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Stories Cuba, 1994 Had I not passed up an opportunity to be a movie extra, Nancy and I might never have gone to Cuba at all. I was managing The Heron, a struggling group home for adults with mental illness. One of the staff saw a notice in the Florida Keys Keynoter that True Lies would be filming in the Keys and needed extras. She dared the rest of us to volunteer. I went, partly because I didn’t think I would be called. In fact, I was called. But when the call came, I was rushing to submit a proposal for funds I hoped would help keep The Heron’s doors open. I thought I had to decline. Had I been more of a risk-taker, I would have gone. I could have been discovered. I could have been a star. The proposal I stayed home to write was, of course, unsuccessful. So a few months later, when Nancy came home with her own proposal - that we visit Cuba - I agreed then and there. How could I pass on two straight chances at high adventure? Nancy had been out marketing her new reservations service, and had met Ken and Val Wayne. The Waynes own, live on, and charter the trawler Latigo, a 53’ Mathews. They told Nancy they had accepted a charter to transport a group of Basta members from Key West to Havana. Basta provides humanitarian assistance to Cuba. They had organized a nationally reported flotilla a year or two before and were returning with medical supplies and expertise needed to rehabilitate a medical facility in the country outside of Havana. The Waynes said they would be away for a week. They told Nancy that the Basta people (let’s call them the Bastas) would be staying in Havana, leaving them alone on the yacht. They asked her if she knew anyone who wanted to go along, to keep them company on the trip. Oh, really? The first question I asked when Nancy came home with the idea was how much the trip would cost. I was struggling to keep open what was then an unlicensed group home – not paying myself on a regular basis - and Nancy was starting her new travel business. "Three hundred and fifty dollars," she said. "For fuel and dockage. It’s a humanitarian trip," she said. "They can charge us only a share of their expenses. We stay on the boat. We bring our own food. We’ll be away a week, one night on each end in Key West and the rest in Havana. We have to become members of Basta." "Do you want to go?" she asked. "Of course I do," I said. "In a heartbeat," I said. * * * So we scheduled the time off – two weeks hence. We became members of Basta. We planned a menu and wrote up a shopping list. We told all of our friends. One of the friends I told was local photographer and fellow Reef Sweep organizational committee member Larry Benvenuti. He had been part of the Basta flotilla. One of his life’s goals was to dive and photograph Cuba’s reefs. He said he actually had another trip planned, but his ride – a friend with a sailboat – had just cancelled on him. He had been looking for another way over. It turned out that Larry knew the Waynes. He called them. They had another open cabin. Larry would be going along. Things were looking good. The passenger list was consisting of seven Basta members and a woman named Catherine. Catherine worked at Kennedy Studios in Key West and was going along to purchase art. It was she who actually owned the permit that would allow us to travel to Cuba legally. Larry, Nancy and I would be the crew. As happy and excited as Nancy and I were, we should have expected the rub. There is always a rub. A few days before we were to leave Marathon, a Cuban gunboat shot at, rammed, and sank in Cuban territorial waters a boat carrying thirty or so would-be exiles trying to ‘escape’ to the U.S. If memory serves, some of them died. The story made the national news. Our family said, "You’re going where?" * * * We bought provisions. We packed our clothes and fishing poles. We met the Waynes at the marina. We toured the boat. We settled in to our forward cabin. Nancy and I found Latigo to be a spacious and comfortable vessel. Aft of the forward deck is the pilothouse, with doors on both sides. From the pilothouse, you can go forward down a narrow, turning stair and find two cabins (one was ours), a head, and access to the (amid ship) engine room, or you can walk aft through a narrow passage door into the galley. On one side is the galley itself with standard appliances, including a full size two-door refrigerator. On the other side is the dinette. From the galley, you can climb a ladder to the flying bridge overhead, or you can walk aft into the salon. From the salon, you can either descend another small stair to the captain’s cabin, with its own private bath, or you continue aft through a sliding glass door to the open cockpit at the stern. It was our first experience on a boat the size of the Latigo, and we were surprised to find the salon furnished more like a living room than we would have imagined. Not much of it was bolted down. We learned later that the huge fridge in the galley was not bolted down when, as we crossed the Florida Straits, it started walking itself around the galley. We had to muscle it back into place and lash it there with bungie cords. We ate breakfast in the galley. We ate our dinners in the cockpit. When we were under way, Nancy and I stayed with up top with Ken and Val, in the shade of the bimini, away from the noise and exhaust of the diesels. * * * On the first day, Nancy and I cruised with the Waynes from Latigo’s home port of Marathon to a working marina, owned by one of the Bastas, on Stock Island, just outside of Key West. We caught a cab into old town Key West for a casual dinner at the Half Shell Raw Bar, followed our meal with a conversation with Ken and Val, and retired early to our cabin – to try to make sense of the stuff packed in there. Before dawn the next morning, I awoke to the sound of new voices and of diesels starting and to the movement of the boat as the Waynes backed her away from the dock. I went back to sleep. When I awoke again, the sun was bright in the sky, there were new faces on board, and Fort Zachary Taylor State Park on the southwest tip of Key West was off our stern. We were on our way to Cuba. * * * I would like to write that the trip that day from Key West to Marina Hemingway was peaceful and uneventful, but it was not. Basta, it seems, attracts ill-mannered slobs. While it is true that they had chartered the Latigo simply to ferry them to and from Cuba, the boat was the Wayne’s home and deserved more care and respect than she received. The salon was their living room. The galley was their kitchen. Basta offenses included candy wrappers stuffed in decorative vases, feet on tables, and helping themselves to our precious provisions. When we realized what they were up to, we moved things we had left out in the galley to our cabin – not improving our chances at achieving tidiness there, and Val sat them down like small children for a lecture on manners. About half way over, another boat, a relatively fast moving one, appeared ahead of us on the horizon. When it changed course toward us, Ken took a gun from the locker in which it was kept on the fly bridge and sent everyone below. The mystery boat passed by a mile off our starboard, but we were all a bit nervous until it vanished off our stern. Because Latigo cruised at a sedate eight knots – trolling speed - the Waynes suggested we rig our fishing rods and fish as we went. We fastened a rod to each side of the fly bridge radar arch, let out line until we saw our lures pop a few hundred feet back, and then thought no more about them. About mid-afternoon, wham! Both rods bent over, reel drags screaming. "Fish on!" yelled Val. Ken cut the engines. I grabbed one rod. The other, having come loose from the radar arch and on its way overboard, was grabbed by one of the Bastas. We had hit a school of dolphin (the fish) and hooked up two good-sized schoolies. Since I stayed on the fly bridge holding the rods, it was only later that I learned that the Bastas wanted to cut our lines. They did not want the trip delayed while we were stopped to boat our catch. Although they successfully convinced Ken to let one go, he did bring what he said was the larger of the two on board. It was the first dolphin and the biggest fish I had ever caught. So I cleaned and filleted it and threw it into our cooler for dinner. By late afternoon, we were still angling south across the Gulf Stream at about eight knots. Because the Gulf Stream flows northeast at about five knots, we were actually making about six knots progress. The Gulf Stream accounted for the fact that it took us fourteen hours to reach Cuba but only eight hours to return. But the GPS was locked on a marker just outside the entrance to Marina Hemingway, the auto pilot was on, and all Ken and Val had to do was monitor their controls and make small adjustments to our course to compensate for the set and drift of the current. Although only 90 miles separate Key West and Cuba, the distance is daunting when you are out in the middle of it. One wonders what specific formula of bravery, ignorance, fear and insanity would allow a person to step into a flimsy, homemade vessel and drift out into that space. An American citizen without an official permit can get away with a visit to Cuba by flying there from the Bahamas. To begin to understand and appreciate the Cuban experience, however, one should perhaps go there the first time by sea. And then, all of a sudden, we were looking ahead at Havana’s skyline. Marina Hemingway is just west of the city. Havana was looming up on our port side. And then, just as suddenly, we were being approached head on by a well-armed Cuban patrol boat and Ken was grabbing the radio to announce our arrival to the marina. It was the same boat that rammed and sank the exile boat a few short weeks earlier. The gunboat circled us for what seemed like hours, then changed course and steamed off toward the east.
Technology is I think a wonderful thing. The Latigo’s GPS lead us to within feet of Marina’s Hemingway’s channel marker. A short channel lead to a salt water lake. Off the lake branched the canals of the marina itself. Our first stop was along the channel’s sea wall where we had to check in with Cuban customs. When we returned to Key West a week later, we docked at the same marina from which we left, and a nice young kid from US Customs came to our slip, spent about five minutes with the Waynes, and then left. That was it. Entering and leaving Cuba took hours. We were visited, in succession, by numerous officials, each in a different uniform and with different paperwork. Drinks were serviced. Questions were asked and answered. Our cabins were sniffed for drugs, though I must admit I was suspicious of that particular exercise because the dog was a Chihuahua and stayed tucked under the official’s arm, more like a family pet than a working professional. We had arrived at eight. We were through Cuban customs at eleven. At midnight we were docked in the marina, had said goodbye to Catherine and the Bastas, and were dining on the stern on our fresh caught dolphin. [Note: Not to spoil the story with "issues" later on, I will add here that Catherine returned to the Latigo later seeking asylum. It seems the Bastas had returned to their rude way and had hurt her feelings. Since there would be no place for her to sleep on the boat, Ken and Val sent her away with strict instructions on how to deal with the Bastas.] Latigo was docked near the end of one of the marina’s two long canals. Between the canals were the marina’s amenities: pool, restaurant, stores and marina office buildings. Across the canal from us, a two-story apartment building was under construction. At those few moments when I had nothing else to do, I would sit in the sun on the fly bridge and watch construction activities. Where an American project of similar size would have a work crew of five, the Cuban work crew numbered thirty. They worked with hand, not power tools. One morning I watched as a worker took a wheelbarrow of sand from the ground level to the second floor. The activity consumed most of his morning and went like this:
Later during the trip, as we were touring Ernest Hemingway’s home just outside of Havana, our young Cuban guide said of their economy, "We pretend to work, and they pretend to pay us." Having observed the marina construction project, I could understand what he meant. The other feature of the marina I found fascinating was that there appeared to be several groups of men sitting around in the shade under trees, watching. Watching us. Watching the other boats at the marina. Watching people come and go from the marina. Twenty-four/seven. One of the Bastas said they were police. At first I thought they must be there to keep an eye on us. Once I realized how important tourism and tourist dollars are to Cuba, I understood they were there to protect us. OK, and perhaps keep an eye on us as well. We were one of a half dozen boats at the marina until the second day, when a mixed fleet of power and sailboats arrived from the Tampa/St. Pete area. The regatta was scheduled to stay one night at the marina. When breezes stiffened the next day, however, the smaller powerboats were forced to stay in port longer than they expected. The fleet straggled out of the marina as their urge/need to return home overcame their reluctance to cross the straits in 30 knot winds and eight foot seas. We had American company in the marina for most of our stay. * * * On our first day in Cuba, we toured historic Havana and had dinner at what once might have been a five star gourmet restaurant in an affluent Havana suburb. On his previous visit to Cuba, Larry had met a young man - we will call him Ernesto - who was now serving as his contact there, arranging meetings with the people in the dive business Larry would need during subsequent trips. Larry and Ernesto seemed to have developed a close relationship in even the short time they had known each other. Ernesto had borrowed a friend’s old rusty greenish Lada. He planned to take us in the aging Russian car on a tour of the city. So we piled in - all six of us - and took off for downtown.
Larry and Ernesto with the Lada I found driving through Havana for the first time to be both an exciting and saddening experience. The city reminded me, oddly enough, of some of the more affluent and beautiful neighborhoods of Washington, D.C. I found it to be more European than Caribbean, more classic than casual. But its buildings needed sandblasting and a fresh coat of paint. Its lawns needed trimming. Its many boarded windows needed glazing. By the end of the day, my impression was that the Cuban people of today are living in the ruins of a once-great civilization. Nothing I saw during the rest of the trip changed that impression. It remains with me today. Our first stop was the Cuban National Aquarium. We learned there that the aquarium, built at harbor’s edge, had been damaged severely by recent hurricanes, and that funding was not available to make needed repairs. We paid our admission and strolled among the few exhibits. Small, open-topped concrete tanks with thick glass walls held the aquarium’s collection. One held a small collection of reef fish. Another three sea turtles. In one tank, a huge sea lion endlessly circled its too small enclosure like a human prisoner pacing his cell. A shallow sandy habitat surrounded by a low fence held two small penguins, one laying on its stomach on its "beach," flapping its flipper perseveratively on the sand. It was a short tour. Something I noticed at the aquarium and later at the beaches we visited was the absence of concessions. It is easy for an American to associate tourism with the consumption of junk food and the purchase of commemorative tee shirts and tacky souvenirs. Merchandizing creates memories and increases the financial bottom line. Did they not have anything to sell? If they attracted a few more European tourists and sold them a tee shirt or two, perhaps they could afford to improve the quality of life of the precious animals they had on display. Writing about animals on display reminds me of another strong impression I developed during our limited exploration of island. Whenever we were away from the marina and in public, I felt as if I was in that aquarium and that I myself was on display. More than that, I felt like I was a visitor from the planet Zorecon and had a space ship parked just around the corner. Our appearance made it obvious to all that we were not from around there. So what? It does not explain why there was a space around us wherever we went, why wherever we went we became the point of interest. At the aquarium, more of the Cubans visiting that day were studying us than were studying the poor animals in the tanks. * * * We had heard that Cuba was THEE place to see classic American cars. It was. We saw hundreds of US vehicles, none of them less than 40 years old, their import dating from before the revolution. All were in various states of disrepair. Rivaling these for dents and rust is an aging population of Russian (like the Lada in which we were passengers) and other Eastern European cars, trucks and motorbikes. We were perhaps a bit surprised to find as many late model Japanese and Western European luxury cars on the streets as we did. But these vehicles were about the business of transporting visitors. Each and every one of them displayed the readily recognized white-on-black "TOURISMO" license plate of a cab or rental car. It appeared to us that all Cubans spend their days going from one place in the city to another. But not in comfort. They ride three to a motorbike, climb into the beds of dump trucks that double as mass transportation, stand in groups roadside to participate in a mandatory and well structured hitchhiking program, or just walk. Can you imagine reserving the slow lane of your nearest expressway for foot and bicycle traffic only? We saw that there: walkers and bicyclists in the right lane, old rusty cars and trucks limping along at forty in the middle lane, new Mercedes and Audis blasting by at a hundred in the far left lane. We have footage and stills of old Havana. Though it is in great need of repair and renovation, we found the city to be clean and friendly. We visited a cathedral. We toured the few shops we could find. We ate beans and rice at Hemingway’s favorite restaurant and tried a mojito for the first time. And on that day, we fell in love with the people of Cuba. Late afternoon, we headed for the suburbs to meet Ernesto’s girlfriend – wel’ll call her Maria - and have dinner. Because it was already cramped in the car, we were dropped off at the restaurant and Larry and Ernesto went on by themselves to collect Maria. We were of course at a loss. Suddenly, we had no one with us who spoke Spanish, and we were in a place where apparently no one spoke English. While we waited, we managed to purchase quatro cervezas and to be entertained by a quartet of wandering musicians. We found musicians everywhere, all singing from the same repertoire of romantic Latin songs. When we finally asked how much we should be tiping them for their entertainment, we learned we had been paying them a week’s wages per song. By the time we got to Veradero the next day, we had scaled back our remuneration program substantially. Tiring of waiting in the sun for Larry and the others, we decided move on to the restaurant. The restaurant would pass in any other city in the world as an elegant, four-star affair. It overlooked a beautiful tropical garden and was surrounded by a wide covered porch, We sat outside, overlooking the garden. Perhaps two other tables were occupied. Menus encased in thick dark leather were handed us. The menu itself was equally impressive. Since we do not eat meat or poultry, Nancy and I studied the list of seafood entrées. We were served a hard crusted bread and glass of water. We ordered more beer. We decided to go ahead and order - Larry and his friends could catch up. Nancy and I ordered first. Using a combination of simple words and gestures, we asked about the fish entrées. What we heard in response from our servers – and they seemed very proud to have found the words - was, "one fish." We took this to mean they were only preparing one of the fish dishes. We asked which one they were serving. "One fish!" they said again, accompanied by smiles. We took this to mean they had only one species of fish to serve. So we asked them how they are preparing it. "One fish," they said again, perhaps a tone of dismay setting in. And then it dawned on us they were being very literal indeed. They had only one single fish left to serve. So we ordered it. When the others arrived, we learned that the restaurant was frequented by productive citizens being rewarded by their government with a dinner. A "locals" restaurant, it did not cater to tourists. They had little in the way of food to serve. Judging from what we had and what we saw the other groups eating, they had cube steaks, onions, potatoes, carrots, and the hard rolls they were serving. They also had butter and beer. As we had just eaten their last one, they no longer had any fish. When the musicians reappeared at our table, we listened to their songs, and Ernesto and Maria danced. We talked. We laughed. When it grew dark, Ernesto drove us back (Maria stuffed into the front seat) to the marina and the boat.
[Note: The next morning, chief Basta offloaded all of the medical supplies he had brought, loaded them into his rental car, and took off toward the city. This was in direct violation of the directions he had received from Cuban authorities who wanted him to deliver the supplies to customs personnel who would then have them transported to their destination.] We decided to explore a little more of the island and visit a nice beach we were led to believe was just outside of the city. So we hired a cab and packed up our stuff for a day trip. Since Larry was off with Ernesto on other business, it would be just the Waynes, Nancy and I. The cab that came for us was a brand new Mercedes clearly identified with "TOURISMO" license plates front and back. The imagined the driver to be an undercover police agent. When we got to the beach, he would wait for us. He himself would be bringing us back to the boat. The car ride out and back was harrowing. Not for me. I choose to believe that, in general, people want to live, and therefore do not for the most part do obvious things that will cause them to die. This belief allowed me to climb calmly into a very small plane for a 400 mile charter flight late one rainy Saturday night from Puerto Rico to Guadalupe. It allowed me to maintain a serene demeanor as we careened around the racetrack-like streets of the Cancun hotel zone in a tiny cab that had already done 400,000 miles on the mean streets of New York. And it allowed me to study the countryside flashing by at a 100 klicks per hour even though a foot away were aging hulks of cars traveling 70 clicks slower and beyond them a steady stream of pedestrians. Nancy managed, as she did on the two previous occasions, by going into a self-hypnotic trance. We drove through several roadblocks along the way. We were waived through and did not have to stop. The roadblocks were pickup points on the national mandatory hitchhiker system. They also served as opportunities to spot check cars for black market goods. [On the trip back to Key West, chief Basta informed us of one of their experiences. A small car traveling in front of them failed to stop at a roadblock as directed – perhaps he didn’t feel like company that day. The uniformed guards at the stop pulled out their hand guns and fired off a few shots at the escaping vehicle. Chief Basta allowed as how they did not seem intent on hitting anything, he thought the driver had gotten away clean.] * * * We approached the beach outside of Havana down a steep hill. A wide band of soft clean sand separated a grassy parking area from the gloriously blue Caribbean beyond. Our driver pointed out a tree and said he would be in its shade while we sunned and swam. Ken, Val and Nancy had brought their swimsuits. I had worn mine. So when the rest of the group trod off along the beach in search of some place to change, I remained to guard our stuff: video camera, shoes, cooler with bottled water, towels, snacks etc. We were the only people there that had any stuff. Everyone else, and the beach was reasonably crowded, had a swimsuit and a towel only. I had been waiting about 15 minutes for the return of my group when two guys came along. As they walked by, one of them turned to me and asked, "Canadian?" "American," I responded. They stopped, turned, and squatted in the sand, a discrete ten feet from our blanket. They wanted to know how I came to be there. They said they thought Americans did not like Cuba. I asked them how they had learned English, and they said from listening to Key West radio stations. We talked together for about ten minutes. As we were talking, two other young guys approached. They walked around our blanket and up to my two visitors, who immediately stood and began handing over their identification. I thought I might need identification as well and so started reaching for my passport. It was unnecessary. After a minute or so, all for of them started to walk off. As they did, the quieter of the two with whom I had been talking, turned and said, "They are the police, we have to go now." And off they went. For me? Not a word. Not even eye contact. I began to be concerned about the welfare of the two guys I had met. I then realized that Nancy, Ken and Val had been gone a long time, and began to be more concerned about them. When they returned some time later, they explained that they had simply had difficulty finding a place to change. I told them my story, and went for a swim. While I was splashing around by myself in the water, I saw the two guys with whom I had chatted return. They smiled and introduced themselves to Nancy, Ken and Val, but they stayed only a moment and then walked on. Perhaps, I thought, they were there to reassure us, to make sure we thought they were all right. And all the time we were there, our driver stood under his tree just above the beach, nodding, smiling, watching everything. The next day, encouraged by the success of our trip to the beach, we decided to rent a vehicle and head to Varadero. Ken had talked with a car rental agent at the marina, and been told it was perfectly safe for us to take off on our own to explore the countryside. We had heard from one of the Bastas that there was a resort about 120 klicks from Havana. Several of the Bastas were heading there themselves, since it was in the area of the hospital they were visiting, so we decided to drive out there ourselves. Our plan was to explore a bit along the way. We packed a lunch and set off right after breakfast in our new, rented jeep. I drove. We first retraced our steps to the beach were we had been the day before. But then we went on. As we left Havana behind us, the highway narrowed and grew bumpier and the landscape changed from urban to suburban to rolling hills spotted with oil derricks. We saw a small, seaside village along the way, and stopped stopped for lunch and a swim. There were others there on the beach, but none tried to speak with us save a young girl who was curious about the snorkel masks we had brought with us. We showed her how to use one, and she was happy to be able to see fish under water for the first time. On a cliff above the cove, two men watched. After lunch, we continued on across the countryside, through a larger, heavily industrialized port town, and on toward Varadero. I do not know what I was expecting, but after touring Havana and experiencing how the average Cuban lives, Varadero was not it. I was thinking a single resort. What I drove toward was a peninsula with perhaps seven miles of wide, sandy beach lined with one spectacular resort hotel after the other. And where we had eaten the last of the restaurant’s fish a night earlier, everywhere we looked we saw food, beverages, clothing, books, everything you would expect to see and to find at a world class resort area. Most of it displayed American brands. We found a Super Club in Varadero, a joint venture between the Cuban and Jamaican governments. We left there thinking that should Cuba ever "open up," the South Florida tourist industry would be devastated. Why fly to Miami Beach when you can stay on the plane a few minutes longer and visit the spectacular resort area that is Varadero? For that matter, why visit Cancun? * * * The next day, the last day we were to be in Cuba, we decided to visit Hemingway’s house in San Francisco de Paulo, a suburb more or less of Havana. Ken needed to prepare Latigo for the return trip, so the rest of us called a cab and sped off across the city. Near the end of his life, Hemingway had homes in both Key West and Havana, and he had the Pilar on which to fish the waters in between. Nancy and I had not yet visited his home in Key West. We thought we would take this once in a lifetime opportunity to see the home in Havana and then visit the Key West house later on, to compare. At the estate, considered in Cuba to be a shrine, we were provided with a personal guide. We spent about two hours walking the property and learning about Hemingway and about our guide. We’ll call him Ricardo. Ricardo told us that he had worked in a paper mill until they ran out of supplies critical to the paper manufacturing process and shut down the plant. He said he took the position at the estate because he was not well educated and thought it would give him an opportunity to improve himself. Ricardo told us he lived forty miles from the estate, and that it took him three hours to get to work in the morning. We learned that he had read several biographies of Hemingway and had almost completed reading all of his works. Our tour was informative and thorough. Not a detail of the estate went unnoticed. Every room, every view, every object had a story. Hemingway’s home on Whitehead Street is open to the public. You can take a guided tour through the residence and stroll the lawn on your own. Visitors to his estate in Cuba are not allowed inside the residence. When he divorced her, Hemingway’s third wife wanted to be done with him. So she packed up his stuff and shipped it to Cuba. The estate’s caretakers have done everything possible to maintain the home exactly as Hemingway left it when he departed the country for the last time. If he laid a book carelessly on a table, they want it to remain where he placed it. You can stand at a doorway and peer inside. You are not permitted to enter lest you disturb things. We didn’t mind. On a wall in one of the hallways of the Key West home, you will be shown a picture of the Pilar, Hemingways’ fishing boat. You may even be told that there is a replica, a sister ship of the Pilar, in the Worldwide Sportsman building in Islamorada. The real Pilar is located in a pavilion constructed for it on the tennis court of the estate in Cuba. The boat in Islamorada may be similar and has the advantage that you can climb around in it, but to me it is not even close to the real thing. For about twenty years, Hemingway fished with a gentleman named Gregorio Fuentes out of Cojimar. They had a deal. Whoever survived the other got the boat. When the survivor died, the Pilar was to be hauled up the hill and placed on the tennis court. When Hemingway died first, Signor Fuentes was so distraught that he refused to use the Pilar and instead donated it straight away to the estate. Today it sits on the tennis court in a pavilion designed for it. A roof protects the Pilar from the sun and weather. A raised wooden walkway surrounding the boat lets visitors peek in. But as with the residence itself, you can not go on board.
The Pilar On our last night at Marina Hemingway, we decided to dine at the marina’s restaurant, which we had heard was very good. The next morning, Catherine and the Bastas would return from the city, and we would be leaving for home. We were seated and provided with menus that featured a long list of seafood entrées. Not wanting to run into the same issue we had during our previous dining experience, I asked the server how many of the fish listed were actually being served. He looked at me somewhat quizzically and said, "Why all of them!" One last story. On the trip home, we learned from the Bastas that they had experienced a blowout on their return trip from Varadero. They tried changing the tire but found the spare and useless. It was the end of the day. They were in the middle of nowhere. They expected to sleep in the car that night and hoped for rescue the following day. In the end, they were saved by some local farmers who, using only the jack handle and a crowbar, managed to repair their tire and get them back on their way. * * * Cuban customs took less of our time at departure than at arrival, but not much less time. But by midmorning, we were heading back across the straits toward Key West. [Note: The Bastas had not given away two bags of the toiletries they had brought with them as gifts. Not wanting to return home with it, they offered the stuff to the guards at Customs. Because their gesture could be viewed as a bride, they were refused. Chief Basta left the bags on the dock anyway. Those of us who worry about things began worrying about that Cuban gunboat we had encountered on our way in.] The weather for our return trip was beautiful, the seas had calmed, the crossing was a pleasure. Even the Bastas seemed to enjoy the day and be on their best behavior. When the sun set, Key West was on the horizon.
Sunset By the time we arrived at the dock on Stock Island, it was dark. Catherine, Larry and the Bastas left us that night. We tidied things up a bit and enjoyed a quiet dinner on board. The next morning, a young officer from US Customs cleared us and we headed back toward Marathon. The weather was featuring isolated summer storms that day, but Ken and Val used their radar to steer around and between them. We once again deployed our fishing rods, and about half way home were fortunate enough to catch dinner. While I was loading our stuff into our car for the trip home from the dock, I turned on the radio to catch up on the news. I wanted to know what we had missed while we had been away. District Attorney Gill Garcetti was announcing that OJ Simpson was considered a fugitive from justice. That night, as we unpacking and settled back into our house, Miami TV stations were featuring the famous slow speed chase. It was so good to be home.
Note: Larry is a frequent contributer to the Florida Keys Keynoter. Often you can see his photography at their web site. Some of Larry’s underwater photography also hangs in the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. |
