Twenty years ago, he left in his hawk (name assigned to his boat) along with his eight companions, as usual. But this time it would be different, before leaving, with tearful eyes to say goodbye, he promised his mother that this would be his last trip, he was exhausted from life, the years in his body had not gone in vain. Although his heart was saddened by that decision, his whole life had been dedicated to fishing on the high seas, sailing was his greatest passion, his great challenge was the stay in dangerous seas, and his best reward to appreciate the shine and the dazzling smile of his mother to see him get home.
But something happened that even the cold breeze of that night I do not expect, a myriad of questions and a void in my chest left Uncle Jhonny. When the phone rang, a trembling voice said that they did not explain what had happened, but that the sparrowhawk with his crew had disappeared for a couple of weeks at sea, and that until then they had not known anything. Since then no more was heard of him, or his companions, much less the hawk. After many years of failure in the investigations, the authorities gave up the case.
His mother left this land with the question of the whereabouts of his son, he fell asleep eternally hoping to meet with him someday.
This is a real and sad story. My uncle was a man full of joy and above all, of love, capable of expressing it in all possible ways. We still wonder what happened to him in the deep and rough waters of the deep sea.
The photograph took it last month. On a beautiful beach in Venezuela, exactly in my hometown Cumaná, belonging to the Sucre State. I captured precisely that ship that I could observe from a distance because it reminded me of this story.