Anytime one of the four of us leaned sideways, you could feel it tip, your body kiltering toward the place where on land you would've fallen, the thing 13 meters long and five feet wide. I tried to imagine fifty others crowded aboard, then fifty more if the pirogue were slightly larger, some with every important thing in a single bag, others with just their souls clutched to their chests, which is to say their children. Masser says in the beginning it was just boys, teenagers stealing a boat at night and heading for the open sea, Spain's Canary Islands a thousand miles away, or maybe to Libya and then onto Italy. And still they go, he says, though 4 out of 5 die-- death by water, death by hunger, death by lack of water, death by lack of a compass, death by a hundred desperate people at a time crammed on hoping for better lives. On the radio, the most popular entertainer in Senegal sings, "Last night in my dreams, all over the world: food for all. Ça, c'est necessaire," he concludes. In the pirogue on the relatively glassy waters of the Sine-Saloum delta, I lean east, and those with me lean east. I lean west, and we all lean west towards the setting sun whether we want to or not.