“The sea has locked them all. The sea is history.”
— Derek Walcott, “The Sea Is History”

The Departure

The sun was rising as we left Port of Spain.
On the way to the airport, I noticed its glow
spreading across the morning sky,
and received it as the first gift of my pilgrimage.

Vincent drove us to Piarco with stories of “doubles’*
I listened to the pleasure he took in telling stories,
and heard in his voice a Caribbean gift
passed from one generation to the next.

At the airport, we made our way
through a maze of check-in, security and immigration.
My companions noticed something another had missed;
together, we found our way through.

I gave thanks for the gifts each of my companions brought,
for the brotherhood growing among us,
for an old friend waiting to greet us in Miami,
and for someone new who treated us to an Italian dinner.

I was eager to see my friend again
and uncertain about meeting my new host.
Both feelings travelled with me,
though I had made no room in my bag for either.

The Crossing

Inside the Miami airport, I waited in cool air,
drank wine and spoke easily with friends.
My name was known; my journey was my choice.
When the flight was called, I walked aboard.

From the Iberian aeroplane, I looked down towards Miami’s coast,
where pale sand met turquoise water.
I could see its beauty from above,
with time to look and no one forbidding me.

I thought of African ancestors brought in chains
across the Atlantic to the Americas.
For many, the first sight of a new shore
announced a life of captive uncertainty.

Some would have stepped from ships, 

their feet bloodied and bruised by the crossing.
I wondered whether they could feel the warm sand,
or whether fear had swallowed even that brief sensation.

During the flight to Madrid, a foul smell
escaped the aeroplane bathroom.
I felt uncomfortable, then remembered
the stench of faeces and urine my ancestors had endured.

My seat would not recline.
The screen in front of me would not work.
Sleep came fitfully, and passing passengers
kept brushing against my shoulder.

I wanted to complain about the long night.
Then I remembered ancestors confined for months
in the holds of slave ships, without room to move,
clean air, or the promise of a safe arrival.

I gave thanks for the freedom to stand,
to walk the aisle and tend to my needs.
Still, I allowed myself to feel my tiredness,
and brought that honesty into prayer.

As we flew, I electronically sent news of our progress
to family and friends across the ocean.
I thought of ancestral families whose loved ones had been stolen,
with no word of where they had gone.

Mothers bawling, fathers in rage, and siblings grieving in silence.

As curious eyes looked out,

beneath cotton-like clouds lay waters that had swallowed many lives
and carried many more into enslavement.
I watched our progress and fell into prayerful silence.

The Landing

In Madrid, my feet touched European soil.
I arrived with a passport bearing my name,
free to say where I was going
and when I hoped to return.

I thanked God for this freedom
and remembered that Europeans had once crossed
the Atlantic to claim African lives and labour.
My journey brought me to their shores by choice.

Then a harder question rose within me:
Though no one has placed chains upon my body,
what fears or inherited wounds still hold my mind,
and how might God lead me towards greater freedom?

I have crossed the Atlantic in reverse,
from the Caribbean towards Europe,
on my way to Porto and the Camino.
I crossed freely; my ancestors did not.

May I carry gratitude for my Ancestors’ courage
without turning away from their suffering.
May I honour the freedom they passed to me,
by learning to live it more fully.

The Interior Movements

I sensed God’s presence in my companions’ care
and even in the discomfort of the flight.
I noticed myself withdrawing within
when irritability, impatience, and intolerance 

became my internal travelling companions. 

I heard a complaint beginning to form within me.
I felt the urge to retreat into myself.
Before I had set foot on the Camino,
the journey was already revealing my heart.

Lord, help me make time each day to stop
and “take a long, loving look at the real”:
the beauty, the irritation, the kindness, the ugliness of history,
and the movements I would rather overlook, 

whether prompted by companions or not.

Keep me faithful to those travelling alongside me.
Help me receive the gifts each person brings.
When I grow tired or impatient,
teach me to remain present to them.