© 2006 Company Name
...I picked up the Winchester, chambered a shell, and slowly walked through the house to the front door. The banging continued. Taking a deep breath, and with the stock of the gun at my shoulder, I reached for the door knob and gradually opened the door. There under the porch light stood a small black man, peering not at me but at the gun I was holding. “What do you want?” I asked in a stern voice.
“Mammy, we got trouble.” He trembled. “We got plenty trouble,” he repeated, never taking his eyes off my Winchester. This was no employee of ours. This was a Haitian. I could catch the thick Creole accent. In his broken English he told me he was sailing from Haiti to America and the rudder on his boat had broken.
“Is dis Miami?” he asked. I shook my head.
“How big your boat?” I asked, imitating his broken English.
“Mammy, we got trouble.” He trembled. “We got plenty trouble,” he repeated, never taking his eyes off my Winchester. This was no employee of ours. This was a Haitian. I could catch the thick Creole accent. In his broken English he told me he was sailing from Haiti to America and the rudder on his boat had broken.
“Is dis Miami?” he asked. I shook my head.
“How big your boat?” I asked, imitating his broken English.
“Thirty-one,” he replied.
So, it was a small vessel. I quizzed him further. “How many people on boat?”
Raising his head to look directly into my face, he answered, “One hun’red one.” He pointed in the direction of the west beach. “Plenty trouble now.”
