Jacmel, Haiti - August 2016

At sunset, the fishermen pull their net in the way they always have, using short strong movements to save on their arms and shoulders. Sweat runs down their dark, taut bodies as they pull, pull, pull their prey towards the beach.

Half a dozen men on each side of the net and a rowboat coordinating the outer end. As darkness falls passersby join in and men take turns. A woman too. I sit and watch, then walk for a bit, as they pull, pull, pull.

The tiled beach walk is clean and decorated with poems, but the beach itself is littered with discards of the sea, mostly plastic trash. I get a beer from one of the tiny restaurants. The temperature has dropped, but it's still hot. Locals and visitors, mostly Haitians, are strolling along, drinking, eating, talking. The fishermen are pulling.

Suddenly all the streetlights go out in in yet another power outage. Only a couple of generator powered restaurants are still illuminated. The bay bathes in moonlight and two lovers kiss undisturbed, the warm darkness embracing them.

It takes almost two hours to get the net in. The fishermen are struggling with the waves and the rowboat with the current. I sip my beer. A few drops of rain hit the ground, but it stops before it starts.

A crowd gathers as the catch is finally in. I move closer to try to get a look. Shiny silver glitters in the light of cell phones. The fish are small and no more than could fit in a couple of shopping bags. After all that pulling, pulling, pulling it looks to be barely enough to feed the men’s families - not  enough to make any money.

As the crowd disperses I have another beer and listen to the thunder over the mountains. The two lovers still kiss in the dark.

I wake up, drowsy and uncomfortable, looking out the aircraft window.
Dawn is a pink line hugging the north horizon. Flying east, the night
is short.

I squirm in my seat and take in the sky. Pink to orange to blue to
black. Dawn is a line hugging the horizon.

And right above it, those seven stars that make up the only
constellation I can identify: Karlavagnen.

In America it's know as the Big Dipper, a ladle, a spoon for sauce. I
prefer the Swedish Karlavagnen, "The Men's Wagon".

As the aircraft races towards dawn, the Chariot of Masculinity slowly
fades into the light blue sky. My blurry eyes take it all in, my mind
remembering how the heavens have followed me on every journey; the
thin crescent moon in Syria; the Milky Way across the Sahara.

Then, just as I'm about to go back to sleep, a meteor streaks
across the sky. A second and it's gone. Dawn hugs the horizon.

I make a wish.