home in Haiti, a fraction of the original voyagers had arrived to the United States via Hallandale’s shores. Would the cover of night allow them to allude authorities and avoid deportation?

Even though Edwin held the outcome in the newsprint in his hand, with his eyes still closed he silently rooted for a successful escape for them. They deserved it, he thought. Just as his mother had when she arrived in Florida from Cuba by way of a deflated raft decades earlier, a journey that culminated in his mother’s triumphant step onto dry land—America now hersto reside in.

Still, Edwin’s mind couldn’t help but linger on a quote from the Mayor of Hallandale that accompanied the article.

“Our government has two immigration policies—one for one race and one for another. They call it the wet-foot, dry-foot. I call it the white-foot, black-foot policy,” Mayor Bob Julian said.

Edwin couldn’t help but agree as he thought about the deceased man who had made it so far and, at the same time, never made it at all. A man washed ashore, water forming tide pools around his limbs, the waves lapping at his body, taunting him with a nation of possibility even in death.

Edwin could only speculate on the man’s postmortem musings, but still he wondered, while at the same time thinking about the ones who had made it into Hallendale alive and were now in route to immigration detention centers before inevitable deportation.

Maybe the man was thankful. Maybe surviving such an ordeal at sea only to be sent back would have been more heartbreaking than dying on the verge of the coast. Now their lifelong hope had been quashed by federal law enforcement. What would they be able to look to now upon their return? Was it good to be dead?

“How is it that a human can be illegal?” Edwin spoke aloud as Polly skipped on ahead of him to make it to gym class on time, having come up with the correct amount of change for her waxy Hershey’s candy.

Edwin quickly swept the change from his pocket and placed it on the counter, forgoing the bag of chips his stomach grumbled for to take the paper instead, and carry the story with him.

Download audio file (deadinthewaves.mp3)

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Photo by Nilina Mason-Campbell