A Falling Star. Chantel Acevedo

the boatlift—scores of pictures of haggard people, of overfilled boats, of joyful reunions, of young men in handcuffs, lean faces, red-cheeked faces, eyes on one lost in the distance here, another, a young woman with a face so angelic Daysy was instantly reminded of church paintings. Daysy lost ten minutes staring at one picture full of children, searching for herself. A little girl wearing a tank top and short shorts, holding fast to a stuffed dolphin caught Daysy’s eyes. Her nails were chewed up. She had two plaits in her hair with lots of curls springing up around her forehead. She had gold earrings. The girl appeared in many photos, and it was clear she was a darling of the media. Daysy felt a ridiculous surge of jealousy, wished the photographers had found her among the thousands of children and selected her as their icon instead.

      Next, Daysy read the stories and editorials. Surely there would be a story of a missing baby. There were articles about people who had heart attacks on the boats, or while waiting in the Orange Bowl to be processed. There was the story of one man who called himself Colonel and brought nothing with him but a pair of old castanets that he claimed belonged to the queen of Spain. There was the piece on the lady who swore she challenged Fidel Castro to a game of dominoes and won. There was the man who wrapped himself in a huge American flag, went to sleep on a cot, and didn’t wake up ever again. Stories and more stories.

      Daysy scanned only the headlines, her eyes starting to tire. Children from one of the local summer camps began to pour into the library, shouting over the librarian’s shushing. Daysy put her finger on the off switch to the machine, ready to give up the search. Then her eyes caught sight of a headline on the bottom right corner of the page: SCHOONER CAPSIZES, MARIEL INFANT LOST AT SEA, and Daysy scrolled down to read the rest of it.

      Miami— Richard Thoreau, captain of the sunken schooner, Big Virginia, hoped to bring strangers out of Cuba, but not at such a steep price.

      “At least she went down doing good in the world,” the 55-year-old Thoreau said.

      The replica of the 18th-century schooner sank approximately 50 miles off Cuban shores. There were an estimated 250 people on the ship designed to carry far fewer. All but one, an infant, are believed to have survived the catastrophe at sea.

      Coast Guard representatives have voiced concern regarding overloaded boats leaving Mariel harbor since the crisis began. Thoreau’s story corroborates this.

      “We could have safely carried 50 people across the Straits. They [Cuban officials] told us we had to take many, many more.

      “It’s no wonder the ship broke in half,” Thoreau said.

      The passengers aboard the Big Virginia were transferred to a shrimp boat, the El Ron, and a private yacht, the Adalah, while at sea.

      The Thoreaus claim there was one drowning, though they have no official record of the passengers’ names, nor an exact headcount.

      “I spoke with the mother when we were nearing Key West. She said the baby fell into the sea when they crossed over. Her name was Belén. A beautiful name, and a real sad thing,” Savanna Thoreau said from her hotel room in Miami Beach.

      About the parents, Savanna Thoreau added: “A nice-looking couple, with another daughter. But I didn’t get any of their names.”

      So far, none of the refugees have reported the death of an infant.

      The Dade County Coroner’s office has examined 32 Mariel refugee deaths since April 21st, when the first boat of refugees arrived in Key West. That number is expected to grow as reports of more capsizing boats trickle in and efforts to recover the bodies are made.

      On April 11th, President Carter announced that the U.S. would accept up to 3,000 refugees. The number of Cubans having arrived in Key West has already exceeded that number.

      “I suppose it was worth it,” Thoreau said regarding the loss of his ship. “We got a lot of people out of Cuba.”

      A dark feeling, heavy and sudden, overwhelmed Daysy. She was convinced of it now—her parents had been lying all these years. And it was a big lie, not a harmless Santa Claus-is-real sort of a lie, but the kind that shatters like glass, injuring people with its sharp edges.

      Daysy printed the page off the microfilm and folded it clumsily. A pair of campers walked past her, chattering about the books in their hands. Daysy lowered her face to hide her trembling lip. She shut off the machine and left the library.