I raced back from our house in Puerto Rico, going back to where my father slipped off the cliff. My brother, Miguel, was with me. Getting to the edge of the cliff, I cried out to my father that I was coming.
Papi, I screamed, wanting to hear a response.
There was none. There was no more flailing, no more swimming. The face of the deep was stilled, and a small mass was being carried out to sea. Three fins encircled the carcass, keeping secure their lot, their livelihood, as if saying, we need to eat too.
Photo Credit: Scott Symes