Yao Bai was dreaming of whales when a gentle hand woke him. “Time to get up!” his mother whispered.
“Today you sail to the island!”
It was only a few hours after midnight, the night air chilling him even in their little hut. But soon, rubbing his hands for warmth, Yao had slipped on his worn shirt and trousers, finished his rice porridge, and was hurrying to the beach. There his father and uncle, working by moonlight and lantern, were already preparing the boat.
After suffering years of famine and war, Yao’s family had left China and crossed the ocean to Gum Saan, or Gold Mountain, the Chinese name for America. Now they lived with a few other fishing families in small houses tucked beneath a headland on San Francisco Bay, steps from the pebbly beach where their boats rested at night.
As Yao approached his family’s boat, the little boy from next door ran up. “Going shrimping, Yao?”
“You’re up early, Kwon!” Yao said. “But no,
