Playita de Cajobabo: and to the chest, your portrait

It was a night of frights. A night of suicides. It was raining and the gusts of wind made the boat wave at its whim. The moon was showing red in the middle of the clouds. Overshadowed, Máximo Gómez was carrying the rudder and trying to drive as he could. For a moment he looked at it. It was on the side of the bow. «It was very bad rowing, desperate» he said. He then recalled: «The darkness is deep and the squabble is hard. We have lost our way a…