It
all started when the phone rang. I was taking a little siesta... stretched
out in my hammock, while the trade winds cooled the balcony of my hillside home
on the island of Puerto Rico. The
land fell away to the coastline nearly one thousand feet below, where the
shallow coastal waters radiated turquoise green and patches of drifting
tropical cumulus clouds cast darker shadows of cobalt blue indiscriminately
across the Vieques Sound. The hills
were covered with native trees and vegetation... pink flowering Robles, flaming
red, orange and tangerine Flamboyant, African Tulip, Mimosas, guavas, bamboos,
tree ferns, and hundreds more that made up what the locals called selva, or
jungle. The sounds from an old Dave
Brubeck album played softly mingling with the afternoon sea breeze. I opened my eyes and said out loud,
"Shit... it never fails... damn phone always seems to know when I'm trying
to catch a snooze." I reached out
and picked up the portable, then spoke into the mouthpiece, "Yo... Casa
Martin."
"Hey Scott, its
Randy."
The voice on the other end
was one from my past, and as soon as I heard the soft, laid-back delivery, I
recognized it immediately. I drew a
breath... it had been a couple of years since I had last heard from my old
friend and ex-partner.
"Randy... You still
terrorizing the natives up there in Fort Liquordale?" I knew that Randy had turned his life
around after doing a year's stretch in a federal country club for running high
grade Jamaican ganja... Blue Mountain
crude, some of the best marijuana in the Western Hemisphere. Randy had lost everything, his yacht,
his car and his job... and a Miami
lawyer got the last of the cash he had stashed. Randy had been a yacht broker for years
in south Florida, and after doing his time, he had called in a few cards and
had gone back to work. He sold yachts,
kept his nose to the grindstone, paid his dues, and had made a success of
himself. He now lived aboard his
fifty-six foot custom built French ketch, Lullaby, docked at Bahia Mar, the old
haunt of J.D.McDonald’s', Travis McGee, aboard
his beloved Busted Flush.
"I'm sailing my boat to
Cuba, 'ya wanna go?" I could hear
the hint of excitement in Randy's voice....
How typical, I thought, a couple of years goes by and it’s like we just
had a beer together yesterday.
I hung up the phone, and
looked out over the view of Vieques Sound with its variegated blue-green hues,
the small offshore islands and cays with their stretches of sandy beaches, and
dark green vegetation of scrub trees and bushes. So, I thought... Randolph Parker was sailing to Cuba from
Florida and was looking for a crew. I
had heard that private yachts were beginning to sail the cays and coastline of
Cuba more and more, and recently American cruising boats were also ignoring the
thirty odd years' embargo that the United States Government had imposed on
Fidel Castro's Communist Government.
Interesting... the last time I had been in Cuba, I had been just eighteen...
now the little restaurant and the conversation with Javier, the Cuban boy of so
many years ago came to mind... what was it he had said... something like we would always remain friends
in our minds?
My name is Scott Martin. I'm an old ex-military man who did the
whole enchilada... twenty years in Uncle Sam's big canoe club. I spent a couple of tours in Vietnam,
pounded around the world and poked my face into some real shit holes in a lot
of third world poor excuses for civilized countries. After the service, I just couldn't hack the
white or blue collar bullshit that was coming my way, so with the end of a
marriage gone bad and no ambitions to fill up a bank account, I packed my bags,
bought some rice and beans, then got my small sailboat underway and never
looked back or shed a tear.
What the hell, I thought;
eyeing the small refrigerator I kept stocked with Beck's or St. Pauli
Girl. Popping the cap, I took a long
pull on the slightly bitter brew, remembering the first time I met Randy.... It was in the Miami City Marina, about fifteen years ago. I had sailed up from the Caribbean with my
eighteen years old daughter. She had
been touring Europe that summer, having graduated National Honor Society from
high school, and I had sent her a ticket to fly into Puerto Rico, upon her
return to the states via Washington, DC.
We had sailed around the US and British Virgins for a month and then
made the run up to Florida stopping in the Dominican Republic, Haiti and the
Bahamas.
Randy was medium built and
slightly stocky. He wore his brown,
sun streaked hair combed straight back.
His face was strong looking with a pronounced ridge of bone over his
dark brown eyes. He had been loud,
obnoxious and pompous, but for some reason that I could not even recall, I had
liked him.... I had chalked it all up
in one description... the young man was just full of himself. Later I would remember my daughter had said,
"That guy was a pain in my ass."
Well, we had drank a few beers together on Randy's sailboat and met the
teenage girlfriend that Randy claimed was his mule, running coke up to Chicago
in order to support his lifestyle. The
next day Randy had given me a ride to the International Airport where I had
picked up my own girlfriend and rented a car to drive my daughter up the state
where she would be staying with her mother.
A week later when Barbara and I had set sail for Key West, I had
promptly forgotten Randy Parker. I
drank from my beer again, considering the idea of sailing to Cuba.... I had told Randy I would like to go but
needed to think about taking off a month or more away from my life and
businesses. I was what you might say
semi-retired. I was in fact retired from
the US Navy, just over twenty years now... Christ I thought, where did all
those years go? After retiring from
the service, I had taken off on my little sloop Gypsy for the next fifteen
years... traveling and working jobs here and there, finally figuring out how to
work for myself when it was necessary.
I had some vocational training along the way too, courtesy of the GI
Bill.
It really was an opportunity
of a lifetime... well; I would talk it over with Barbara. In many ways, Barbara was even more of a
free spirit than I was, and I was certain she would probably encourage me to
make the trip. My life with Barbara was
good... we both had our own lives and of course the life we shared together,
and she knew and realized that I was still chasing dreams and adventures yet to
be fulfilled or even understood. So...
if Barbara gave me a thumb up on the trip, I would begin to arrange my life in
order to take five weeks off. Then I
would fly up to Fort Lauderdale to meet up with Randy and the other guy he said
wanted to go along.
There had been one false
start after I had flown up early to Jacksonville, Florida aboard a Navy patrol
aircraft to visit an old Navy buddy, a retired Warrant Officer I had known for
over twenty years. Ed, the old Warrant
wasn't getting any younger. Shit, who was,
I reflected.... I usually tried to see
Ed and his wife once a year. Ed could
be an exasperating old fart sometimes, but he was a dear and loyal friend,
having stuck by me in some pretty hairy situations. I had spent four days bullshitting the same
old war stories and getting caught up with my old pal's life. Then I got a call from Randy saying he had
a binder on a megabuck boat and was sailing up to Tarpon Springs for a haul-out
and survey.
The commission on the sale
was about fifteen G's and Randy had no choice but to put off the departure date
for the trip to Cuba. I said, "no
sweat," then told him I would rent a car, drive down and pick him up... we
could drive back to Lauderdale, and I could catch a flight back to Puerto Rico
for the week or so it would take to close the deal.
"Hey, buddy," said
Randy. "Thanks for
understanding."
I always took pleasure in
renting a new car with all the latest conveniences and a good sound
system. I could settle in, buckle up,
and select a good jazz station if available, hit the road, and drive. It gave me time to think and reflect. Randy was in many ways the same old wild
man from years past, but age, and some brushes with the law had slowed him
some. Christ, I thought, remembering
that sail from the Bahamas to the Virgin Islands back in eighty-one. What a fucking trip. Barbara and I had wintered in Key West and
had decided to return to the Caribbean, sailing through the Bahamas. The start had been normal, day sailing up
the Florida Keys and dropping the hook every night. Barbara would cook a nice dinner and then
we would crawl into the forward berth and sleep close to one another.
Crossing the Great Bahama
Bank, Gypsy's diesel lost a fuel pump, so we had sailed into Chub Cay, Berry
Islands. The marina at Chub was
inclined toward large fishing charter boats equipped with high-powered engines
and there was no help in replacing or repairing the tiny pump I needed. Well, it was less than forty miles across
the Northeast Providence Channel to Nassau.
I got Gypsy underway at first light with a fresh easterly wind up. We would be tacking across the winds but
should easily make the anchorage off the old Sheraton Colonial Hotel by late
afternoon. Yeah...right... best laid plans of mice and men.
It had been a perfect
sail. Bright blue sky, puffy white fair
weather cumulus clouds drifting along overhead and a fifteen pound Dorado had
taken the trailing bait. Then, with
the ship channel in sight, the wind laid back to a dead calm... and so it
remained for the next four days.
Each afternoon, the winds would tease Gypsy's sails just enough to
almost make the channel leading to the anchorage in Nassau, but then the wind
would abruptly quit like someone threw a switch, and Gypsy would drift on the
current back across the New Providence Channel. Morning would find us nearly off Chub Cay
once again.
It was morning and Gypsy lay
passive on a glassy calm sea. Dorado
with their blue-green-orange coats played around the hull. Chub and Whale Cays hung on the misty gray
horizon five or so miles to the Northwest.
I had the anchor ready in the event Gypsy continued to drift toward the
rocky shore. As I stared at the distant
cays, I saw a sailboat motor out from the north side of Whale Cay. I knew from the chart there was an
anchorage behind the low lying cay. I
watched the small yacht with her sails furled on her main boom and fore-deck
continue out on a southeasterly course.
Although it was totally calm, I had left the main sail on Gypsy up the
mast in the event even the slightest breeze materialized. I had also left the VHF radio on channel
16, the open hailing channel. Although
I had no intention of hailing the yacht which was now running several hundred
yards off Gypsy's stern, I covertly hoped they might call and perhaps offer
some assistance, such as a tow. Just as
these thoughts were crossing my mind, the VHF came alive.... "Blue hull sailboat, this is the yacht
Cisco Kid, over."
Barbara looked up from the
book she was reading and said, slightly authoritatively, "You are going to
answer that, aren't you?"
I smiled as I reached for the
mike. "This is the sailing
vessel Gypsy, come back Cisco Kid."
"Don't look like you're
doing much sailing over there... got a problem?"
"You might say that...
fuel pump's shot and we been drifting out here for almost four days... ain't life fun, over," I joked.
"Hey, I know
you.... Weren’t you in Miami Marina a
couple of years ago? You tied up across
from me with your daughter.... I had a
boat called Bluebird, remember? I'm
Randy, over."
"Randy! Hell yes!
I remember," I shouted excitedly into the mike, ‘Christ, get your
ass over here and give me a tow.... I'll
owe you forever!"
Randy had brought his
sailboat around and came alongside Gypsy.
I passed over a hundred feet of three-quarter inch line which I had
attached to a bridle secured to the port and starboard bow cleats. Cisco kid was a Sparkman and Steven's
design. She was thirty-eight footer,
sloop rigged, with a full keel and a centerboard for blue water passages. She also had a new twenty-two HP Yanmar
diesel engine that was swinging an eighteen inch bronze prop that could push
Cisco Kid easily to hull speed. In
those calm waters, she hardly knew Gypsy was hanging off her stern. Five hours later, Randy cast off the tow
line as he called out; "Good luck”, then I anchored Gypsy off the Sheraton
Colonial Hotel, Nassau harbor. Cisco
Kid motored off to the anchorage closer to the east side of the town,
"that's where the best waterfront bars are”, Randy had said. It would be several weeks before we would
once again cross paths.
Barbara and I had fixed the engine problem the
next day by replacing the pump and buying a spare for insurance, then we headed
out to the Exuma Islands... a chain of low laying cays and small islands with
sugar white sand beaches united with pristine blue, green, and crystal clear
waters on the shallow western shores and magnificent rocky coasts on the
eastern side that faced Eleuthera Sound and the Atlantic Ocean. There was a scattering of little
settlements and clubs that catered to 'yachties'... places were the beer was
cold and the company friendly. We had
been several weeks drifting down the islands when we finally put into Staniel
Cay. Dropping anchor off the small
town, we could see the community that was mostly little frame and clapboard
houses and stores painted out in blue, pink, green and yellow pastels, framed
with palms, casuarinas and buttonwood.
There were four or five other sailboats at anchor in the tiny harbor,
and I told Barbara that Cisco Kid was anchored there as well. I was surprised because Randy's crew was a
charter that had gotten off in Nassau, except for an old friend named Nickels,
who was in his early sixties. I had
only met Nickels in passing and I had thought they were going back to Florida.
I was having a little
deja-vu, remembering the last time I had passed through Staniel Cay. I wondered if I would know anyone at the
Staniel Cay Yacht Club or the Happy People Marina.
It was Beck's time. Barbara and I climbed into the little wood
rowing pram and set out for the dock at Staniel Cay Yacht Club. The sun was already well past the yardarm
and a small crowd had already gathered at the bar. The club was a hexagon wood building that
had a bar on one side of the room, tables and chairs, a small bandstand, and a
kitchen. The only reason it was
called a Yacht Club was that most of its customers were off yachts and other
private boats sailing the Bahamian waters.
You could get water at ten cents per gallon, but if you wanted fuel, you
had to go to Happy People Marina at the opposite end of the town, which also
had a small restaurant and bar.
The late afternoon sea breeze
cooled the island like a fan in a room.
The breeze was soft and carried the smell of pine and coconut trees
mingled with the fragrance of flowering shrubs planted around the small houses
of the settlement. The bright yellow sun of the day was
beginning to turn orange as it settled into the western sky laced with ribbons
of purple clouds set against a robin egg blue sky on the distant horizon.
As soon as Barbara and I
stepped inside the screened clubhouse, we saw Randy at the bar laughing,
gesturing and in general, holding court.
He also saw us and called out, "Hey... over here, come and join
us”, and as we walked up he said, "Let me buy you a drink”. I could see that my friend, whom I really
barely knew, was on a roll.
"No... This round is on
me. It's the least I can do for the
tow you gave me." Then I asked,
“Why didn't you come back out to the boat while we were still in Nassau?"
Randy ignored the question
and re-introduced Nickels to us; he also introduced a young woman in her late
twenties named Debbie. Randy had met
Debbie in Nassau and found out she was cooling her heels waiting on her old
man, who was doing six months in Foxhill, the worst prison in Nassau. He had been caught with enough ganja to get
an 'intent to distribute' sentence.
The Bahamian judge must have just gotten laid and was feeling
benevolent, 'cause he could have thrown away the key on the boy had he so
desired. Randy was in
seventh heaven with the chick hanging on to him, even though he was paying for
the privilege.... I figured that the
girl had to live somehow and the alternative was to go home, which she
obviously didn't want to do. Besides,
who was to judge? People got to follow their own paths.
We hung around Staniel for a
few more days then decided to drift on down to Georgetown, Great Exuma
Island. I was pretty relaxed in these
waters as I had been through most of the chain when I had come through back in
'78.
We were at anchor off the
Peace and Plenty Hotel in Georgetown when Randy and Debbie caught up with
us. Nickels had got off and flew back
home to Florida. We all sailed out as
partners for the run to Acklins Bight and then to Matthew's Town, Great Inagua
where Debbie was planning on flying back to Nassau.
We had fun in Matthew's Town,
partying at the Hide-a-way Bar. It
definitely brought back memories for me.
The town constable Roland had long been transferred and the new man was
not as gregarious. There was a sense
of change too that I felt. Drugs had
arrived. They were coming up from
Jamaica and Matthew's Town had become a drop point where a small sailboat could
off load five to ten bales of marijuana depending on the carrying capacity of
the boat. Then it was flown out of the
islands small airfield to points north.
There was now two separate factions on the island that was in
competition for the drugs. It was
almost as if there was an invisible line drawn down the middle of the
town. On one side was the Spot, the
bar and restaurant that served as the headquarters for one group and of course
the Hide-a-way now was the hangout of the other group. Since the Hide-a-way was
closest to the tiny harbor that Morton Salt Company had built to off load salt
from their salt pond operation, it was where us crews of Gypsy and Cisco Kid
also hung out. The reason this was so
was that we were able to tie up inside the basin against the quay wall for five
dollars and change per day. And since
the outside anchorage was an open roadstead and uncomfortable with heavy
swells, the basin was the only place to be.
It was at the Hide-a-way that we met Fast
Eddy. He was a hustler. A handsome young man with smooth chocolate
colored skin, flashing hazel eyes, and a set of teeth that looked like a
perfect string of pearls. Fast Eddy
was slim, but muscular, a sharp dresser in tight chino slacks, flowered
tropical shirt, half dozen gold chains, rings, bracelets, and a Rolex
watch. He had the sharp hawk-like
features of the eastern African peoples.
He was also a ladies man.
Fast Eddy's current occupation was drug smuggling. Fast Eddy made a move on Barbara as soon as
he walked in the door. Randy and I
were shooting a game of pool and Barbara and Debbie were sitting at the bar
looking super. Barbara was in her
early thirties with a tight trim body, a great set of breasts and wearing tan
shorts and a white tank top. Fast Eddy
homed in on her like a heat seeking missile.
I had seen the guy as soon as he walked in the funky little bar. Fast Eddy was a cheeky bastard I thought,
watching him trying to lay his jive on Barbara... I figured it was time to
rescue her.
After the introductions, it
didn't take a genius to figure out Eddy's game. He also stuck around like glue, so the
group decided to ditch him by heading back to the boats.
There was a new arrival tied
up to the quay ahead of Gypsy. It
looked like about forty-five feet and ketch rigged. There was something familiar looking about
the guy sitting in the cockpit with a slender blond girl and a younger
man. He was a tough looking
character, and I did not want to stare.
But I could not help but to steal covert glances and finally it came to
me... it was Joey, the guy I had left behind back in '78 when I had sailed out
of Georgetown to distance myself from Joey and his partner Steve. At that time they were on their way to
Jamaica to pick up a load of grass and I was beginning to think that the
possibility they might high-jack my boat and dump me was becoming very
real.
I thought Joey was also
looking at me as I had caught his eye and was forced to nod. Gypsy's hull was now dark blue in color
where-as she had been originally white...
so that was probably confusing Joey at this point, but I thought Joey's
memory would connect in due time just as mine had. I decided it was probably prudent just to
go ahead and get it over with.
I took a breath and called out, "Hey...
Joey, is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me..."
the voice was just as rough and mean sounding as I remembered, then Joey said,
"I remember you now... Martin, yeah... come on over and have a cold beer,
bring your friends with you." The
voice was commanding now. Same old
Joey.
We were all sitting around
under the sun awning, drinking beer and passing a joint Joey had offered
up. Randy and Debbie were especially
enthusiastic, but then I didn't mind a mellow high now and then myself. Joey never asked why I had parted company
with him and his pal Steve back in Georgetown, and I was glad to let it
rest. He said that he had made the
run to Jamaica on his little twenty-nine footer, loaded up and made the trip
back to Florida. He also said he made
enough money to give the small sloop to Steve as his share and bought a larger
boat for himself. The ketch he now
owned was his fourth trade up. Suddenly, as we were all sitting around, an
old Lincoln Continental four door sedan turned the corner into the small marina
and skidded to a stop about seventy five feet from Joey's boat. The clearing was lined with buttonwood
and sea grape bushes. Fast Eddy and
three other black guys jumped out of the Lincoln, popped the trunk and ran to the
bushes where they pulled out five bales of marijuana wrapped in black plastic
and quickly loaded three into the trunk and two into the back seat. Then, just as quickly as they had come,
they jumped back into the Lincoln, spinning the back wheels of the car,
throwing gravel and drove off... the
whole episode did not last more than three of four minutes. Nobody said anything. I then looked at Joey...
Joey smiled a sly grin and
said, "It’s only a small run but safe and profitable."
The next day Debbie flew out
on a local island Cessna 172. Randy
had told me that all he had to do was get to Puerto Plata on the north coast of
the Dominican Republic where he was supposed to meet a big buck charter and then
he would have it made. So, Randy was
along for the ride. In the meantime
we were all broke. Quite by accident,
we had gone out in Randy's motor dinghy to dive for conch for our supper and
had brought back a couple of dozen.
One of the native ladies was passing by as I was cleaning a couple of
the big snails and asked if I would sell her a few. Sure, I had replied and she offered me a
dollar fifty each. I sold her twenty
conchs and split the funds with Randy.
We had pennies from heaven. So
for the next several days, we would head out for the conch flats in the morning
and sell the conchs to the town's women folk that afternoon. It seems that the young men of the town
were too lazy now to dive for the conchs...
there was money from other sources and that kind of work was beneath
their position in life. That was just
fine with me and Randy. The only
drawback on the deal was that every time we left for our diving run, Fast Eddy
would miraculously appear at Gypsy.
Although I was not sweating Barbara, she was getting fed up with having
to put up with Eddy's obvious advances.
I had to admit the guy was tenacious as well as ambitious.
A couple of days later, after
the situation at Matthew's Town was getting too uncomfortable. Randy and I both said fuck it, and even
though it was late in the afternoon, we slipped the mooring lines and set sail
for Haiti.
I had been driving along US19
for the last thirty minutes passing through the town of New Port Ritchie. I spotted 19A, a two lane road that would
dead end at Tarpon Springs and made the right turn. I wasn't sure which marina Randy was
bringing the big trimaran into but it would not be too hard to find it I
thought... Randy had said it was
seventy-eight feet and had a forty-two foot beam. I pulled the new white Ford Probe into a
combination gas station-convenience store to fill up and grab a soft
drink. I picked up my cellular phone
and dialed Randy's mobile phone number.
Randy had called me last night off Marcos Island. The trimaran had been running along the
coast and if it wasn't already in port it should only be a few miles offshore.
I heard the phone ringing,
then Randy's voice, "Hello”. It
wasn't a good connection but I could hear well enough.
"Randy, it’s me,
Scott. I'm about fifteen minutes from
Tarpon Springs... where are you at?"
The connection was improving
as Randy answered, "We are in the channel now and will be tying up
outboard of a shrimper off one of the town's commercial docks. The main mast is almost a hundred feet. You can't miss it. See 'ya soon." He hung up.
After I topped off the gas
tank on the Ford Probe, I drove down the two lane road passing stands of
Florida scrub pine, laurel oak and palmettos.
Behind the road side business and vegetable stands stood trailers up on
concrete blocks and here and there cinder block houses with built-up rock
roofs... typical Florida cracker houses
from the fifties and sixties. As I
approached Tarpon Spring, I could see sailboat masts standing above the water
front buildings of the town. Marinas
from small mom and pop style to yards large enough to haul out expensive motor
yachts on Tammy lifts. There were
commercial yards with deep water slip rails able to accommodate big fishing
work horses. The downtown area had
over the years become a mini Key West with tourist shops and Greek Restaurants
serving up tasty seafood specials.
There were trendy bars for the younger set with rock bands for evening
and late night entertainment. The
streets were already crowded with the generic groups on private vacations or
those from group arranged tours. I saw
a few younger couples and some families with squalling, petulant children in
tow. I drove slowly through the tiny
town toward the commercial docks and quays, easily spotting the towering white
mast of the big trimaran raising up from behind a group of buildings housing
marine stores, fish houses and repair facilities.
I found a place to park among
piles of old netting, engine parts, barrels, boxes and the refuse of the
fishing industry. Then found my way
along the quay where, tied up outboard of a large shrimp boat, was the custom
built aluminum trimaran. I could see several
people on the yacht.
After crossing over the
shrimp boat and I called out to one of the people on the trimaran deck,
"Hello there, is Randy on board?"
Randy, of course, was on
board. I helped him collect his gear,
waited as he finished up some arrangements with the owner's and the buyer's
representatives and then we departed.
"So... it's a done deal,
huh?" I said as I unlocked the trunk and dropped Randy's bags in.
Randy was looking a little
rough from the sail up from Key West... he shrugged and said, "It's never
done until the money is in the bank.
You're looking good Scott, what's it been now... a couple of
years?"
"Yeah... something like
that." Then we old friends
embraced each other.
We settled into the Probes
bucket seats, started the engine and set the air to high. I eased out through the congested old town
area of Tarpon Springs and fifteen minutes later we were on our way south along
Florida's west coast. It was a clear
windless day, muggy, and we were glad for the air conditioning. I had made a quick pit stop and we had
frosty cold Heinekens to help quench our thirst.
"I got a surprise for
you," said Randy with a sly grin.
"Shit... you know I
don't like surprises, especially coming from you. So what is this surprise?"
"I got an old buddy, guy
by the name of Greg... I've known him
for about ten years. You remember, I
told you he had a whore house in Dayton Beach. Well, he moved to Tampa and I told him we
would stop by and see him on the way back to Lauderdale."
I looked at Randy with
disbelief... "A whore house. Shit, Randy, what the fuck am I going to do
in a whore house? You're not serious
are you?"
"Hey, I been promising
to stop by and see him for over a year...
it's on our way and will only take a few minutes." Then as if to justify the venture, Randy
said, 'maybe I'll get laid...
Besides, the place is really a fancy massage parlor, Connections is what
he calls it. He has about a dozen
girls working and the customer has his choice of options from the
menu." Randy laughed.
I could imagine some sleazy
house in a bad part of town stocked with even sleazier brawds... I wondered
what the clientele was like. "We
will probably get some incurable disease just walking in the fucking
door," I said shaking my head. 'I
take it you have directions to this place?"
"I will in a minute”,
answered Randy. Then he dialed a
number on his cellular phone.
Randy got the old sly grin on
his face when his friend Greg answered.
"Greg, its Randy. Yeah,
we are about thirty minutes from Tampa...
my buddy Scott picked me up in Tarpon Springs. So, give me some directions."
After several minutes, Randy
ended the call and said, "It's a piece of cake. We turn left on highway 284 and just before
Tampa Airport, there is an upscale shopping center on the right. His place is the second from the end on the
east side."
"Christ, a whore house
in a shopping center... I guess it
works." We found the place easily
and parked out front. The windows of
the storefront had been blacked out with acrylic film and fancy gold letting
announced that we were entering Connections.
There was a reception area of
sorts with a small glass topped gold painted wrought iron table and chair in
the center of the entrance. An
imitation leather appointment book and a bottle of red fingernail polish were
the only objects on the table top. A
young woman wearing only a lacy cream colored negligee sat on the chair... she looked up from the work of painting her
long nails.
"May I help you?"
cooed the young girl, her ample breasts moving rhythmically to the pace of her
breathing.
Randy looked at me and said,
"I think I just fell in love”, then to the girl who was fanning her hands
slowly, 'would you tell Greg that Randy is here."
The girl winked at Randy and
said with a heavy put-on Georgia accent, "excuse me a moment while I tell
him you are here." She stood up
and I could see that except for a pair of matching cream colored bikini
panties, the girl was naked beneath the frilly gown. I looked around, taking the room in...
the floor was covered in a mirror finish red tile and directly behind the
reception area there were three doors on each side of the lavender painted
walls of the space leading into the interior.
There was a large glass imitation chandelier hanging in the center of
the room and matching sconces on the walls between each doorway leading off the
main corridor, and also scattered about was gold antiqued statuary and wall
hangings of cherubs and angels. But
just before those rooms behind that reception table were two others, one with a
small sign signifying the office and another marked, private. The girl had disappeared into the one
marked office.
"So, what do you
think," said Randy while looking around the room.
Before I could answer, the
door to the office opened and a guy who looked like he was pushing sixty and
hadn't seen any sun for fifty years came out and said, motioning, 'Randy, you
and your friend... come on in."
Once inside, we shook hands
and Greg returned to his chair behind an old wood desk that had seen better
days. The girl in the negligee left,
but there were two other young women sitting on a worn and cracked vinyl couch,
reading magazines and smoking... they
both looked like they had got their outfits from Frederick's of Hollywood. They were not unattractive, but they were
not what I would call lookers either.
Randy eyed them like a hawk might eye a mouse.
Randy and Greg started the
'old how you been, whatcha' been doing' routine as I balanced myself in an old
wheeled secretary chair that was missing one wheel... Randy had lucked into a
regular wood straight chair. After
about ten minutes I was getting a bit antsy and mentioned to Randy that we had
a long drive ahead of us. But a few
seconds later a small buzzer when off and Greg said, "It's show time. Watch this," he said. Randy and I peered out the office doorway.
Two guys had come in the
reception area and the girl at the table had called up the troops from the room
marked private. Six young women in
skimpy lingerie paraded out and stood in a line for inspection... four white girls and two brown sugars, like
so much prime beef on the hoof. The
two customers each selected one of the girls, signed in the register book and
were escorted by the "masseuses" to their rooms. They all sat back down... the girls
sitting on the couch were still reading magazines and giggling now and then.
I was curious. "What happens now."
Greg, who I had decided
looked a lot like the Jewish comedian Jackie Mason, laughed and took a puff off
his ever present 100mm cigarette, and then he coughed and hacked for a minute
before answering. "You get a
basic body wash and rub-down for forty bucks.
That's about half an hour. If
you want to spend sixty, you get a full hour." He was very casual.
I still didn't quite
understand.... "So, do the
girls fuck these guys or what?"
"Sure," replied
Greg. He took another hit off the
smoke, started hacking again, clutching his chest. Finally, he said, "everything is
negotiable... a hand job is twenty to
forty bucks depending on the guy's wallet.
A blow job is a hundred and a fuck is two bills...." He
smiled that casual smile again. Then
he added, "We got some toys to heat things up if it’s
necessary."
Randy had started up a
conversation with one of the couch girls.
Greg took note of this and said,
"Take the girl for a massage...
it's on the house... anything else,
you work it out with Sheri." Randy's
ardor was obviously up to the task as he stood up and took the girl's
hand. He had a grin that stretched
from ear to ear.
It only took about twenty
minutes and Randy was back... still grinning. They shook hands with Greg and hit the
road.
"You know what I was
thinking about while I was driving down to pick you up this morning?" I
asked as we picked up the interstate to Naples.
"No, what?" said
Randy. He had just finished telling
me all the lurid details of his massage.
Namely having his dick massaged for thirty bucks.
"I was recalling that
sail down to Haiti and the Dominican Republic back in '82. Remember when we left Matthew's Town and ran
the Windward Passage at night?"
"Do I... we were half shit faced."
"What do you mean
we... you were the shit faced one and
you were a hell of a lot more than half."
I looked over at Randy cocking his eye. "Christ, the first thing you did once
we were on course was set your wind vane and call Barbara and me on the VHF to
tell us you were taking a nap and to call if a ship was approaching... fuck
man, you were crazy! And thank god
the wind was steady because you slept for hours. It was a miracle you remembered to turn on
your running lights or we would never have been able to keep you in sight
during the night. I could have killed
you!"
"Yeah, and the nasty
town on the North coast of Haiti you wanted to put into," said Randy
shaking his head disgustedly.
"Port de Paix... don't remind me. What a fucking hole that place
was. The anchorage was a sewer and
the town a mud hole with five hundred year old shacks. Worst garbage dump I ever saw."
I sighed and said,
"You're right... call some, lose
some. Can you even imagine what that
place must be like now?"
"Don't think about it”,
suggested Randy.
We reminisced about the sail
along the North coast of Haiti passing under Tortuga Island and talked about
when those waters were the domain of old world pirates and probably some new
world ones as well. The pirates of
old times had look-out posts high in the hills of Tortuga and could spot
passing cargo ships under sail. We
had passed Cape Haitian during night and had put into the Dominican border town
of Pepillo Salcedo... a banana town of the United Fruit Company. We had hung out for a few days drinking
beer in the town and exploring a nearby estuary. I had nearly lost Gypsy due to the anchor
rode being severed by coral and the boat had drifted down on a jagged coral
shelf. It was a miracle that we had
only just returned from town minutes before or Gypsy would have been on the
coral. We continued the sail stopping
at the small coastal resort town of Monte Christi, then on to the big port town
of Puerta Plata.
Randy was saying... "We
had a great time in Puerto Plata, but if Crazy Bob, my charter hadn't of showed
up, I would have been fucked."
"Yeah... you definitely
were fortunate that asshole showed up... at least he was a rich asshole... you were an asshole and didn't have
shit. Jesus, I remember the day he
finally arrived, what after almost a month of delays. We were hanging out at the Los Pinos Bar
out by the beach... you were really bummed
out, broke and your credit cards were tapped. Matter of fact, so were mine, but at least
I was going to get a couple of hundred bucks from the Uncle Sugar on the first
of the new month. Anyway, Bob had
missed the first flight and we all thought he was a no show... but then out of
the blue, he comes waltzing in the bar.
He had caught the next flight.
You should have seen your face...
couldn't have been a happier guy on the planet."
"All I remember is old
Bob saying, "It’s party time”, and we got blitzed for the next month. You know, I still hear from him now and
then," said Randy.
"That's cool," I
commented.
"Pull off somewhere...
we need a beer.
It was almost mid-night when
we arrived at Bahia Mar Marina in Fort Lauderdale. We had crossed the Florida Peninsula from
Naples via Alligator Alley and were both a couple of tired puppies. Randy was glad to get home to his boat and I
planned to fly back to Puerto Rico in a day or so while Randy closed the deal
on the Trimaran. Randy figured the
sale would be finished in about two weeks.
I told him he would return three or four days prior to getting Lullaby
underway to help out getting supplies on board and any last minute preparations
to the boat.
Two mornings later I boarded
a Carnival Airlines flight from Fort Lauderdale International Airport and
returned to Puerto Rico. Two weeks
later I flew back to Fort Lauderdale... the adventure was on.
Sunday. A perfect day... clear with an early morning
sea breeze from the Southeast cooling the morning anchorage off the Turtle
Kraals Docks in Key West. Randy and I
had made the decision the day before to set sail today at noon for Marina
Hemingway, just eight or so klicks west of Old Havana. There had been a problem with our third crew
member, a serious personality conflict; Randy had put the guy off as soon as we
had arrived from the transit sail from Fort Lauderdale. Randy had decided that we didn't need the
hassle and we agreed that if we were prudent and watched the weather carefully,
we could make the sail together.
We were a good team. We hauled up the dinghy motor and the
inflatable stowing the motor in the forward hold and the inflatable inverted on
the fore-deck. The anchor came up and
Lullaby was underway for the sea buoy where the GPS would track the course and
position via satellite mile by mile, minute by minute... a far cry from the old days, I marveled.
I was not unhappy to be
leaving Key West.... The laid-back
attitude, hippies, bubbas and Cubans that had been the 'town at the end of the
highways' trademark, now well over two decades ago, had long disappeared to
developers, franchises, and flimflam artists.
Duval Street, once full of locals and
adventurous snowbirds riding their bicycles down to Sloppy Joe's or
Capt'n Tony's for an early morning beer or a cup of Cuban cafe-con-leche, a morning paper or
friendly conversation, was now wall to wall shops, tourist bars, and
restaurants stretching its entire length.
Shamefully, some of the songwriters, road poets, and television
personalities had in my opinion contributed to Key West's demise. I felt a heavy feeling of nostalgia and
longing to re-experience the first time I came down the Florida Keys looking to
escape the bullshit of the Navy and my first marriage. I was also beginning to wonder if there
was any place left that hadn't been turned into a twentieth century sideshow. Well, Cuba might well be one of the last
truly unspoiled countries left in the western hemisphere... ironically due to
an embargo that was archaic and probably unfair.
Having been tied up to the
dock for the better part of a year, Lullaby was giving us some fits. Whenever a small yacht goes to sea having
been laid-up for a period of time, usually it can be expected that there might
be some problems. This had been the
case on the passage from Fort Lauderdale.
The main sheet block had broken and a high pressure oil line sprung a
pinhole leak. There were a number of
lesser problems too, but all had been solved, replaced or repaired. At the sea buoy, Lullaby's full set of
sails, main, mizzen and big Genoa were hauled up and the ketch came to her
course and hull speed eagerly.... The
old gut gnarls at the beginning of a passage leaving the territorial waters of
the US began to pass quickly and was replaced by the excitement and
anticipation of arriving in a new and foreign port.
Then, to add to the
apprehension, Randy, while making one last trash run, picked up the morning
paper with the front page headlines screaming that Cuban MIG's had shot down
two private US aircraft. Shortly thereafter,
the cellular phone started ringing from friends and advisers advocating that we
hapless sailors postpone the trip to Cuba.
Well, be it known that after some discussion, it was decided that the
Cuban exiles that had spit in the eye of 'El Commandante' may have gotten what
they deserved. The Friends of
whatever radical group they belonged to, had been warned not to invade Cuban
airspace, dropping leaflets and generally making a nuisance of
themselves... maybe a little harsh by
American standards, but certainly understandable. Like some farmer in Kansas gives a shit
about Cuban politics. So, considering
they were not going to war and it was not a problem between the Cuban and
American people as a whole, the trip continued as planned.
I had the three to six AM
watch, mostly remaining alert to shipping and course as the Aries self-steering
vane was handling the helm. Crossing
the Straits of Florida at night far from the overwhelming illumination of the
metro-plexes of the Florida coastline, the sky was ablaze with its own natural
light from the hundreds of thousands of stars studded across the heavens, and
of course a waning moon hurrying along its ordained path. Randy had pointed to the loom originating
from Havana now glowing like soft candlelight twenty degrees off the port bow. In a dreamlike mood, the night gradually
turned to a bluish-gray dawn, with low stratified clouds hanging back on the
western horizon now taking on a pale pink color as the earth turned into the
face of her life giving sun. Suddenly,
the day was fully upon us, and I set a pot of coffee on the stove to brew,
waking Randy for his watch. With my
belly warmed from a cup, I told Randy I would grab an hour or so rest as we
would be closing the Cuban coast early that morning and should make port by
midday.
"There it is," I heard Randy exclaim,
"The Havana sky line”. And like a
magician's trick, first you don't see it, and then if you watch carefully, you
do... the sky line materialized from a smoky low lying haze.
I thought approaching Havana
from the sea reminded me of the approach to Miami twenty years ago, which had
now changed beyond recognition for me as we had sailed past the densely
populated shoreline from Fort Lauderdale to Key West last week. Now, with the
GPS tracking Lullaby to within a hundred meters of the sea buoy marking the
channel leading into Marina Hemingway, the sails came down and were stowed
properly and all preparations were made for entering port.
"Hola, Hola! Esta privado yachte Lullaby calling La Marina
Hemingway. Yo nessito permission a
entrada la Marina”, I spoke in my rudimentary Spanish, into the mike of the
VHS.
Almost instantly, which
indicated a level of vigilance that I did not expect, was an answer. "Lullaby, Lullaby, this is Marina
Hemingway. Permission is granted...
proceed from the sea buoy on course 140° with the sea buoy on your
starboard. You will then pass between
the entrance markers, lining up the range.
Please come alongside the Customs Pier.
Welcome to Cuba," said the voice in excellent English.
I answered, "La Marina
Hemingway. We have received your
instructions and will comply. Thank
you, Lullaby out!"
With that, Randy, on the
helm, increased the RPM's and took up the course for entering the marina.
Having been in many Latin
countries, especially those in the Caribbean Basin, I could sense a certain
similarity. After all, the language,
customs, even traditions, and of course religion was very much the same. There was a feeling... there was the sight,
sound, smell and even taste that went with Latin societies that I had come to
recognize. So, as we came alongside
the customs pier, where a couple of military types in uniform, and plainclothes
officials were milling about, it was hard to escape the banana republic image.
The first guy aboard claimed
to represent the Ministry of Health. He
was attired in a white doctor's coat, a little frayed around the edges, but
clean. He made himself comfortable,
then proceeded to shuffle some papers and finally asked if we were in
satisfactory medical condition. Of
course, we said we were which seemed to make the Doctor happy. Then he completed a certificate in a flurry
of self-importance, and after drinking a cold coke, departed telling us
travelers that the Immigration officials would soon be arriving. In due time, two men, wearing innocuous
looking uniforms that reminded me of a man's pants suit, politely requested
permission to come aboard. They were
extremely efficient, even though I was not exactly sure of what is was they
were doing, but eventually our passports were requested and as one member of
the team did tedious amounts of paperwork, the other offered moral
support. When their business was
concluded, Randy and I were told we had been granted a thirty day stay in
Cuba. These men then collected up their
papers and briefcases, shook our hands formally... and vanished. The next gentleman to arrive said he was
from the Coast Guard; he also had some official looking documents to fill
out. He requested the ships papers and
also needed to verify the copies of the forms from the previous officials. Of course all of these people were happy
to be drinking cold cokes and receiving small gifts of soap and Bic pens. We must be finished, Randy and I thought,
but alas no. The next official in the
continuing parade was the Customs Agent.
He seemed harried and was not bashful to ask for a cold drink. He solemnly said he must search the boat for
the possibility of unwelcome contraband.
But, amazingly, his search was only cursory, and he was finished
quickly. He stamped the Coast Guard
certificate with his seal and was gone.
It all reminded me of an old Graucho Marx Brothers movie.
Shortly, a call was received
from the marina office via the VHF informing Randy that he could proceed to
channel one, slip five.
The marina was on the ocean
but well protected by a wide earth mole.
There were about thirty boats tied up alongside a series of small quays,
with the boats ranging from megabuck ocean cruising power-yachts to a couple of
flimsy mini's that I wondered how in the hell they had made it from
anywhere. Randy brought Lullaby
alongside her berth, a good spot not too far from the showers and the marina
bar and nightclub, aptly called Papa's.
There were a half dozen marina workers and neighbors waiting to help
with mooring lines and within five minutes a tall skinny guy showed up with
some electricians tools and an adapter to hook up Lullaby into shore
power. We were home free... or so we
thought, because just as we broke out a couple of cold Coronas, two more
characters arrived in civilian clothes with old beat-up and scarred briefcases
claiming to be from the Department of Agriculture. I thought that surely everyone in Cuba
had a rice-bowl to fill and that Randy and I were making ample contributions. The
first guy, who looked like a drug dealer from Miami spotted the cold beers and
without hesitation wanted one for himself and his weasel looking partner,
claiming they were overworked and hot.
Well, not much choice in this matter, and Randy broke out the
beers. These two clowns were most
likely Cuban undercover agents, because they tried real hard to be hip and
dropped hints about dope and porno, some real no-no's in Cuba. Finally after they had gone through their
song and dance, more papers were stamped and signed, with Omar, the name of the
first henchman, letting me and Randy know that he knew where all the bodies
were buried and would be our man in Havana.
Omar was definitely the most aggressive of the officials we had
encountered and managed to squeeze two blank video tapes out of Randy as a
present for his family, or so he said.
So... finally the clearance into
Cuba was finished and we were on our own.
The only thing I was interested in at this moment was some sleep.
I woke feeling rested. I looked at my watch noting it was just
after nine PM. Christ, I needed that
long nap.... I wasn't the young pup
anymore, I thought, stretching and flexing my stiff muscles. The night air was cool and refreshing. The muted music of Sade, singing No
Ordinary Love drifted into my stateroom from the main salon.... Randy was up.
"Let’s go get us a Cuban
beer," said Randy as I stepped into the salon. Randy was already dressed and ready to go.
"Hold your horses’ man, it will take me
ten minutes to wash up and get dressed.
Go ahead if you like, I'll be along shortly."
Randy nodded and said, “OK...
see 'ya at the bar."
After Randy left, using a
body and hair shampoo, I washed my blond hair, now more silver than blond, then
a body wash using a washcloth, and then I shaved. Feeling good, I thought, as I dressed in
cotton khaki colored shorts and a tropical print shirt. Brown leather boat shoes had been standard
footwear since coming aboard Lullaby for the cruise. Walking along the quay with cruising
pleasure boats moored alongside, I was surprised to see several other US boats
mixed in with the expected Canadian, French, British and a few other oddball
countries. No matter, they were all
here to sample the rum, cigars and young women... girls if they could get
them. That was the tragedy of the Cuban
Communist system. As long as the
Russians had been subsidizing and spending billions of rubles, things had been
palatable, but now with the American embargo fully entrenched for the past
thirty-five years, the average Cuban had little money and not much to buy if he
did. So, during the past five years,
with tourism becoming a serious growth industry, and US currency, the money of
choice, Cuba and the Cuban people, especially those in the greater Havana area
had become the entrepreneurs of the old pre-Revolutionary times. Consequently, this was now a country where
a world renowned surgeon or university professor was paid eight or ten dollars
per month, but a fifteen year old whore, which there were none five years ago,
can earn fifty dollars in one night.
Teachers, professionals, and blue-collar workers... anyone who had any
guts was finding ways to capitalize on the ever increasing tourist economy.
I rid my mind of those heavy
thoughts and let my senses take in the sight, sounds and smell of the night as
I approached the cabanas that made up the nightclub area of Marina
Hemingway. And what a night it
was.... The moon was a bright yellow
crescent in the southwestern sky. Void
of clouds, the night was alive with stars, constellations, and slivers of the
Milky Way. Palm trees swayed and
rustled in the pungent smell of a light sea breeze, and night blooming flowers
caressed the evening with their scent.
As I walked along the quay, I
had passed several pairs of young women... and considering their provocative
dress, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that these attractive
Cubana's were looking for a guy to show them a good time.... I hadn't had anything under the age of
forty flash me an inviting smile in a long time, and although I wasn't in the
market, it did pump up my ego, even though I knew that the flashing smiles were
just business.
Papa's Nightclub was series
of thatch covered pavilions with polished terra-cotta floors, several
freestanding oval shaped bars, dozens of tables and chairs and a large open air
dance floor which had a quality sound system.
I could hear a disco style Afro-Cuban beat coming from the club... got
the old blood pumping. There was the
usual collection of potted tropical plants, with the exterior grounds
landscaped with larger versions of palms, multi-colors plants, and
flowers. Red, blue and green lights
scattered throughout the foliage and hung from the trees enhanced the tropical
effect. The music grew louder as I
entered the nightclub which for the most part was covered by a roof, courtesy
of Mother Nature.
"Hey, Scott... over
here," called Randy from one of the nearest bars. Randy was entwined with a girl of about
eighteen, with flaming red hair and a magnificent pair of tits. Randy had the look of a caveman who had
just scored some big game. "Raul”,
Randy waved at the barman. Typical, I
mused; Randy would already know the name of the bartender. Raul, friendly looking asked what I would
like to drink.
"Well, it’s been nearly forty years since
I've had a Cuban beer, so, I'll have a beer," I responded. Then to Randy, "Who's your
sweetie?"
Randy had his arm around the
girl's waste, his hand lingering under the heavy lower lobe of her ample right
breast; she didn't seem to mind... probably calculating how much she could con
out of her new fish.
The barman set a green can of
beer, named Crystal, in front of me. I
took a tentative sip... not the best brew I had tasted, not even close, but it
was cold and wet. Randy had switched to
rum and coke, as was the girl, and was already wound up tight. I knew this from all the signs, but the
fact that he was already telling the whore that he loved her, cinched it.
Looking around, I estimated
there were twenty 'gringo' men over the age of forty, some in their sixties,
scattered about the club. Most of them
were in conversation, dancing or clutching the Cuban girls, probably younger
than their own daughters back home.
There were also a number of Cuban men...some were obviously waiters, and
some were just as obviously hustlers and probably pimps, although I felt that
most of the girls were freelancer's.
With Randy now totally immersed in his true love, I thought he might
strike up a conversation with an older man sitting a couple of stools down the
bar from him. I leaned over and said,
"Hello, been here long?"
The man was lean, but hard
and healthy looking...he was wearing gray shorts, a pullover white cotton
shirt, and he wore his graying hair tied back in a neat ponytail. My intuition suggested that the man was
French.
"Yes," said the man
with a noticeable accent, "I have been here almost a week, and you?"
"We just arrived this
afternoon”, I pointed at Randy, who did not take notice.
The man said his name was
Rene, and that he was French-Canadian.
He was sailing solo on a Corbin 39, and that he had been out almost five
years. He was fifty-eight and he said
he had up to this time preferred to sail alone, but now he had to admit it
would be nice to have some help. I
said that with him and his partner, it was borderline as long as they didn't
get into any real trouble or serious weather.
I noticed Renee's gaze shift
past him to Randy and the girl.
Looking over, I could see Randy deep tonguing the whore and she was
stroking his cock through his pants.
"He's in heaven," I
said, pointing with my thumb over my shoulder.
"Yes, there are many Chicas here to
enjoy," replied Rene”, and you... there is no girl for you?" Rene indicated several attractive girls
scattered around the bar.
"Oh yeah... there are definitely some
fine looking ladies here and if I was single, I'm sure I would sample a sweet
one or two, but, for me... well, I'm just on vacation. I've got a good lady back home, which is all
I can handle."
The Frenchman shrugged in his
Gaelic way and said, "You are a lucky man... I envy you."
"You got that
right," I said, taking a sip of my beer.
Thinking back, I looked at Rene.
"I sailed solo for a while back in the late seventies and early
eighties. It was OK for a while... I
needed to get re-adjusted from twenty years in the Navy, but you're right, it
finally got old and so did the one night stands and A to B cruising
companions. No commitments, all
superficial, no substance, and when the lust wore off, a lot of them were not
even a good fuck. Well, pal, I'm
starting to run on empty... It was good to meet you, but I'm going to call it a
night, I need some sleep."
"And your friend? He will be OK?" asked Rene.
"He's a big boy, and running
his own course”, I answered, looking over at Randy. "He won't even know I'm
gone." The Frenchman and I shook
hands, and then I walked back to the boat and my bunk.
I woke... two AM? I reached for my watch on the little shelf
beside my bunk, pushing the light to illuminate the face... two-forty. I had to take a piss. I was sure I had heard Randy and the whore
coming aboard a couple of hours back, but I had been in deep sleep. I was careful to be quiet as I hit the
switch for the light in the head, which cast its light in the passageway and
the forward berth momentarily. I
could see Randy and the girl asleep, but what was this? The whore was naked except for one thing...
she was lying there next to Randy, but incredulously; she was still wearing her
white high heel shoes. What next... I
thought as I slipped into the head and relieved my bladder.
Sometime later, very early in
the morning hours, I woke again to hear Randy in the final negotiation with the
whore, then she left, and I slept undisturbed for another couple of hours.
The pale, soft light of the
morning sun found its way through the open hatch over my bunk. I opened my eyes, and then closed them again
contemplating the new day. Even waking
during the night, I was well rested.
Swinging naked from my bunk, I grabbed a pair of shorts and went to the
galley to get the coffee brewing.
While the coffee cooked, I stepped up on deck and watched the marina
come awake. Here and there Cuban men
were already sweeping the walkways, raking the grounds, and collecting up
yesterday’s trash. There were a few
boaters milling about their crafts, puttering, like people sometimes do before
tackling anything serious. I thought
about the twenty-four volt alternator that had gone tit's up during the early
morning hours approaching the Cuban coast.
It needed to come out today, find a repair shop to have it checked
out... hopefully it was just a diode or broken brush.
"Mornin'," I heard
Randy mumble as he followed his nose to the perked coffee pot.
"Good morning,
sunshine! I thought you would be down
for another hour or so," I said, coming back down the ladder to claim a
cup for myself.
"God... my body aches, I
think I drank too much and fucked too much... my dick feels like it went through
a pulverizer..." Randy looked a
little rougher than he normally did after trashing himself half the night. "Hey... you're not going to believe
this but, this bitch last night gets naked, then crawls up in my bed and fuck's
my eyeball's out, but she never takes
off her shoes."
"Uh, huh, right!" I
said
"Hey, I swear to fuckin'
god... do you think I would make something like that up?" Randy said indignantly.
I laughed, "No, I'm just
bustin' your balls, I got up to take a leak, and I saw those shoes on the
girl's feet... hey, maybe the damn shoes cost her a fortune and she didn't want
to lose them."
Randy cocked his head looking
up at me, "Hell, I didn’t want to lose anything either.... I frisked her when she was leaving and found
my Walkman stuffed down her panties... the fuckin' cunt. 'Ya know something? Whore's are the same everywhere... all they
do is try to steal from me!"
"Hey, man... you get
what you ask for”; I said lifting my hands, and exposing my palms.
Randy fixed a smile at me and
acquiesced, "Yeah... he sighed, 'you're right.”
After breakfast, we spent the
day roaming around the marina. Except
for the nightclub, I pretty much thought the place sucked. We found the electricity to be fairly
reliable, with only sporadic outages, but if I had not been up early when the
water had been turned on that morning for only a couple of hours, they would
not have been able to partially fill Lullaby's tanks, because it had been turned off, not to return. The
marina itself was made up of five parallel canals separated by perhaps three
hundred feet of landfill between the canals.
I surmised that when the marina was originally conceived and built,
there would have been private homes facing the canals where the owners would
moor their yachts... but then came the Revolution, and it never happened. During the past ten years, the marina had
been revived and on the point east of the canals, a new hotel had been built...
El Viejo Y La Mar (The Old Man and the Sea).
Most recently, the Club Nautico, or Marina Hemingway Yacht Club was also
built and a full service boat yard with a rail and lift, including yacht
services, had been established.
Probably the boat yard had been there all along, repairing local fishing
craft or small government coastal craft, but with more and more cruising yachts
and sailboats visiting Cuba, it was only natural that the boat yard would
become a greater center of activity. I
was certain that some degree of integrity had no doubt gone by the boards as
the boat yard had prospered off the misfortune of cruising boaters. Greed is greed where-ever you find it.
Randy and I checked out the
yard and found that they could look at the problem alternator. Our problem immediately became minuscule
when we saw a cruising trimaran up on blocks missing her port outer hull. I felt the tri had seen the end of her
sailing life. We told the Jefe we would bring the alternator by
in the morning.
At the end of the marina near
the hotel were several shops, all government run as were all commercial and
private enterprises, which sounds a bit strange... but how can something be
private if it's controlled by the government.
Therein lies the root problem here... nobody can really own anything...
a house, a business... but, people do seem to own some things, such as the
obvious... clothes, household goods, cars, and maybe a horse, but they didn't
seem to own land, livestock, or anything that could afford them a personal
income. There was some hustling going
on. I saw how the officials at the
marina conned a few goodies out of them, and no doubt every other visiting
boat, large or small. I also guessed
that the bigger the boat, the bigger the score.
Omar had wanted to know if we
needed a guy with a car to drive us to Havana for the day. He knew such a man and would make the
arrangements, getting his cut, I was also sure. Well, why not? We wanted to see Old Havana and perhaps buy
a souvenir. So, we had agreed to have
the guy pick us up at our berth come tomorrow morning. There were a few guys trying to get jobs
washing boats, or doing some sanding and varnishing, but they had already
priced themselves out of work... and of course there were the ladies walking up
and down the quays, smiling and offering up their wares for whatever could be
agreed upon. The ladies of course
increased their efforts as the evening hours approached.
We spent the rest of the day
doing some ship's work, but mostly relaxing and resting, especially Randy, he
was still bemoaning his previous nocturnal activities... namely drinking and
fucking. Poor boy, I thought, but
without much pity.
The day broke once again over
Marina Hemingway. Hemingway...as in
Ernest Hemingway, who was greatly revered in Cuba and by the Cuban people. Hemingway had lived in Cuba off and on
during his life. He wrote, drank,
played and made eternal friends of the people.
Ironically, the people of Cuba will probably contribute historically to
keeping alive the image and spirit of this man... more than any other
country. Of course, Hemingway, also
kept his boat Pilar in Havana, and
cruised the coast and cays of Cuba long before anyone else thought to do so,
and it was during those days that his character Sancho did battle with the
great fish in his book, The Old Man And The Sea. Hemingway was one of those rare men, who
just sort of went with the flow. He
loved life, women, people, and conversation over good food and booze. I thought he was really no different from
most men, except Hemingway had lived his life as he wanted, rather than how
society dictated.
As had become normal aboard
Lullaby, at least while in port, I woke and got the coffee started. The weather had been exceptionally fine...
mostly cloudless days and nights with light breezes keeping any insects at a
distance. I had a nice breakfast
consisting of egg omelet, loaded with bacon, chopped onion, green pepper, and
cheese. Served with the omelet was
grapefruit, toast with a strawberry jam, and coffee. One thing I would quickly admit, the grub
aboard Lullaby had been good and plentiful.
"We've got to do
something about the damn dirty clothes."
Randy grumbled.
"Well, the guide book
says they got women at the laundry that will do it up, let’s get it all
together and take it up this morning before the driver comes,” I suggested.
Randy cocked a distrustful
eye, and said, "Do you think we should make a list?"
"Probably wouldn't hurt,
and at least we would know how much laundry the women is doing, and we can
judge the cost," I cautioned flatly.
We stuffed ten day's dirty
clothes into two laundry bags and hauled it up to laundry room, which was
located in the same building as the showers.
The middle aged Cuban woman looked over the pile and said it would be
seven bucks for washing, drying and folding.
Randy and I looked at each other as if to say fuck it, then Randy said,
"OK”, and we left. Such a deal I
thought, considering the paradox, a guy works in a cane field all day for ten
days, and earns about a buck, but a gal in a laundry in a so-so government run
marina, charges seven bucks to wash some clothes.... I was also sure that the woman didn't see
all that money for herself... who knows?
Randy I had suited up for our
Havana adventure, shorts, lightweight short-sleeve shirts and boat shoes. I carried a small leather bag with my
glasses, passport, extra medication, money, etc. I had found it much easier than trying to
load up my pockets. Randy accused me
of being his fag date... fuck him, I thought.
The driver arrived right on time, introducing himself as Hector Perez
Ramos, but said to call him Perez....
About thirty-five, typical Latin male, with dark coarse hair, short
beard and a quick smile, Perez claimed to have been a teacher at the
university. What university and where,
I didn't bother to ask, as I had already noted that almost everyone claimed to
have been at a university at some time or another. With the literacy rate what it was in Cuba,
which seemed plausible. At any rate,
Perez said he had only earned seven dollars per month as a teacher, and now was
driving an illegal taxi and acting as a tour guide. I thought it prudent to ask what his fee was
as an illegal taxi driver and tour guide would be. Perez wanted twenty-five US dollars. I offered fifteen... we settled on twenty
for the whole day and Perez picked up the gas.
I detected no animosity, and the deal was done. Perez also revealed that he had a partner
in his enterprise, namely the father of his girlfriend, who accordingly was a
well-known economist in a country whose economy was in shambles, and was also
the owner of the taxi that wasn't a taxi but was operating illegally as a
taxi.... I thought the whole thing was
too convoluted to make any real sense, but as they say... when in Rome. Not unexpectedly, we were cautioned to take
a low profile. An easy request for me,
but an unknown factor if Randy got too close to a bottle of rum.
The taxi, was a Russian Lade,
a box-like vehicle that had the appearance of something vaguely European from
the sixties, but turned out to be only ten years old. And, although it only had the power of a
modified riding lawn mower, it started without mishap and chugged off
confidently. Perez had equipped it
with a makeshift stereo that crackled out some redundant Latin melody. He could have not been more proud if he was
chauffeuring a Lincoln stretch limo. After
a couple of stops around the marina; we went to the marina office, which housed
the Port Captain, Cuban Coast Guard, and the robbers that collected the money
to enjoy the facilities. By this time,
I had come to the conclusion that each hand washed the other. Then a last stop at the boat yard to drop
off the alternator, and Perez pointed the little Russian beast to the gate
separating Marina Hemingway and its privileged occupants from the rest of the
Cuban people.
There were problems in the
marina, but as soon as Perez passed the boundary at the gate of the marina and
entered the little town of Jimenez on the outskirts of Havana, I realized the
extent of the failure of Castro's Cuba.
It seemed that everything was old, of ill repair, broken, falling down,
abandoned, unattended, and just plain pathetic... especially considering what
greater Havana and its suburbs were prior to the revolution. As we traveled down what once must have been
a broad, grand boulevard with a lovely tree lined alee, green and colorful with
grass, flowers, and benches that people could sit and watch the world go by, we
neared Havana, where we could see the remains of once incredibly grand, stately
homes, and estates. Monuments to men
and women that had in another system and time gathered great wealth and
power. Now these once beautiful
buildings were only shadows of their former elegance. I reckoned them to other former monuments
of man's genius and labors... such as the pyramids of Egypt that have been
ravaged and desecrated over the centuries.
And even closer to Havana, some of the homes that lined the boulevard
had become embassies to other countries of the world, or home offices of
foreign companies doing business with Castro's government. I thought of the people and families that
had once owned these grand homes and estates... I could see them fleeing with
sacks and bags, or the clothes on their backs.
I could imagine men and women of the revolution breaking down the doors
and defiling the private sanctuaries, taking things for themselves or for the
revolution. But none of this prepared
me for the sight of Havana itself.
Havana.... The name itself can stir the
imagination. An ancient city built by
Spanish conquerors... a crown jewel in an empire. It renders up images of exotic beaches,
seaside estates, seaside promenades, palm lined boulevards, grand hotels, and
resorts. There had been the night life, fabulous showgirls, casinos, wealth,
intrigue, and the mob. The playground of
La Costra Nostra, European Counts and Countesses, Hollywood Stars and moguls, old money families, and the nouveau
rich. It was glorious, becoming,
decadent, hedonistic, and beguiling. It
was ruled by everyone but the people.
There was a cruel man, a dictator who presided over the party, but did
what he was told by those who had the gold and the power.... It's called the Golden Rule... he who has
the gold, makes the rules. The people
were poor, downtrodden, without hope.
Then there came a new man... a man who promised the people that they
were important, and that they had a right to share in Cuba's wealth, and her
future. He extolled that with the people's
help and support, he would rid Cuba of the scum, the leaches, and the puppet
dictator of the United States. He
promised them a revolution.
The broad streets were still
there, but Havana was now a city of decayed, crumbling and abandoned buildings.... There were storied apartment houses and
government hotels that stood unfinished with silent construction cranes
standing like eternal sentinels alongside these edifices that had begun their
life fifteen to twenty years ago. They
now were homes to only the winds, debris, and insects that collected in the
cracks and crevices. Mile after mile of
colonnaded, and arched waterfront colonial Spanish buildings, and warehouses,
the center of commerce of a worldwide enterprise... all broken, cracked, chipped,
with whole facades sloughed away.
Buildings that had not been cleaned painted or repaired for
decades...occupied by the dregs and outcasts of a society that could hardly
provide the most basic needs. An
entire city without reliable electric and water services... and whole districts
with none. A city with an overwhelming
sense of failure and abandonment, by a government that had failed and abandoned
itself, its purpose and its people.
In Old Havana, they found a
section that was restored or more likely somewhat maintained over the past four
decades. There was a couple of tiny
government run souvenir stores, where I bought a T-shirt with the Cuban flag
stylized on the front and the word Si!, meaning YES. I also picked up some post cards with scenes
of Havana from the early part of the century.
We also found a shop that sold nautical charts, where Randy bought some
charts of the Cuban coastline. It was nearing lunch time, and we told Perez
we wanted to eat somewhere off the tourist route. Perez asked if we wanted some home cooking.
"Sure," we
responded.
It turned out that Perez had
a pretty good little business going. He
was driving a taxi and trying his hand at being a tour guide, and I would soon
find out that the whole family was part of the team. Perez would take customers to his own home
where his mother and sister prepared a nice meal of pork, rice, fried
plantains, and a shredded cabbage and sliced tomato salad. Perez also mixed rum daiquiris for Randy,
while I had a cold beer. Perez would
discretely add the lunch to the bill for his services, of course. He told me that the only way the family
could get any decent food for themselves and for the meals they prepared for
tourists was with the dollars they earned.
They then bought what they needed on the black-market... depending on
availability of the goods. They spent
a couple of hours with Perez's family, politely discussing the plight of Cuba
and her relationship with the US. It
was painfully obvious that without the family working together, their lives
would be totally bleak, absent of any kind of amenities. Perez told me that what they were doing,
together as a family was illegal in the eyes of the government and at worst,
they could lose everything and be sent to prison or a work farm for many
years. So, even though, the family
tried to act relaxed and joyful, I knew they were always in fear of discovery
and punishment. I also knew that many
Cubans were taking chances with private business and illegal activities in
order to survive in a country that was, in many aspects, a prison. A country where no one, except those of a
most inner circle, knew where their leader, their President even lived. Perez said, "He is always hiding,
traveling from one place to another... afraid of the assassin, the American
CIA, and imagined enemies”.
It was getting late in the
afternoon, and I was tired and somewhat depressed by what I had seen of Havana,
although I would never regret the experience.
Randy, having drunk four rums, was already wound up and had he been left
to his own devices, would have gone out and found some dump to get fucked up
in, and pissed off some local cop. I
was able to overrule the suggestion, with the support of Perez, who of course
had to drive back to the marina, and then return the borrowed car. There was always that element of risk when
going ashore or out on the town with Randy.
When Randy was sober, he was caring, giving, and a loyal friend, but
when he began to drink, and especially the hard stuff... well, the only analogy
was the story of Doctor Jeckel and Mr. Hyde.
I sometimes wondered why I put up with a man who had no self-control,
and became loud, obnoxious, overbearing and childish. I knew that Randy had been an off and on
drug addict, and of course a serious alcoholic who succumbed to his self-destructive
behavior whenever he had a chance to try to impress new people with his
outrageous past, and by embellishing his lifestyle. The more bizarre and shocking he could
present himself, the more he inflated his own ego... an ego crying out for recognition and
love. Pathetically, the very things he
would never attain or achieve. The
only exception was he did manage to achieve a reputation as a raving, unstable
and belligerent drunk. Naturally, I
could usually anticipate the signs and avoided the situation, and any
confrontation. And now I had the
feeling that the night was shaping up for Randy to make an ass of himself... I
had also determined not to be part of it.
The problem I faced was that it was Randy's boat and when Randy got
drunk, his brain was on maximum overdrive, with only one consideration... total
oblivion in his quest for whatever self-satisfaction he was so desperately
seeking.
Not surprisingly, Randy
immediately hit the Coronas as soon as they returned to the boat. I knew it would be pointless to try to
stop him...he was already on a roll.
Fortunately, Randy thought I was no fun and roared off to the marina bar
to wow any new meat... some poor unsuspecting schmuck, I chuckled to
myself. Feeling a little blown out
from a long day, I decided it was a perfect opportunity to catch a nap. It was times like this I thought about
catching a plane and just getting the fuck away from Randy's selfish
bullshit. But, I realized that his
friend had a disease, possibly terminal one day if he didn't get it under
control or quit completely.... So like
a marriage, I endured the bad to enjoy the good.
The sounds of 'Duran, Duran'.... Loud!
Reverberating through the boat....
Randy, drunk... singing, out of tune, voices of women, talking excitedly
in Spanish. Thumps, bumps and the
general commotion of people in a party mode.
I reached for my watch on the little shelf beside my bunk. eleven-thirty... oh well, at least I had
gotten a little sleep... might as well get up and join them, as if I really had
a choice, I thought, mentally shaking my head.
"Hey, old man,"
shouted Randy as I entered the main salon.
'Did you get your beauty rest?" he chided, mockingly.
I saw no reason to
answer.... Randy wouldn't have heard me
anyway. He was too full of himself...
showing off the three whores he had picked up at the bar.... Who had picked up whom? I asked myself rhetorically.
Catching Randy's eye, I
called out sarcastically, "Which one are you going to take home to
mama?"
Randy was too busy pouring
rum into coke filled glasses and trying to make out with one of the girls to
respond.
The other two were busy
making themselves comfortable, looking over the boat... I got the feeling they were taking
inventory. I also figured they were
all friends who normally partied together with a man for each girl... but tonight
the pickings were slim and something was better than nothing. I wasn't going to be rude, but I also had no
interest in this late night bullshit, or trying to impress some hooker with my
kindergarten Spanish. Randy, in high
spirits, thinking that these women thought he was a sexual giant, and were only
here because they had fallen in love with him, and had to have his body,
babbled on, oblivious to the truth... although, I often thought that in
reality, Randy knew the truth only too well.
The 'party' continued on for a while longer, but with Randy
concentrating on only the one girl now, and I remaining generally non-an
exchange of rapid, staccato Spanish with their friend, they suddenly picked
their asses up and left. I was elated
and while Randy was distracted with his new true love...he was already telling
the whore, "I love you." I managed to reduce the earsplitting level
of the stereo.
The two would-be lovers were
each dancing to their own tune, giving me the opportunity to escape to my
bed. I knew I would get whatever
sordid details that transpired during the rest of the night, retold to me in
the morning. Thank God for small
favors! Sometime after midnight the
Lullaby was silent.
Once again, the cool morning
spread over the marina. I had slept
late, seven-thirty. Rising, I felt
thoroughly rested, thinking that we needed to put into motion whatever was
required to start the coastal cruise westward.
The main document was a Zarpe,
or Cruising Permit. Shortly, the coffee
began perking, filling the cabin with the aroma of a Colombian, amaretto
blend. I could hear Randy stirring in
his bed. It always amazed me how
resilient, and forgiving Randy's body was... but then, Randy was pretty much
approaching the time in his life where his biological clock was starting to reverse
itself, and no amount of re-winding the spring could make it run as efficiently
as only a few years past.
Randy, scratching himself,
made his grand entrance.... "That
fuckin' bitch wouldn't fuck me last night”, he said disgustingly, she ate my
food, drank my booze, strung me along and then when I wouldn't give her any
money, she beat feet. Fuckin' whores
is all the same.... Take! Take! Take!"
Randy was a little wild eyed... "You know something? I've been robbed, and fucked over by whores
all my life."
At this point I thought only
a reply of great wisdom could have any effect... so, with a shitty little grin
on my face, I said as solemnly as I could muster, "So what else is
new?"
While Randy attended to
acquiring a new alternator, which he was fortunate enough to find, although at
a terribly inflated price, at the yacht services, the old one according to the
boat yard was shot, I made the final arrangements to leave the next day. I settled up the bill at the marina office,
notified all those concerned of our departure, and was told that our Cruising
Permits would be hand delivered that afternoon. At that time Lullaby would be inspected as
to the safety requirements of the Cuban government. Later, when Randy tearfully lamented the
cost of the new alternator, I, being essentially distrustful of my fellow man,
would wonder if the old one was truly un-repairable. I knew that the boat yard and the yacht
services people were in bed together. Of
course, later that afternoon, with the new alternator in place, the Cruising
Permit issued, and Lullaby squared away, and ready for sea, all was as ready as
was possible, Randy got that look in his eye, and that sly grin on his
face.... I knew I could expect a repeat
of the night before. Actually, I
considered, it could be worse, as this was the last night in a port of any
consequence. I was beginning to lose my
patience, as I always did when my exposure to Randy's antics lasted too
long. I was glad we were leaving and
wished that there wasn't any booze on board... but alas, Randy had made sure
the boat was well stocked.
Once again, after a decent
evening meal, a couple of glasses of wine, Randy had several more, in addition
to the glut of afternoon beers, I decided to stay aboard, read, and be well
rested to get underway in the morning.
Randy, of course, dressed in his best finery, left for la-la land, where
he was certain, as always, that he would find his true love.
Shit.... It must be party time again, I thought, as I
woke, this time to the group INXS, blaring out Suicide Blonde. I could hear people speaking English as well
as the voices of young women speaking in Spanish. Oh, boy....
Randy's got a crowd and is really holding court tonight.... Fuck it.
I hoped I might sleep through this one. The last thing I wanted to do was try to be
social with a bunch of drunken moocher's, and a couple of Cuban whores. After a couple of hours, while I drifted in
and out of sleep, I woke to realize that it was strangely quiet... muted was
more like it... the music was playing softly, and I could still hear
voices. But... that was it; I was not
hearing Randy's voice trying to override everyone else, as he normally
did. I thought it was a good bet Randy
was passed out and decided to put an end to the party. Throwing on some shorts and a T-shirt, I
stepped from my tiny stateroom, and entered the salon.
There was four American's,
two men and two women, and three Cuban's, two women and one man lying about the
main salon, drinks in hand, helping themselves to chips, crackers and cheeses
from the ships stores... no doubt with Randy's blessing, I figured. They were all intoxicated at various
levels. There were half full and empty
glasses scattered about, soiled plates from food Randy had served up, trying to
impress his new found friends. I was
sure that the last couple of hours had been a revolving door policy aboard
Lullaby. A couple of the people stared
at me like I was an invader. As I
picked up some of the debris, a Cuban man in his early thirties shoved an empty
drink glass at me and said in Spanish which I understood, "Fix me another
drink!" Not please, por favor, just
a statement, a demand.
I fixed the greaser in the
eye, a hard look, and said in a tight voice, "Who the fuck are
you?" It was obvious that the guy
wasn't expecting that for an answer and by the glances from the rest of the
people, that I had not bothered to introduce myself to, they were a bit
surprised as well.
Had it all your way, huh? I thought to myself... "Where the fuck is Randy," I
demanded to no one in particular.
Unexpectedly, the Cuban pointed toward the bow of the boat, sort of
shrugging his shoulders and looked apologetic.
One of the American guys said, "We didn't want to leave the place
unattended, if you know what I mean”, he glanced at the Cubans.
"No, I don't know what
you mean... you saying these fuckers will rob the place?" I was sure the Cubans had acquired enough
understanding of English to catch my meaning.
The other American stood like
a tough guy and growled, "I take it you want us to leave,
well..." I cut him off,
"Party's over people!" then I started forward to find Randy.
I noticed the light switch
for the light in the starboard head was illuminated, telling me the head light
was on. I pulled the door to the head
open, and a startled fully clothed young woman who was bent over Randy said
something like, "Oh" I took
in the scene... Randy sat head down,
passed out on the shitter... his shorts, and under-wear pushed down around his
ankles. I had no idea what the girl had
been doing, saw no reason for her to be giving Randy a blow-job, unless he had
passed out in the process, but then the chances of him even achieving an erection
were slim.
"Out! Vamos!" I commanded,
sending the girl scurrying back to the main salon. I took another long look at Randy, and then
closed the door.
Returning to the salon, I saw two things at
once. First, I saw the last of the
American's passing through the companionway, and second I saw one of the
whore's starting to drop Randy's cellular phone into her purse, I also noted
that the Cuban pimp was hovering over Randy's video camera. Without a word, I grabbed the phone out of
the startled whore's hand, and then said firmly and loudly, "Get the fuck
off this boat... NOW!" They all
scrambled to get to the companionway and with me right behind them, literally
pushing them off the boat onto the dock.
Where were the cops when you needed them? I thought. I spent thirty minutes cleaning up the
joint, turned out the lights and went back to bed... I knew that Randy would
eventually come around and find his way to his own. Good night Havana, I said to myself, and
then went to sleep.
The winds had gone
north-northwesterly ahead of a stalled cold front farther north in the Gulf of
Mexico. Lullaby was dressed out in her
Sunday best... full main, mizzen, and the big headsail. She was pinched into the wind on a
west-southwest course trying to chew up forty-odd miles to an anchorage called
Bahia Honda. The wind waves were choppy
even though the swells were long and moving fast from the Northeast. We had Lullaby sailing at steady six-plus knots
with a counter-current running close in behind the reef, so we were really
knocking off almost eight miles per hour over the bottom. It was late afternoon when we visually
picked up the sea buoy at Bahia Honda.
The bay is of no use to a cruising sailboat except as a layover
anchorage to points farther west. At
this point in the day, Randy was bleeding copious amounts of last night rum
from both eyeballs, and was eager to get the anchor down. He was swearing that he would never drink
again, and making pacts with god and the devil, just to let him get a good
night's sleep. I had, of course, heard
it all before.
Before the sun set in a
dazzling array of pink, red and purple hues, the anchor was down and set, a
young man in army fatigues, from a tiny Guardia Frontier, who spoke not a word
of English, sculled out in a leaky little boat, dutifully checked the Lullaby's
sailing papers, and left. It was lights
out early that night.
The morning was
leisurely The habitual pot of coffee
blend, and this morning Randy was clanging and banging in the galley mixing up
some flapjacks, and frying a bunch of bacon.
He got his ration of sleep and owed his soul to somebody...
The winds were still moderate
from the North, but it had gotten a little cloudier, middle level stuff moving
in. The plan was a short fifteen miles
run to tuck in behind a couple a small cays where we hoped to spear some fish
for dinner, but I was a bit dubious with Lullaby's eight foot draft. The cay we hoped to get behind was called
Cayo Paraiso. Ernest Hemingway actually
hung-out there on Pilar during the Second World War.... Many historians believe he wrote the bulk of
the Old Man and the Sea while there.
Bahia Honda had provided good
protection from wind and seas, but once clear of the channel, the waters close
in got choppy again, and the winds increased as the day progressed. Without markers, it soon became obvious that
we would not be able to negotiate the shallow waters leading into Hemingway's
hideaway. So, we tightened up the
sails and made for an anchorage off Cayo Lavista, where we hoped to get close
enough to take the dingy ashore. The
guide book indicated a small Spanish-run hotel and dive club on the cay. But this also was not to be. Even though the passage through the reef was
well marked, once inside it was necessary to navigate by sight, that is, mainly
color of the water with the aid of a depth sounder. But, the winds had continued to increase
and the sky was now completely overcast making sight navigation impossible. Randy I had no choice except to sound our
way off the main channel of about twenty foot depth to an area ten feet deep
and drop the anchor. The anchorage was
in reality an open roadstead, and slightly uncomfortable, but at least safe. The choppy waters created by winds now
blowing a steady fifteen knots would prevent any dingy rides to the cay which
was still a mile and a half away. There
would be no dinner and dancing tonight.
The winds blew from the North
for the next two days, but after spending a day with Lullaby sailing on her
anchor, we two sailors decided that we might as well be in the real thing and
put to sea. The plan was to make the one
hundred and forty mile run to Cabo San Antonio, tucking up into Bahia de
Corrientes, and anchor at Maria la Gorda.
Once we had taken up a westerly course, with a double reef in the main
sail, and the Genoa half furled, Lullaby was banging along at over six
knots. The self-steering-gear had a
good course even with the sailboat riding up rogue twelve footers, and then
sliding down the troughs, and shuddering up to seven and a half knots. Although Randy and I were not overly
concerned, we were vigilant and kept a watchful eye on rigging and sails. Suddenly, a voice on the VHF channel l6,
which Randy monitored, was heard over the sound of the wind and sea waves.
"Calling any boat
vicinity my transmission... this is the sailing vessel Valiant... over."
Randy dropped down the
companionway and grabbed the mike for the VHF. "Valiant, Valiant, this is the
sailboat Lullaby, I copy, over."
"Roger that,"
crackled the VHF, 'switching to channel 72, over." Randy switched over to the new channel and
reestablished contact with the sailboat Valiant. It turns out the guy was a shallow draft
boat, sailing east on the inside of the coastal cays. Randy was not able to provide him with the
information he hoped to attain, but possibly out of concern for the weather
conditions, Randy asked the guy if he knew anything about a small port called
Santa Lucia. Coincidentally, Valiant
had just left the port and said it was tight, but a deep, well-marked channel
into a mangrove estuary. He also said
there was a small bay accommodating a utilitarian concrete loading dock for
small shallow draft coastal freight boats hauling sulfuric acid and copper ore,
which was mined locally. He said there
was room on the south side of the dock where we could dock and take on fuel and
water, if we needed too. After a
little more friendly banter, Randy signed off and returned the VHF to channel
16. Randy and I looked at one another
and silently confirmed we would put into Santa Lucia for a respite from the
weather, and hopefully a walk around the local village... of course a cold beer
or two would be OK as well.
The last hour prior to
picking up the sea buoy had become a slugfest.... Lullaby had a gross tonnage of twenty-seven
tons, and was bow down taking some breaking seas. I was glad to get off the wind, taking the channel
through the reef head on. The seas and
winds continued to drop until entering the mangrove estuary, where it became
nearly calm. Nobody could say it
wasn't a welcome sight. The mouth of
the estuary was narrow and shoaled up to about twelve feet, then widened out as
we entered the inner lagoon with its green limpid brackish water.
As we approached the old
dock, I thought it was entirely possible that Lullaby was one of the largest
yachts to put into the small port, because the keel touched bottom a half boat
length from the south-side of the dock where several officials were waving them
to moor alongside. At the opposite end
of the dock was a Cuban tug boat with a half dozen mooring fenders along her
hull. Randy suggested we moor alongside
the tug and after some hollering and much sign language, the officials finally
agreed this was a fine idea. Coming
alongside the tug was a piece of cake, and Lullaby was quickly secured. The clearance procedure was also simple and
over with quickly as all the paperwork was in order. The officials were rural people who had not
yet been corrupted as those in Havana had become over the past few years. Randy and I were told we were welcome in the
small town. Aside from the tug,
there was a small Guardia Frontier craft which could be manned by a couple of
guys with small arms... I didn't think it got much use. Tucked up a canal was a half dozen fishing
boats about fifteen to twenty feet in length. Four or five guys were working on nets
strung over bamboo poles. The remains
of a warehouse that never got past the foundation stage sat abandoned on the
point of land behind the small concrete pier.
To the rear of the abandoned foundation was a small cinder-block
building painted dark green with a patched terra-cotta tile roof. This was the office of the Guardia
Frontier. Inside was an ancient table,
several equally ancient chairs and through a curtained doorway were an old
metal cot and an upright gymnasium style locker. In front of the building stood a flagpole
made from a slender tree of some sort which was surrounded by stones painted
white. A very old tattered Cuban flag
hung limply in the stagnant air. It
was necessary for Randy and me to request permission from the official to leave
the port area to visit the nearby town.
The town itself was just
outside the port facility, and was only a couple of blocks long with only one
back street on either side of the road that passed through. The road was rutted and large and small
potholes were numerous. Most of the blacktop had washed away over the
years. The sidewalks and curbing were
cracked, broken, with large areas and pieces missing all together. We found ourselves looking down a lot to
avoid stepping in standing muddy-brown water.
Aside from the cloying aroma of the port area, which I identified as
chemicals, oil and diesel spills, and the reeking odor of rotten fish and
decaying vegetation of the more stagnant areas of the estuary, I suspected that
the water running along the side of the street was most likely contaminated
with sewage as the smell of waste now assaulted my nose. Most of the older buildings that were
constructed of cement or brick dated back to the thirties. There was one small two story structure
which was gutted that had a chipped and partly missing bas-relief sign
advertising the Hotel Santa Lucia, circa nineteen thirty-one, the rest were
more recent, built of wood with galvanized tin roofs, products of the fifties
through the early seventies when the revolution was in full swing and the
Russians were picking up a lot of the tab.
Now, nearly all the building and small houses were badly deteriorated,
abandoned, or piles of rubble from scavengers trying to fix what was left. The people were generally solemn, listless,
and dirt poor.
I asked several people if
there was any cold beer in the village.
Apparently, my Spanish was not good enough... but, I thought 'donde esta
cerveza fria' would have cut it anywhere.
Then as if by magic, a young man stepped up and said, "May I help
you?"
He was a tall young man, with
curly sandy-brown hair; dressed in shorts, T-shirt and sandals... he would have
fit on any beach in the states.
"Yeah," said Randy,
"where can we get a cold beer?"
The Cuban pointing, said,
"There's a small store... not far, please, come with me."
We walked less than a block
to one of the new dollar stores that have sprung up around Cuba... meaning that
they only take US dollars which ironically, Americans who technically are not
supposed to visit Cuba and are not supposed to spend dollars, do. And of course no one is supposed to spend
dollars, but everyone does, including tourist from the rest of the world, who
change their money to US dollars.
"My name is Jose,"
the young man volunteered "Are you Americans?"
I tried my Spanish again,
saying Randy was from Florida and that I lived in Puerto Rico. Jose responded by asking me to please speak
in English as there were very few people he could practice his English with.
"No problem," I
said, then I asked, "where did you learn English, it's very good.” Jose
smiled gratefully... "My family has a radio and we can receive broadcasts
from American. I listen and study, but
it is not so good."
"No, you speak very
well. I wish my Spanish was as
good."
As we approached the tiny
wood building that was the dollar store, we could see a dozen or so people
lined up outside the store's single door.
Jose directed us to the front of the group of people like we were visiting
dignitaries. I felt a little bad, but
we went ahead of the group and a guy at the door opened it allowing us
entrance, including Jose of course. We
were his ticket.
The pickings were pretty
slim, but there were some clothing, shoes... which I thought were probably
Chinese. There was also soap, personal
hygiene products, boxes of crackers, cans of ham, sausages, beef, and a few
packaged dairy goods. There were a few
cheap tools, screwdrivers, pliers, and wrenches, again probably cheap Asian knockoffs. All and all, it was pretty grim. At one end of the counter a woman sat
before a state-of-the-art digital cash register, which seemed impossible in
this archaic little nowhere town, and at the opposite end were three rickety
stools and behind the counter was a very old GE apartment
size-refrigerator. Ah ha, the cerveza,
I thought. There was a couple of the
privileged few hanging out drinking canned beers... these guys moved back,
making room for me and Randy to belly up to the counter. A guy who seemed available to help any of the
customers who might be confused in selecting a product from the nearly empty
shelves rushed up to set beers out for us...he eyed Jose and Randy nodded his
approval to serve him up a beer too.
It turned out that Jose made
a living diving for fish and lobster.
He told us that he could free dive to seventy feet... the deepest I had
ever dove was thirty-five feet, and that had been over twelve years back. I figured twenty was probably my limit
now. "Christ," I said”,
seventy feet holding your breath... that's deep!"
Jose smiled, and said softly,
"It is necessary."
"Do you have some
lobster now?" asked Randy.
"Yes, in my house."
"All right," said Randy grinning at
me”, we eat lobster tonight..." then to Jose, "how much for a lobster?" Randy rubbed his finger and thumb
together....
Jose hesitated for a moment,
looking slightly embarrassed, and then said, "Whatever you like to give
me”.
"Don't worry, we'll take
care of you... come on we'll get a couple of beers to go.”
Jose's house was a crumbling
little cement cube of about four hundred square feet with tiny rooms and a wood
burning cook stove set on a cracked concrete slab under a lean-to attached to
the rear of the house. There was running
water to a standard hose bib faucet clamped to the side of the house with a
very old chipped and worn porcelain sink set in a piece of plywood salvaged
from god knows where. There were wooden
open shelves and one archaic upright cabinet.
This was the family kitchen.
Just inside the back door to
the house sat a small refrigerator which bore many coats of paint applied
during its long life. I thought it sat
like a shrine, and occupied a place of honor.
The electricity had been snaked in from outside to power the reefer and several
bare electric light bulbs hanging from a ceiling that was falling down in small
slabs exposing rusted steel construction rods.
I didn't think the house had seen any paint in fifteen to twenty years. Glancing out the back, I could see the privy
standing off under an old tired-looking tree.
I was sure the tree was probably dying. There was a refuse pile to the rear of the
ragged yard, and off to one side was a small patch of cultivated ground that
had been planted with some scraggly looking tomato plants and what looked like
onion sets. The tomato plants looked
weak and pale... I didn't think they would bear. I took the scene in at a glance, because now
I returned my attention to the inside.
We had entered the house through a narrow front door into the living
area, which consisted of a wood frame two seat sofa, two brown rattan rockers,
a coffee table and an antiquated black and white television set placed in a
corner on a wooden box that had been draped with an old towel. Jose had directed us to the other side of
the room where a small chrome and Formica kitchen table sat with four chairs
that I thought were for children... the chrome was pitted and flaked off and the
Formica worn colorless. Jose shared
the house which he said was owned by the government, with his mother, father,
and sister. Although there was at
least one other small room, possible two, I didn't inquire as to the sleeping
arrangements.
We all talked for a while
about the plight of the Cuban people....
"Jose... if there are no eggs, and not much of other
products, I mean produce and such... why
don't you raise chickens, pigs, goats and anything else you can to make life
better?" I asked.
Jose thought about the
questions for a moment, and then with a serious and resigned look on his face,
he replied. "The government
does not encourage a person to engage in private business, or anything that is
considered a selfish, self-serving act.
Everyone must work for the common good... contributing his efforts and
labors to the central government who then distributes the products to the
people fairly. This is to of course
prevent capitalist greed and a monopoly...
at least this is what we have been taught." There was definitely a smirk on Jose's
normally passive face. "It is a
dangerous thing to commit acts against the government, and there are those
people whose duty it is to report any infractions of the law to the
authorities.
"What about selling
lobsters and fish?" Asked Randy.
"It is also dangerous,
and I must take care how I conduct my business," said Jose confidentially.
"So, let's see the
lobsters,” said Randy.
Jose grinned and walked over
to the refrigerator. He removed two
frozen lobster tails that I estimated at nearly two pounds each, and set them
on the table.
"Beautiful”, I
exclaimed. "We have some soap,
clothes...."
"Hey," interrupted
Randy, pulling out a five dollar bill from his pocket, "this is what he
needs," he said as he dropped he five spot on the table.
"It is too much,"
said Jose.
"Not for us,"
responded Randy.
Pocketing the five bucks,
Jose walked back to the refrigerator, and took out another tail. He placed it with the other two. "Now it is OK," he said
affirmatively.
"All right," said
Randy as he pulled out the last cans of beer from a brown paper sack.
It was midnight.... I had the watch and the wind vane had the
helm. The moon was a huge yellow pie
high overhead... its intense light licked the surface of the sea like the
flames of a fire. Stars filled the
lower orb of the dome of black velvet sky.
I had just picked up the light on Cabo San Antonio. The timing had been right on the money
courtesy of the GPS... I had fallen in love with the little navigation
instrument. Early that morning they
took on a full load of water and thirty gallons of diesel fuel. Randy and I gave the port officials
several bars of soap and he allowed Jose to come to the boat where Randy gave
him a diving mask, snorkel and an old weight belt with twelve pounds of
lead. Jose was ecstatic.
We took in the mooring lines,
and with the port officials, the guys off the tug boat and several dock workers
waving farewell, headed out the channel
back through the reef. The course was
west by southwest to the southwestern tip of the island. The winds were favorable and Lullaby
quickly reached hull speed. It had
been a good sail during the day and the winds were still favorable for rounding
the cape for the leg into Maria la Gorda.
Still, I thought it would be at least mid-day before we could hope to
get the anchor down.
Maria la Gorda or Fat Mary
was a government owned and run dive center.
There were perhaps twenty tiny duplexes sharing bathrooms, a general
dining room, and a clubhouse and bar.
An old converted work boat of about fifty feet served as the dive
boat. The beaches were sugar white sand,
clean and palm trees grew with abandon.
Unfortunately, it was a little seedy, run-down, and generally
lackluster. In other words, as with
most Cuban government enterprises, there was no money returned to the would-be
resort. It was understaffed, and
sorely needed a kick-in-the-ass.
But, aside from the obvious, it was a lovely spot, the waters clear and
magnificent corals were everywhere, and best of all, a hundred foot wall
dropped off less than a mile from the shore line. Divers although limited in number came
from around the world and endured the utilitarian facilities to dive these
pristine sapphire-blue waters.
Lullaby now swung on her
anchor in twenty-five feet of water over a coral and rock bottom with patches
of sand which Randy had deftly dropped the fifty pound anchor into. Looking down from Lullaby's deck was like
looking through a picture window. The
coral was alive with colorful reef fish and I could see conchs taking their
unhurried strolls across the sandy patches.
The local Immigration official and the club manager, who spoke some
English came out to check their sailing papers and then departed without much
fanfare. Randy and I were gritty from
the thirty hour passage... the water looked good. With snorkel gear and swim fins, we dove
into the tepid water and the coral world was at their fingertips. Within five minutes we had dinner, two
queen conchs and a three pound grouper... it took longer to clean them.
As the sun set amongst a city
of towering clouds, which turned kaleidoscopic as the orange ball settled down
behind them, the palms and cabanas on the shore turned into a purple painting
with lights twinkling on, casting streaks of silver across the sand and
emitting inviting glows from the windows of the Bar Maria la Gorda. The night has a way of transforming all
things that the daylight can render mean and cruel into a world of
enchantment. The gaudiest strip of
rundown bars, shabby hotels, and juke joints can seem like a miniature Las
Vegas Strip. A vintage car with
chipped and worn paint parked under a neon sign can look brand new, and a tired
and jaded hooker in the mellow light of a friendly bar can cause you to look
twice. There were six other sailboats
flying flags from America, Canada, France and South Africa at the anchorage off
the dock of the dive club. We had eaten
our dinner of fish and conch, breaded and fried in olive oil, with seasoned
rice and yellow corn in Lullaby's cockpit, we had watched as several dinghies
with their occupants went ashore for no doubt some camaraderie and
libation. Now as the soft night air
cooled the anchorage, we felt the itch in our shoes and thought we would
venture ashore to sample what there was to offer. But for Randy the demons that had their
claws sunk securely in his psyche were on the loose and he was programmed to
try to drive them back in their cages by causing his mind to go dark with
booze... I had known it was coming, but there was nothing he could do to stop
it. Actually, it had already started
as Randy had drunk several glasses of wine with the meal, and was boasting
about finding a piece of ass tonight.
I had heard that before too, and knew that once Randy sucked up a couple
of beers and then knocked back a rum or two, that would be it for any of his
sexual fantasies. But then
sometimes my friend would fight the demons off without the help of the drink...
maybe this was one of those nights... maybe.
A half-moon was one quarter
of its way on its journey across the black velvet sky filled with sparkling diamond
chips. We tied the dinghy to the
pier and walked along the pristine beach bathed in shadows as the palms
glistened and rustled in the moonlight and breeze. There were voices and laughter mixed with
Spanish music coming from the bar and clubhouse. There were a dozen or more people, some off
the boats and some there for the diving.
Randy and I were quickly introduced around and struck up conversations. I found myself talking to the South
African, a white man named Mason. He
was sailing solo aboard a thirty foot sloop which he said was under-powered and
had been out for over three years.
"I can only guess you
went straight up to Brazil," I stated.
"Yeah, that was the
start of it.... I stayed in Rio Grande
in the south for about a month undergoing repairs from crossing the South
Atlantic; Christ was I glad to see that place."
Mason had a rough, flat
speech delivery, but he had a sly smile and friendly eyes. He was a tall rangy fellow, hard looking,
with large callused hands. I was
certain the man had known years of difficult manual labor. "I've looked closely at the coast line
of Brazil... it must have taken quite a while to reach the northern border of
French Guiana... but it must have been a hell of an experience... did you stop
at many ports along the way?" I
asked.
Mason smiled at me,
"Yeah, you could say I stopped at a few ports,” then he laughed and said,
‘hell, it took me almost a year to leave Brazil behind me."
I thought about that and
said, "I used to take my time when I lived aboard my sailboat years ago...
I was really never in a hurry, and if I liked a place, I might end up staying
for several months. Those were good
old days, and in some ways I miss them, and in other ways, I don't, but then I
was more your age and wasn't thinking too far into the future. This sail I'm on now has been interesting
and enjoyable, but I think it will be good to get back to Puerto
Rico..."
I met a woman in her late
thirties who was sailing with her twelve year old daughter aboard a
twenty-eight foot sloop, and two guys from Ohio and a girl from Holland aboard
a thirty-two footer. There was also an
Italian guy soloing on a little twenty-seven foot cutter rig sailboat. Randy got a pretty good bag on but since we
were both so tired from the passage from Santa Lucia, and with Randy, conceding
he wasn't going to get laid, we called it an early night.
The next morning I looked
north-northwest to see the horizon thick with dark clouds. Blue-gray stratified middle level clouds
already extended over the southern peninsula of Cuba, and the wind had died off
during the night to a dead calm.
"Front's coming”, I said
pouring coffee for myself and Randy who had finally relinquished the head. "Somebody said the dive club has a
single-side-band radio... maybe we can get a weather report today."
"Yeah," Randy
grunted, sipping the strong brew....
"Can't stay here if the front passes and the winds go north,"
he said thoughtfully, "the chart shows a little village across the bay on
the northeast shore... at least we would be under the lee of the winds."
"Well, I'm sure everyone
in the anchorage has the same idea, I ventured,
“I guess we will at least need to let the coastal guys know what we
intend to do, but shit, they will no doubt move the dive boat and the slow leak
little gun boat too. So... if you
want my opinion, we should move sometime this afternoon."
"First thing I want to
do is try to get some diving in before it turns to shit”, said Randy
matter-of-factly.
"Sounds good to
me," I agreed.
A sudden gust shook the mast
and rigging bringing me totally awake.
It was just in time to reach up and close off the hatch over my stateroom
as the first raindrops began to fall, and I could feel Lullaby surge up on her
anchor chain, a sound like an animal growling.
We had a good dive during the
afternoon, bringing up two lobsters and several more queen conch. Dinner was over by early evening and Randy
wanted to hit the bar again. The front
had slowed down, but the club's radio reported it would come through during the
night... right on time I thought as the big ketch surged up on her anchor
again. I had read and gone to sleep
around ten and didn't hear Randy come in, but there wasn't much doubt he had
gotten shit-faced again... oh well, it’s
his call.
I pulled on some shorts and
went forward to Randy's cabin.
"Hey," I shouted, “If you don't want your house next to the palms,
we better get the fuck out of here."
"What, what..."
groaned Randy“, what the fuck... what's happening?"
"The first squalls are
here," I shouted again, exasperated.
"Get the motor started,
I'll get the anchor up." Randy
was awake now... hung-over, but awake.
This fucking clown, I
thought... now he's the concerned captain of the ship. I took a few moments to
finish dressing and pulled on a foul weather jacket. It was still dark out as I turned the key to
the ignition and the diesel thumped to life.
The northwestern sky was alive with continuous sheet lightning and now I
could hear the sound of thunder off in the distance. There were a couple of other boats that had
not left for the opposite side of the bay and they had mast lights and running
lights lit... I could see the people hauling anchors and then motoring out into
the night. I slipped the engine into
forward at idle speed to take some strain off the anchor as the winds were now
whistling across the deck at twenty knots with gusts to thirty. Randy finally appeared and went to the bow
to get up the anchor.
I watched as Randy directed
him with pre-arranged hand signals while coming up on the anchor as the
electric windlass hauled up chain and the big plow anchor. As soon as the anchor broke the surface, I
cranked up the diesel to 2200 RPM's and headed out into deep water and the
eventual safety of the lee of the bays peninsula. But, it was none too soon as Lullaby
bucked her way through the wind waves and the gusts blew heavy curtains of rain
over the deck. Randy was soaked. He was shaking from the freezing rain as
he a came into the cover of the cockpit with its weather dodger and bimini
top.
"Well, I fucking told
you so”, I said harshly and to myself... fuck it, it’s his boat and there had
to be a way out of here.
For the next three days it
blew and howled but the rain had gone with the advance squall line. The sky, land and sea all looked the same
shades of blue, gray and muddy green.
It had become cold as the air mass from the north enveloped the Cuban
mainland. We were anchored off a small
Cuban military outpost. It was mostly
defunct now and there were only a dozen soldiers manning antique radar. There was also a row of small concrete
block houses along the shoreline. I
counted twelve of them. They were the
raw gray color of the unpainted blocks with wood shutters for windows. There were no cars, or vehicles of any kind
except for a couple of army jeeps parked by the military compound at one end of
the row of houses. I did notice a few
bicycles leaning alongside some of the houses. Except for some pre-teenage children and
an occasional adult wandering around, the place looked almost abandoned. Another thing I noticed... there were no
animals, no dogs or cats, horses, cow, or pigs. Later, I would see a few chickens in a pen
behind the military post. It's the
end of the world I realized.
All things considered, we
were safe, dry and content aboard Lullaby.
We spent the days fixing a few problems, nothing drastic... reading,
eating regular meals, and sleeping.
The second day, we took a case of hand soap ashore and walked along the
small road that ran the length of the village handing out the bars to the
children, especially the young girls.
Many were very shy and were almost afraid to take the gifts. The children were a ragged band... their
clothes worn and dirty, as were they themselves. But, there was joy and laughter as they
played imaginary games and passed the day.
I could hardly visualize the endless days ahead of them as children let
alone the life they would endure as adults.
One afternoon, some of the
people off the anchored boats went ashore and organized a softball game. Someone had a ball, but they had to cut a
branch from a tree and fashion a bat.
Soon they gathered the children and some of the younger adults chose
sides and played the game. The boaters
managed to find a few pieces of candy and cookies for the kids after the game
was finished, but for that hour in time, the world stood still for the players
and only the game mattered.
On the morning of the fourth
day at the anchorage, the sun warmed the deck and white clouds took back the
blue sky. A brisk north wind
commanded the Yucatan Channel and the strong northeasterly currents. We had decided to make the run to Isla
Mujeres, Mexico, a sailing distance of some one hundred and forty miles. It was a rough passage with twelve to
fourteen feet breaking waves and occasional rogues to twenty feet. There were scattered rain showers causing
us to give thanks to the steering vane and the cockpit dodger. Massive convection clouds competed for
space with the orange sun as it settled into the western horizon scattering its
rays like a conflagration. How
insignificant we were on this planet I thought as the black of the night
finally took control of the sky and the light from unimaginable, distant stars
blinked on one by one until there were countless thousands lighting the surface
of an inky sea. Twelve hours later as the sun again took control of the day,
the island that was our destination gradually rose from the seascape. Randy handed up a cup of hot coffee and
joined me in the cockpit. We had stood
three hour watches during the night passage and although not fresh, we were
excited to be making port in Mexico. "The
last time I was here”, Randy was saying, 'was four years ago. I sold an old iron schooner, the Iron Lady,
and I had to get a delivery crew together to sail her back to Florida for a
refit. We loaded her up with paving
stones for ballast and the owner sold them.
He lost his ass on the whole deal and finally sold the boat again. The new owner took her to the British
Virgins and made a restaurant out of her."
"Christ," continued Randy, 'what a hassle that was... the boat was in hock to the Mexican
government and I had to pay the port Commandante ten thousand US bucks to bail
her out. I always figured it was a
con."
"Goes with the
territory”, I lamented. "Iron
Lady... I know that boat," I exclaimed, 'she was built in Green Cove
Springs, Florida ten or twelve years ago.
A friend of mine and his accountant got married on her. She was doing some kind of charter stuff,
river cruise during the evening, tourist shit. Jesus, it really is a small world."
Randy was studying the chart,
and he had gotten out a cruise guide.
"We'll go in on the south side standing off the light by at least a
mile and then we'll get a GPS fix and run three miles inside where we should
pick up a channel marker. Then we can
make a ninety degree turn to starboard and make for the inner harbor. There's a fuel dock just inside which will
be on our port... let's fuel up and take on water before we anchor..."
"Sounds good to me, but
I don't think we'll be drinking the water, I have no desire to spend the next
five days with Montezuma's Revenge.”
Isla Mujeres is a small
island... about three miles long by a half mile at the widest. The small town on the northern side has six
parallel streets running north to south and another dozen running east to
west. Made up mostly of tourist
shops, small hotels, bars and restaurants, it caters to the younger less heeled
crowd and the day trippers from Cancun on the mainland. It was my first visit and I immediately
thought of Key West back in the mid-seventies. Smaller of course and with its own flavor,
but the same laid back attitude. I thought
this was a place I could spend some time.
We were sitting in a little bar, restaurant alongside the water drinking
a cold Corona waiting on dinner to be served... fish, rice and beans with tortillas and a
fresh salad.
"Well, this time next
week, I'll be back at work," said Randy slowly as he looked around at
nothing in particular.
"True enough,” I
muttered. I was looking forward to the
next couple of days on the island, but I was beginning to miss my own island
and home. "There is no doubt that
this trip has been an experience... not what I had envisioned but an experience
just the same."
"Have you had a good
time?" asked Randy with a hopeful sound to his voice.
"Sure," I said
smiling at my friend. 'But you know
when you get fucked up; it doesn't make for the most pleasant of times.”
Randy looked down at the
table... We were both tired from the
crossing and the day’s activity, some boat work and problems matching the fuel
nozzle to the French fittings on the tanks.
"I know, I know.... Hey,
you know me; I've lost money, jobs, deals, women and a couple of friend because
of the booze. I'm a drunk and I know
it."
I looked at his face and saw
the pain, but I also watched him drain the bottle of beer and call for another
one. I knew that Randy had quit
drinking from time to time and was a super guy when he was sober, but he also
had seen the worst of him when he was drunk.... I had seen him mean, arrogant, obnoxious
and just about as unpleasant a drunk as I had ever known. Thankfully, Randy would more often than not
just finally pass out.
"Randy, look, I'm an
alcoholic too. It wasn't that long ago
I wound up in the hospital. I was
dehydrated, my cardio-vascular system was shutting down and an intern asked me
if I wanted to die. I was popping my
first beer at nine AM and would put away a couple of six packs during the day
before throwing away the cap on a bottle of run every night. I can remember running out of breath just
walking down the street and laying in my bunk at night with my carotid artery
leaping out of my neck and my heart skipping beats and fluttering like a leaf
in the wind. I'd sleep it off and feel
OK by morning and do it all over again.
I was about your age and had a covert death wish." I watched my friends face. 'Well, like I said, one day I ended up in
the hospital with an IV stuck in my vein pumping glucose into my body. People said I looked pasty gray... no
color... like death warmed over."
We were both silent for a
moment, then I said, 'They let me out three days later and I decided that I was
going to do something different and new with my life. I mean, Jesus, I had already done more
than ten guys and I knew it, but the booze was like a cancer and just took over
without me hardly even knowing it. I
was out of shape and carrying a beer gut and my old lady wasn't too happy with
the situation... I found out later. So, I went cold turkey... zip, nada.
"Sure it was a bitch and
I thought my life would be shit without the booze and my friends... friends, what a laugh... bunch of drunks
mostly, just like me."
The waiter arrived with our
dinners. He sat the plates on the
table and warned us not to use too much salsa until we had tried it. We ate with gusto.
Finally Randy said, "But
you started drinking again... why?"
I thought for a moment and
said, "I'll be honest with you.
Booze is a drug and once a druggie, always a druggie. But with me, the situation is a little
different. I was totally sober for
about three years. Then I was having
my annual physical because of my hereditary heart disease and the doc was
looking over my record and said, "I see here that you have been alcohol
free for several years. Did you have a serious problem?" I said back to him, "yeah, you might
say that. I was a pretty big
drunk." Then he asked me if I
thought I could handle two or three beers or wine, no more, during the
afternoon or with a meal without abusing the amount of intake. I told him I probably could, but why
should I. He said they medical
profession had decided that a limited amount of alcohol was good for thinning
the blood and therefore beneficial to heart patients, and that he would have no
objections as long as I did not go over the stipulated limit. He said that it was my call. So, if I drink too much it will cause
me grief and physical pain and damage, but a little bit is OK, even good for
me.... Look Randy, if it wasn't for my
heart condition that keeps me on the farm, I would have to be completely sober
or I'd be a fucking drunk again. I
have a situation that if I want to live, keeps me straight."
Randy absorbed that and
finally said, "You're lucky."
The next couple of days were
pretty easy. We did the tourist bit,
some shopping and eating out some.
The weather was finally shifting back to more seasonal southeasterly
winds and fair weather cumulus cloud formations. Randy said we needed to look for a sailing
window and punch out for Florida... he had calculated the sail to be three and
a half days to Fort Lauderdale. Then
two nights before we had decided to sail, we went ashore. I cut out to make a phone call and cut a
final deal on some silver I was buying for Barbara’s business and Randy went
off to a bar... we were going to meet up in thirty or forty minutes.
When I arrived at the place,
I found Randy at the bar talking with some other American off a large power
boat down from Texas. I could tell that Randy was already
seriously over the edge. I quickly
remembered that Randy had drank four or five beers during the afternoon and now
was drinking Tequila... more like
belting them down. I had ordered a
beer before I had realized how far gone my buddy was. Randy hardly acknowledged that I had sat
down next to him... he just got louder and was telling some of the same old
stories that I had heard many times past.
It was really pathetic as I watched Randy deteriorate rapidly as he
drank down three more Margaritas... it was if he didn't even taste them. Ultimately everyone near them had left
and Randy was cursing and talking to himself. The bartender cut him off and demanded he
pay up. There was a big scene and hassle,
and I finally got Randy out on the street.
It was an ordeal getting Randy back to the dinghy but I got him down the
street to the dock and aboard the dinghy where Randy immediately passed
out. When I tied the dinghy up off
Lullaby's stern, I realized it would be impossible to get Randy aboard. I was fed up with his Randy’s behavior
and thought to myself… fuck it, he can sleep in the dinghy... then went to bed.
Sometime later, I woke to the
smell of burning food. I came quickly
into the salon to see smoke pouring from the stoves oven... Rushing to it, I shut off the gas valve
then opened the oven door and found food burned black on aluminum foil. I grabbed a pot holder and tossed the whole
mess overboard listening to it hiss as it hit the water. Randy was passed out at the navigation
station.
I had enough. "Jesus Christ, wake up”, I hollered,
'what the fuck are you doing? If you
want to burn down your boat, at least give me time to get off."
Randy looked at me with
bloodshot eyes, and said... almost like he was sober, "You can always fly
home."
I looked down at Randy laying
there and shook my head, "Maybe I will”.
Then I turned and went back to bed.
I woke early in the
morning. I had not slept well... bad
dreams. I was back in Vietnam...
people were dying. I lay in my bunk
thinking of last night’s events and mulling over how I would get to the
mainland and the airport if it came to it.
I didn't want to leave Randy in Mexico with a three and a half day sail
back to Florida. Shit, it was
sometimes tough enough running Lullaby with just the two of us; solo would be
dangerous if not disastrous. I
finally climbed out of bed and went to the galley to put on coffee. It was quiet aboard Lullaby. I could hear the water slapping along the
hull and seagulls screaming for breakfast as they careened over the anchored
boats. I went back to my tiny
stateroom and laid out my carry bags on the bunk trying to figure out how I
could carry all my gear. Fuck this, I
thought... fucking booze. The coffee
was perking, this can wait.
I was on his second cup when
I heard Randy hit the head. This
should be good, I mused.... I was so
angry with the son-of-a-bitch, more disappointed and tired of the
bullshit. I could never enjoy myself
when we went ashore worrying if it would turn into a disaster or not. I was tired of putting up with it, the
embarrassment, the uneasy feeling and worst of all getting stuck ashore late at
night. Randy would always make fun of
me because I would not go out at night... little wonder when you never knew
what was on the agenda.
I heard the head flushing and
then Randy came into the salon.
Not talking isn't going to
get it I thought. "Coffee's on
the stove, it's still hot."
Randy didn't say anything but
filled his cup. After a few minutes
he asked calmly. "What happened
last night?"
I sighed heavily. "Well, same old shit... you got fucked up. You damn near burned up the boat and you
suggested that if I didn't like it, maybe I should get off."
"Yeah... I remember that
part. I saw your bags on your bed...
are you leaving?" He looked
dejected.
I did not want to go through
the problems of leaving the boat. We
would have to get me off the ship's manifest and I would have to take the ferry
to Cancun and try to get a flight to Puerto Rico. Shit, what a fucking hassle.
"Randy, we have two days
left here before we sail. The only way
I will stay is if you get off the sauce for the rest of the trip. I'm tired of it and your lousy attitude
when you get drunk... you just don't give a shit about anybody or
anything. And I'll tell you
this... if I get off, even as long as we
have known each other and all we have been through together, I probably won't
be back." I spoke firmly, but
with compassion.
Randy looked me squarely in
the eye and said, "Deal”, and then he stuck out his hand to shake on
it.
I stood up and took my
friend's hand. Our grasps were tight
and I could sense the meaningfulness, we simultaneously embraced one
another. As we hugged, Randy said,
"Thanks buddy... you’re my best friend, I love you."
I felt tears well up in my
eyes and whispered back, "I love you too, 'ya dickhead you." Then we stood back and laughed.
We spent the next couple of
hours drinking coffee and talking of Randy's addiction and how he hoped to take
control of it. Randy talked of his
love of his long distant girlfriend and how if he was to get sober, there might
be a life for them both. Finally we
put the subject to rest and hoped for the best.
Our last two days were
uneventful but yet they were the best days that we had enjoyed so far on the
adventure. We wandered about the town,
went to the beach, ate lunch and finished our shopping, buying souvenirs for
friends and family. Randy was sober and
although he was hurting, he was pleasant to be with, and more important, he was
determined to stay sober.
At last we woke on the
morning of departure and went ashore to the Port Commandante where we picked up
our sailing papers. It was a
beautiful crisp day with a brisk southeast wind and a sky so blue it almost
hurt your eyes to look up at it.
After securing the dinghy on the fore-deck and getting Lullaby ready for
sea, we raised the anchor, then the main sail and Genoa. We cleared the island on the north end
dropping off into blue water almost immediately. Lullaby was on a beam reach and the Gulf
Stream would soon give her an extra two knots over the ground. The GPS was tracking and all was good. Eighty two hours later Lullaby passed the
sea buoy at Port Everglades inlet....
Randy was home and I would soon return to my much missed Barbara and my
Isla Bonita basking peacefully in the Caribbean sun.
We both closed another
chapter in the book of life.