Yemaya is the African/Caribbean Goddess of the sea. Many of her devotees portray her as a mermaid. It is said "The Great Mother," as Yemaya is sometimes called, was present during the Middle Passage, offering solace to those who would have it. The spirit of this deity spanned the Atlantic Ocean to embrace survivors of the largest forced immigration in history. They were the hapless African hostages who endured a hellish journey to stand at last in bondage on the Eastern Shore of North America.

Coney Island had never been on my list of places to visit. In the past I had refused numerous chances to visit that legendary amusement park by declaring the whole scene pointless ¨ after all, I hadn�t lost anything there. My lack of interest was based on the personal accounts of friends who thought it perfectly normal to arrive at the beach early enough to "get a seat." They spoke as though visiting the seaside was some kind of spectator sport flanked by carnival rides and a boardwalk replete with opportunities for meat on a stick. I imagined the beach there an overcrowded stadium of sand where trash was scattered like shells and seaweed. And so, for years I dismissed that place as a grotesque orgy of Americana and bad taste, certain the experience would only offend my delicate Pacific Northwest sensibilities.

The fact that I was eventually lured to Coney Island surprised me. What I found there was something I had longed for my entire life. I met Imani during my first year at a small liberal arts college in the Midwest. We connected again after college in New York City. Her name, she told me, was the Swahili word for faith. She was a large, glowing woman with an easy smile and a mildly acidic wit. We became fast friends. Imani was blessed with a sharp legal mind and she practiced the deadly art of persuasion with dazzling virtuosity. Despite my own flair for debate and high regard for reasonable behavior, I invariably succumbed in the end to Imani's often-outrageous suggestions.

Only Imani could have convinced me via telephone all those years ago, that there was nothing to prevent me, a penniless single mother, from packing up my things and toting my child back to live in New York. I had to admit the notion of leaving the seemingly endless rain of Portland, Oregon was inspiring. Furthermore, a break from the crushing cultural homogeneity of my home town - where I was mistaken with chilling regularity for whichever brown-skinned celebrity was wearing her hair like mine at the time - was thrilling beyond words. I needed to leave. Within three weeks of that lengthy long-distance conversation - a warm exchange laced with quotes from the Sufi poet Rumi - I sold everything, and anxious to determine whether a permanent move would work for both of us, I temporarily left my young daughter with a trusted friend and boarded a plane heading east.

The time I had allotted myself passed quickly. I managed to secure a modest job and an even more modest basement apartment on a quiet street in Brooklyn. Despite these tenuous triumphs however, the search for what I deemed an amenable school environment for my daughter proved unfruitful. After several weeks of searching I resigned myself to the fact that it was time to go home, at least for a while.

A few days shy of my return to Oregon, I accepted Imani's invitation to join her at Coney Island, though not for the traditional activities. In truth, a chance to take part in a ceremony honoring the Ancestors the next morning proved too compelling to pass up. My friend instructed me to wear white and to prepare an offering of fruit or flowers which would be presented at dusk. I purchased my modest offering of flowers from the corner market. Secretly I hoped my pitiful attempt at flower arranging would not offend the Dearly Departed.

I have never been fond of early morning engagements, but for the Ancestors I rose well ahead of the sun. Eventually I managed to piece together the requisite white ensemble from the odds and ends of my fashionably black wardrobe. At seven AM I raced to the D train and began the journey south. I emerged from the subway some ninety minutes later. The boardwalk was quiet and empty. The wind filled my nostrils with the welcome smell of the Atlantic Ocean. Overhead three seagulls circled lazily, eyeing a discarded morsel of what looked suspiciously like meat on a stick.

As promised, Imani was waiting. She sat cross-legged on a weathered bench, shielding her eyes from the sun with her left hand as she gazed out to sea. We greeted each other sleepily and made our way down the stairs and across the beach to where a large crowd was gathering. Soon we stood barefoot among daughters and sons of the Black Diaspora, sharing a few moments of silent grief, respect, and solidarity. The beach became a forum where the principles of a healthy community were endorsed by everyone from the elders to the smallest children - among these principles: unwavering commitment to family, an active concern for the young, political awareness, activism when necessary, and self-respect. All were entreated to reflect upon these things throughout the day and to apply them to our lives upon returning home. The drumming began. And then the dancing.

In the sand, where wet met dry, a man added final touches to the last of several sculptures. It was a convincing portrait of a mermaid. Yemaya.

The day passed quickly, and as the sun began to slip from the sky we made our way to the edge of the water to share one more moment of quiet reflection before wading toward the horizon to offer our gifts. Above us a seagull cried. I imagined the bones and chains of millions scattered on the floor of the Atlantic. I conjured the image of hundreds of sons and daughters just like us standing barefoot at the edge of the ocean in shackles ¨ gazing, perhaps, toward home. I released my bunch of flowers to the shallow waves and chose to find comfort in the day's proceedings. An exquisite sadness filled my heart, but for once I was not lonely: I was a daughter among daughters, an heiress to a rich and terrible legacy.

By and by the white-clad crowd dispersed. The drummers remained. Somehow I lost Imani, but knew I'd find her again. Maybe tomorrow. I recalled that in a little more than seventy-two hours it would be time for me to return to Portland, and to the rain, and happily, home to my daughter. I watched the fruit and the flowers as they slowly floated away. Eyes fixed on the horizon, I allowed the rhythm of the drums to accompany my careful, backward steps across the sand, toward the west and the boardwalk, where the carnival was now well under way.