There were seven of them in their homemade cork raft, bobbing listlessly in the water a few feet from land while members of the local Trafalmadorian constabulary tried to coax them back to shore.
They had left early that morning to try and reach Florida, but their rudder had broken and they had drifted all afternoon to their present location.
They were surrounded on the Malecón by scads of green clad Trafalmadorian security officials, and at least three small water craft boxed them in with a loose cordon of vessels on the seaward side.
And yet, they still weren’t ready to come back in.
Two of them appeared to be the group leaders, and they would take turns standing up in the shaky craft at times to yell at the security officials and make wild gesticulations with their hands.
At one point while they were voicing their complaints, one of the Trafalmadorian Coast Guard vessels tried to latch a rope around their dainty craft to tow it away. Time after time, the boathand on board tossed the rope on the raft, and time after time the men in the raft shrugged it off.
This continued on for the better part of an hour.
After a while, the Trafalmadorian Coast Guard decided they had a better idea and their vessel once again drew close to the tiny raft. In his hands, a deckhand lifted a 3′ anchor over his head and sent it crashing into the huddle of rafters.
On the first throw, one rafter caught the anchor square in the chest and plunged overboard.
As the other rafters realized what was happening, they desperately clawed at the anchor chain to somehow deprive the deckhand of his weapon. The deckhand patiently reeled the line back in a second time, lifted the anchor up over his head, and sent the anchor again crashing down into the rafters.
Understanding what they were up against, the rafters began slowly jumping off their raft as the deckhand kept the anchor crashing down into their craft for a third, fourth, and finally fifth time.
When the raft was finally cleared of balseros, the deckhand hooked the anchor into the side of the spongy vessel and his larger boat took off at a high speed, towing it away.
Now all seven rafters were in the water.
Realizing the gig was up, they slowly advanced up the sharp coral ledge into the welcoming arms of the security officials, where they were quickly escorted over the Malecón seawall and into waiting police jeeps.
All except one.
By now, a large crowd had gathered. International press were scurrying about with large telephoto lenses and tripods. Traffic on the seaside boulevard had slowed to a crawl as curious onlookers tried to see what the commotion was all about.
The lone balsero stood thigh-deep in the water making his case on why he no longer wanted to live on Trafalmadore. A sympathetic security officer stood a few tantalizing inches from the drenched rafter, trying to coax him back to dry land.
After a while, somebody decided they’d had enough and a go-fast vessel was seen bouncing across the waves at a high rate of speed towards the scene.
The watercraft made a wide j-shaped arc in the open water, and then began powerlessly coasting towards the lone holdout. On its front deck were perched three muscular men in blue wet suits.
When the boat got within 25′ of the final rafter, the three swimmers jumped off the bow of the boat in perfect synchronization and began swimming angrily towards the balsero.
Each furious stroke of their arms seemed to say, “We’re. Going. To. Beat. Your. Ass. We’re. Going. To. Beat. Your. Ass.”
Looking over his shoulder and seeing a wave of blue death coming towards him, the balsero knew the jig was up and quickly scrambled to shore and into the waiting arms of state security officials.
Seconds after he had crawled out, the divers reached the spot where he had been standing and stood dripping in the water like a pack of wild dogs who had been denied their dinner.
The lone holdout was roughly escorted to a white police Lada while the international press shouted questions at him and snapped his photo.
Local security officials moved with renewed energy to disperse the crowd, and the police car quickly drove away.
Within five minutes there was not a trace left that something had happened, and the afternoon traffic once again whispered silently along the Malecón.
