Time is up!(Henry Vinicio Valerio Madriz) Everyone has been quietly crying. Their eyes have almost dried up. Their tears are saltier than the ocean they have faced for days. This ocean seems to feel them since its waves are angrily seizing the few remaining boats. These island’s children don’t recognize their watery father anymore, it has changed its friendly personality.

“Do you remember?”, an old woman painfully asked.

Silence was the given answer, no will to speak, too sad for vain words in a world that requires actions, good deeds. Nevertheless, all of them remembered, remember, and will remember wonderful and joyful times when life was easy, active, and lovely. All tribe members were rowing memories of the sweetest childhood when traditions for Mother Earth care and love for communal hard work were taught and enjoyed.

“Wiseman (their way to say ‘grandfather’), why did all this happen?”, one of the youngsters bitterly asked the oldest man on that boat (old people are called ‘grandparents’ although individuals have no blood ties).

“Believe me when I say I don’t have any idea why Mambakoort has taken our mother back... Our people have always tried to respect Mother (their island) and Father (the ocean).”

The aboriginals were never warned by radio broadcasts, TV breaking news, or internet websites about the global climate change that has melted the polar ice caps that flooded their peaceful and beautiful home. They never understood why the ocean, which used to be their ally and provider, destroyed their island.

“Wiseman, what will we face?”, the kid asked again with sincere interest for his people’s future.

“We’ll search for a new beginning, a new hope…”, the old man convincingly asseverated.

Everybody smiled and kept rowing… rowing dreams this time.

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