Fishermen, Footballers, and Faith

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
— The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Every morning, artisanal fishing canoes depart from the slums of West Point and cut across my view of the Atlantic Ocean a couple of miles from the shores of Monrovia.  The boats slice through the water, parallel to the coast, and the fishermen — usually 3 or 4 in the stern of the boat — row together in time to push their vessel through the chaos of waves and against the unforgiving current, always with the ocean winds cutting across their bow.  

For centuries, the West African fishermen have made this daily trek, returning at the end of the day with their haul.  I have watched them for at least a few minutes every day since my arrival to Liberia, wondering about the individual fishermen and their stories.  Then recently, Andrew pointed out something that  — for whatever reason — I had not previously considered.  We were standing on the balcony that morning, watching the boats go out.  He turned to me and said, “You know, most of those guys don’t know how to swim.”