Unwanted: The Voyage of the St. Louis
You go out on the boat with three others, each of you somber in your task.
You are usually a jovial crew, but the nature of your mission weighs on your consciences. At least, you hope that the others are feeling the same. As your boat approaches the St. Louis, you wonder if the passengers can see you. If they are memorizing your face, to come back and haunt you for your part in condemning them. You feel sick. You say nothing.
The waves spray up between you and the ship and you are grateful for the disguise they provide. You don't want to be seen.
When you come home, you don't tell your wife what you did that day. You wouldn't be able to endure it if it made her love you any less.
You are usually a jovial crew, but the nature of your mission weighs on your consciences. At least, you hope that the others are feeling the same. As your boat approaches the St. Louis, you wonder if the passengers can see you. If they are memorizing your face, to come back and haunt you for your part in condemning them. You feel sick. You say nothing.
The waves spray up between you and the ship and you are grateful for the disguise they provide. You don't want to be seen.
When you come home, you don't tell your wife what you did that day. You wouldn't be able to endure it if it made her love you any less.