The Boat
Metres away from shore, within touching distance of safety, comes the most dangerous part of the refugees’ journey.
By Amber Spijkers and Tossa Harding
It is dark outside. It’s almost 10pm and we are driving on an unpaved road that separates the Greek island of Lesbos from the sea. Among volunteers the road is known as ‘The Dirt Road’. It is along this 14 km stretch of shore that the boats arrive.
Our van is stuffed with boxes full of donated winter clothes. We are on our way to Skala to drop them off. It’s a makeshift camp on the beach managed by volunteers where refugees can get some much-needed rest, dry clothes, food and water after they arrive.
It is quiet on the road, but the tranquility is misleading. Headlights appear from around the corner, approaching fast, and several cars pass us in the opposite direction. No-one cares about speed limits when the boats arrive. My body immediately prepares for action; I can feel the adrenaline starting to spread through my veins. From the passenger seat I scan the sea for boats. We stop the car.
An older Greek couple is standing next to the road; they point at the sea. Although it is still quite far away I can just about make out the shimmering light of an incoming boat. We are used to The Dirt Road being packed with volunteers when a boat arrives, but this time it’s quiet. Aside from the Greek couple, only an Argentinian and a Spaniard are present. The Spaniard is part of a team of lifeguards that among volunteers is, jokingly but respectfully, known as the Baywatch Team. Over the last few months they have saved hundreds of lives in the Aegean Sea.
While rubber dinghies are designed to carry a maximum of 12 people, we expect this one to be carrying around 50. We know that smugglers try their best to fit as many people as possible onto the boats. We park our van so that the headlights are pointing towards the sea. By turning the headlights on and off we hope to give the people on the boat, who must be extremely frightened, a sense of recognition and safety.
We see you. We are here to help you.
We watch silently. The distance between the dinghy and the shore is still over 70 metres, but the screaming still penetrates my ears. I can hear men shout, women scream and children cry. Even now, three weeks later, I can still hear it. After a while we realise that the boat isn’t moving forward anymore; the motor has failed under the enormous weight of its cargo.
Without hesitation the Spanish lifeguard jumps into the water and swims towards the dinghy. He is unable to restart the motor and decides to try and pull the dinghy towards to coast. The dinghy moves closer slowly but surely.
Still around 20 meters to go, the screaming is getting louder. I squint my eyes in an effort to discern the black dinghy from the almost equally black mass of sea and sky. I can’t make it out anymore, but then quickly realise that the dinghy simply isn’t there anymore.
The boat is sinking and the mass of tangled bodies seems to rise straight from the sea. For a second I image myself on that boat. Enclosed by darkness, packed so closely together that you are unable to move, helplessly feeling the water rise to your knees. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I return to reality.
10 meters now. The Spaniard is struggling with the boat, which, unmanageable, is starting to align itself with the waves. The dinghy is now swaying up and down dangerously as the waves are getting higher closer to the shore. I want to get in to help, but the boat is still too far away. Timing is everything.
We are watching silently, ready to go. There is no need to talk, we look at each other and the decision is made; we start to make for the water. The water is cold but my brain doesn’t register it anymore. I wade through the waves, trying to find stability on the slippery rocks beneath my feet. As we reach the boat we grab its nose in an effort to point it towards the shore again, and keep it from tipping over. The boat is too heavy.
We try to make ourselves heard above the panicked screaming, repeating one of the few Arabic words every volunteer knows, “Slowly, slowly!” hoping to calm them down. We are standing next to the boat now but the screaming continues; pure panic is written all over their faces, arms desperately reach out to us.
This is an image I will never forget. Two women are close to me, they can’t be much older than I am. I try to look them in the eyes and put my hand on their arms while I calmly and firmly repeat the words again: “Shwai, shwai”. The screaming doesn’t stop. Panic overtakes the realisation that they have made it.
The youngest passengers are taken off the boat first; children, toddlers, and week-old babies are pressed in my arms while I try to keep my balance. By now more volunteers have gathered on the shore, ready to take the children from us so we can turn back and help the women and elderly.
But then chaos breaks out. Panic overtakes caution and everyone starts trying to get out at once. My voice fails to sound calm and firm as I desperately urge them to calm down. People get pushed into the water and trampled on in the collective frenzy to reach dry land.
From the corner of my eye I see an elderly woman go under, with the boat dangerously close. Two of us drag her up, each supporting an arm, and manage to get her to the shore stumbling and slipping. Apart from the shock and cold, she is fine. I misplace my feet on the rocks and land in the water. The leg fracture from a few months ago groans alarmingly under the sudden weight of the misstep, pain rushes through my leg. But there is no time to linger. These people need you. So you get up and continue.
After 10 minutes that felt like an hour, everyone is safely on shore. Only some handbags and personal items remain floating around in the half sunken dinghy. The panicked screaming persists as people search for their loved ones. Families have been separated by the chaos but are reunited now on the shore. Women have fallen to their knees, children cry, exhausted. But we can’t let them stay here for too long, they are wet and risk hypothermia. We have to get them moving.
With our headlights, we lead the ones we haven’t lost to the sea onto The Dirt Road. A young woman seems to be having a panic attack and is having trouble breathing, a young child lies alarmingly still in the arms of his father. Together with the smallest children and pregnant woman, we take them to the van to bring them to Skala. One of the volunteer doctors there will know what to do. Luckily Skala is close.
The rest have to walk. I walk with them. Panic has now made way for relief and gratitude. I feel it too. Everyone is safe. Smartphones are taken out of airtight plastic bags to call loved ones and family left behind. Their happiness is contagious.
They have no idea about the long and hard road that still lies ahead of them. For now, they are full of hope and faith. Feelings that will make way for frustration and desperation all to soon, I know. But for now, they will have soup, tea and some comfort.
