Cuba, Si!

CUBA SI

You stupid, racist, mother-fucking, lucky son of a bitch fascist was the thought I had bouncing madly about in my head, as I reluctantly entertained the world traveler’s tales on the deck of the ferry to Isla de Mujeres. He told me wild yarns of sailing around the world with a running side commentary that profiled all non-whites he met along the way as stupid, lazy, ignorant, and inferior. Of course he fell in love, or in lust with one of them who was dangling from his arm like a piece of beautiful scenery that seemed surreally out of place.

She was Columbian, and I was in love. My Spanish was far superior than that of my new found racist “friend” and we hit it off. She was closer to my age then his by about 20. I mentioned that I was on my way to Cuba by plane so I thought, and he saw a bridge back into the conversation. He told me about Captain John and his boat “Serious Fun” located in the marina at Isla de Mujeres. John was looking for some help to sail his boat to Cuba and my Austrian counterpart recommended I look him up when I got to the island. Then he whisked his woman away and I was left on deck as the sun was setting and new ideas brewing about.

A few days later I tracked down John and his boat at the marina. In hindsight I should have known better then to get on board a boat called Serious Fun, but these were simpler times. John seemed like an able seaman. I questioned him about his experience and was satisfied when he told me about the years he had served in the US Navy. John also mentioned that he was going to Cuba to marry a 27year old woman. He was 67 and had created a scheme to wire his social security checks to a Mexican Bank which could be accesed via ATM card from Cuba. I figured a man like that had an incentive to make sure we would get to Cuba safely. So I took a deep breath, looked at him in the eyes, checked in with that little voice on the inside and said “Yes!” to helping him steer his boat to through the Gulf Stream to the taboo lands of Cuba.

Captain John wanted a couple of deck hands to take turns watching the boat at night, making sure we didn’t get run over by any super tanks. He recruited another volunteer named Sergio, who was a drug dealing anarchist from Spain. We bonded immediately. The captain told us to get enough food for about a 24 hour crossing and meet up the next morning. He made it sound like it would be a quick, safe, and fun trip- Serious Fun.

The next morning we took off. It was a day after the hurricane season had officially ended and the skies were blue. A slight wind was stirring in the marina, but all seemed relatively calm. Of course, I was a total novice so what could I know. My boat experience up to this point had been a few rides on giant state ferries in Alaska and some quick speed boat trips to backcountry drop offs. I had never been on a sail boat and had no idea what I was getting myself into.

We motored our way out of the marina and hit the open waters. Immediately the wind picked up and the swells hit the boat creating the feeling that we were on a teeter totter. As the captain started unraveling the sail, he lost control of it in a gust of wind. It rattled about, and slapped repeatedly against the metal cables that held up the mast. As it whacked about the cables, the sound of fabric ripping combined with the wind lit up my inner-oh-shit-what have I got myself into-ometer.

Before the Captain could regain control, our main sail ripped about 4 feet along the seem. A good seaman of course would have an extra sail stored below deck, but that was something I only learned about years later. This captain did not have a spare sail, however, he did have a role of duct tape.

Once the sail was set, he instructed Sergio and I into a three man sail fixing crew. Since I was the tallest, it was my job to use my giant wing span to stretch pieces of duct tape along the seem of the sail. Sergio hung on to my waist as I stretched precariously over the side of the boat to carefully place the long strips of duct tape that the captain was ripping off. Within a few minutes, we had “successfully” repaired the sail. My inner sailor instinct was telling me this was a bad idea, so I reached out to the captain for reassurance. With confidence he said it would hold. I had nothing but doubts, and settled into an uncomfortable position on the boat and watch Isla de Mujeres disappear on the horizon.

We were out on the open sea with no land in sight. This had been a fear of mine for years. I had grown up in the ocean-surfing, fishing, swimming, and snorkeling. I had spent two seasons working in the remote back country of Alaska, a place only accessible by boat. However, I had never been on the sea without sight of land. It’s a comfortable feeling that’s easy to take for granted, and most noticeable when its not there. As I tried to adjust to this new reality and slowly started coming out of the inner shell that was shielding me from the strange twists this adventure was taking, I noticed the captain doing something strange.

He was throwing up over the side of the boat. Throwing up! What the hell is an experienced sailor, an ex-navy guy doing getting sea sick! Sappy white goo was dripping from his lips as he turned his attention to me and what must have been a most disgusted look on my face. Don’t worry, he said as he explained to me that he sometimes gets seasick. Then he went below deck to “rest”. I sat with Sergio in silence and noticed a peculiar look on his face. At first I thought it was the look of the repulsed, pissed off, holy shit, what have I got myself into feeling that was presently roller coasting its way through me. Then he too leaned over the deck and started throwing up!

Within a few moments, our crew of three had been reduced to just one. I found out that I don’t get seasick and was left with the boat, an open sea, and a series of “oh shit what am I going to do thoughts” rambling through my mind.

The plan was pretty simple. We would each take a few hours during the night to be on watch. What exactly we were watching for was still a bit unclear to me. I stayed above deck through the afternoon, the sunset, the evening, and then darkness. Apparently the only real cure to seasickness is to close your eyes and get away from the shifting horizon that is a permanent part of sailing. I figured at some point the Captain, or Sergio would reappear and we would talk about our “simple plan”.

What made my crew mates sick, acted as sleep inducer for me. The boat was a giant cradle, and the sea was gently rocking me into a reluctant sleep. Captain John had mentioned that we would be sailing through a major shipping lane come evening, but what that meant in terms of boats was still a mystery to me. As the evening passed from one day into the next I would find myself sleeping for a few minutes then waking with a startle. ‘Where was I? What was I doing? Were there any boats coming towards us?’ were the questions that banged around in my fatigued mind.

In my ever romantic-naïve-perhaps slightly insane interpretations of the world, I had already figured out how I would survive being ship wrecked at sea if we were to accidentally be sunk by a larger vessel. It was quite simple. We would be hit. Our boat would break into pieces. I would enter the water and hold my breath for 2 minutes as a big ship mulled us over (two minutes was my record when I used to practice holding my breath to pass the time in high school classes). Then I’d swim to a piece of the wrecked boat. I’d float on it until I was rescued. I also had my “oh shit” bag with important survival gear always nearby. It was fool proof I thought. I was a survivor, and I could get through this make-believe scenario in my head with an amazing feeling of confidence.

At around 2:00am I awoke from one of “cat naps” and looked quickly about. Where was I? Somewhere in the middle of the fucking Caribbean! What was I doing? Sleeping while on watch! Where there any boats coming towards us? Holy-fuck! There was a giant super tanker all lit up going parallel to our little 37 foot piece of scrap wood. The tanker was so close to us I could see the profiles of people on deck waving to us. Deck was several hundred feet above the surface of the ocean, and the length of the boat had to be at least several football fields. ‘Where did this boat come from? How long was I asleep? Is this how I die?’ seared themselves into my foggy head as I tried to wrap myself around this new reality.

I had never seen a super tanker before. Immediately my fool-proof plan of survival was thrown out the window. I would not survive being run over by this goliath vessel. Its size, its mass, its ominous presence sent lightning bolts of fear down into my toes. I was rattled, speechless, in awe. I looked up at the waiving figures and hypnotically waved back. Then I went below deck, fired up some water, and drank instant coffee the whole night till my piss ran black and as thick as molasses. I did not fall asleep again.

As the sun poked itself around the next morning the Captain and my international drug dealing anarchist friend stirred themselves awake and like vampires coming into the light, staggered into my reality. They came up, I went down.

After a few hours of fit filled sleep, I emerged again to do figure out how the rest of this deal would be working. The Captain was functioning, though definitely in a fog. Sergio was feeling better and going off about capitalism and exploitation. I tuned into the ocean, and started to enjoy the beauty of sailing through the Caribbean. That only lasted a few moments.

The Captain informed us that the wind was not cooperating with us. We had not covered nearly as many miles as he thought we would last night. We had to change course, to tack back and forth out of the way in order to catch the wind. I stated paying closer attention to this man I had lost enormous amounts of confidence in these last 24 hours. I noticed he had two huge scars on his chest that formed a cross like the one you would see on a crusading night’s shield. I asked him what they were from. The news added one more layer to the ominous onion I was now peeling. He had triple by pass surgery a couple of years ago.

So, here I was adrift with a couple of sea sick sailors. The captain was also an older fellow with a bad ticker. The Spaniard was an anarchist who had a chip on his should, knew shit about sailing, and comfortable puffed and tripped his way through the day. I got the feeling that I was all alone, and the only stable mind and body on this boat. I started to ask questions, to pay attention to the boat, the navigation system, and the sails. I became an apprentice to the beleaguered captain and got a crash course in how to make this boat work in case it fell upon me to get us safely to shore.

The next night was a night that was not suppose to be. We should have been in Havana. I should have been sipping a mojito and practicing my charm with the local ladies. There was a million places I coulda, shoulda, woulda liked to have been. But alas, I was once again on board the tiny boat Serious Fun, and my comrades were both passed out below deck as the sky darkened and hardened into night.

Once again I was the reluctant sentry, this time with coffee in hand, ready to weather another night. But, my body must have maxed itself out on caffeine. No matter how much I drank, I still found the rocking of the waves soothing my weary ways to sleep.

Startled again from half lit dreams, I saw a series of lights on the horizon that rocked me into full awareness. It looked like the headlights of cars at night and there was a whole bunch of them. My mathematical mind started calculating there place, our place, distance, speed, movement, and other variables. The results were bad. As far as I could tell, we were on a crash course with at least one of these might vessels that were gobbling up more and more of my horizon.

Then I caught a glimpse of silver off to the starboard side of our boat. The moon was shining on something. Sharks I thought. Fuck! We are so fucked, now the sharks are circling us. Ominous times, I thought as I gulped in more air to steady the light feeling that was airing out my brain. Then on the port side I saw more shiny silver flashes. I looked closely and noticed they were not sharks. They were dolphins! Five dolphins on either side of the boat were riding our wake, steadying our course, and perhaps I thought, lingering out on a limb, protecting us.

I had a long history with dolphins and considered them to be my favorite animal. I had grown up surfing in San Diego and often shared the water and the waves with them. I had also studied them a bit and had learned that throughout history there were accounts of dolphins saving shipwrecked sailors, protecting swimmers from sharks, and guiding boats through dangerous waters. There is a sensitivity that dolphins have to humans in peril, and it was this sensitivity that I was now feeling…or perhaps hoping for.

As my eyes honed in on the super tanker caravan, I discerned that most of the boats were going to cross through our course before us. However, there was one that seemed to be on course with us. As the tingle of fear started my shivers, I decide to rouse the captain up to hopefully take action. Wiping sleep, age, and sickness from his eyes took some time. When he finally made a grumpy interpretation of the situation, I was disappointed. He was going back to bed, there was nothing to worry about.

I kept a vigil on deck and noticed the dolphins were still with us. I also noticed the lights of that one super tanker were getting brighter, and according to my ruff mathematical calculations, we were on a collision course. Again I roused awake the Captain and brought him to deck with a bit more urgency in my voice. I explained to him in rapid fire that we were in danger, that we had to change course, that my eyes were better then his, there were dolphins….

Awareness finally dawned for him, and this time he agreed with me. By the time we sorted out the ropes, sails, and our change of course, we tacked just in time and passed parallel to a massive tanker that was larger then the previous night’s goliath. I watched the tanker move swiftly and stealthily to the place our boat would have been had we not changed course. The tanker was massive. The captain told me that if the boat wanted to stop it would have taken 5 miles for it to come to a complete stop. Get out of the way or die, was their motto.

Having avoided a guaranteed last swim in the Caribbean, I figured we were safe for the night. However, the dolphins were still with us. I told the captain my theories on the presence of the dolphins, and stories of their escapades. He laughed them off and said the dolphins were masturbating. That the wake from the boat stimulates their sexual organs and that is why they were riding with us. I countered with a explanation of the Greek origins of the word Dolphin, explaining how Apollo, the God of the Sun & the Mind turned himself into a Dolphin & led a group to DELPHI, the sanctuary that was the center of the World, home of the Oracle of Delphi, the most powerful political & spiritual figure of the times, named from the same root as Dolphin, meaning Womb, Source of all Life & Wisdom. He laughed off my theories and called them cock-eyed.

Yet the dolphins stayed, and all my senses told me this evening was not over, that danger still lurked in these early morning hours. Within a few moments, we saw another set of lights out on the horizon. Again, it looked as if there was a caravan on its way to Cuba. They could have been super tankers full of oil from Venezuela, or Russian tankers full of sugar on their way back to the mother land. It was as if we were in the middle of a race course for large vessels.

This time we did not wait to the last possible moment. We tacked and turned our way out of several more of these scenarios before the dawn’s light started breaking through. The dolphins stayed by our side throughout the evening. I finally went below deck when the horizon was clear and the dolphins had moved on.

A good night’s sleep, or in this case, a good day’s sleep was all I needed now. It had been almost 48 hours, most of which I had been awake. Hearing “Mateo! Mateo, come up, quick!” was not the wake up call I wanted. The captain was calling my name with some kind of disturbing urgency. I walked up into the heat of the Carribean sun, and was in awe of the beauty around me. We were close to land, the sea was sparkling, the sun was shining and we were still alive. Seemed like the start of a good day.

Then the Captain started talking and everything went down hill. He explained that while I was sleeping the winds had picked up and ripped the sail to shreds. In addition, the motor of the boat was not functioning. He ended his report with the question, “What should we do?”

I wanted to scream at him. Through the fog of my fatigue I was thinking of a variety of insults and vulgar words that might chop him up into pieces and show him how I was feeling. Instead, I jumped into the ocean. I was hot on the inside, on the outside, and boiling mad. Before doing something that I might regret, especially on account of being on a small banged up boat, I opted for floating and thinking.

Ignoring the captain, I swam about the boat, floated on my back and savored my first views of Cuba-which looked just a few stone throws away. As reason slowly filtered its way back into my now cooling mind, I came up with a few plans after getting over my anger at being asked what to do, and got back on the boat.

My first idea was to take the small rescue boat to shore and find us a sail or repair kit for the boat. I explained this to the captain who calmly replied that the nearest port belonged to the Cuban Navy. It was clear that a couple of shipwrecked Americans and a drug dealer from Spain would draw suspicions, and perhaps make an international incident, if we came putting in on a dingy. Next I figured we could use the radio to call for help. There were plenty of boats around- most of them were probably fisherman, who Im sure would help a boat in distress. Using my best Spanish, I put out a call for help on every station. No replies came.

A slight breeze was slowly blowing us around in circles. As we rotated, I began to see the mega outlines of super tankers coming our way. It appeared that we were still in the middle of the thoroughfare, and this time we had no way of moving. Desperation was lighting a fire under my ass, and my brain started firing on all of its rusty, water-logged cylinders.

I suggested we tie up the sails where they had been wrecked, detach them from the tacking cables, and manually tack the sails to catch the wind. The captain, who now had a detached look and feel of defeat, nodded his head and let me play MacGyver with his boat