Chugging and coughing, the engine of the launch would settle into a hypnotic hum, as we journeyed up the meandering mirrors of the Mahaica River to my grandmother’s farm.
Above the moody waters that brooded inscrutably black in unsettling stretches, the frothing wake wavered in a white lacy trail behind the communal craft, while we breathed in the warm country air rich with manure and mud, trying to stifle the threatening nausea from the rising gasoline stench.
With our brothers and father perched, like most male passengers, on the smooth roof, I would sit with my younger sister on the hard-wooden painted benches that lined the interior of the covered boat, running our hands in the cold, clear creek water, and wetting our cheeks, as our smiling mother looked on amused.
