From Baracoa to Havana.
As much as we enjoyed our visit to Baracoa, the attraction of getting under
sail again is perhaps even more appealing. For one thing, a moving sailboat
is always much cooler than one sitting at anchor in a harbor. Another one
is the anticipation of he next landfall. A real sailor is a bit bi-polar.
On land he longs for the sea and at sea he wishes to be on land..
Navigating will be more difficult than any time earlier on this voyage. Moving
West on Cuba's North coast there isn't much "lebensraum" for small
craft. The Canal Viejo de Bahamas is a maritime highway so you stay as close
to the coast as possible to stay clear of the big boys. Trouble is that Cuba's
North coast is riddled with thousand of offshore islands, shoals and submerged
rocks. You get he picture; navigating here is takes continuous concentration,
especially at night.
It is Big Ed's watch from 20.00 to 24.00hours and I worry. Ed has been withdrawn,
depressed and elusive. I figure he is still lamenting the break up of his
relationship with Nancy while he was crewing aboard Stardate.
I tell him about my concern, not his condition but the obstacles facing us
in the dark.
Keep all the fixed lights to Port, watch your radar and especially your depthsounder,
and call me when you need help. Ed doesn't like to be told what he is supposed
to know, so I don't dwell on it and turn in,
Man, there is nothing that compares to sleeping on a boat under sail.Throught
the open ports and hatches comes the sound of splitting waves and spray at
the bow,
the breeze and the soft rolling motion is intoxicating. Despite my concerns
I am deeply asleep in no time flat.
Then there is noise, voices yelling outside and in the cockpit while a strong
searchlight lights up my stateroom. In my Jockey briefs I climb the companionway
ladder barefoot and face in disbelieve a pending shipwreck......OURS.
We're perhaps less then quarter mile from an island. Between the island and
us is a
boat with guys on it shouting and gesturing that we should change course away
from the island, all in Spanish. I check the deptsounder, grab the wheel away
from Ed , start the engine and turn the wheel hard to Starboard. We float
in 12 ft of water, if it gets down to 7 feet we'll be aground. For seemingly
hours we keep clocking 9-13ft water under our hull
But finally we reach safe depths as we move further away from the island and
the Cuban Coast Guard. The shouting stops, the searchlight dims, we're one
again on our own. I tell Ed to go crash. I will complete his watch. Nothing
further is said
Lucho is next on watch from midnight to 4.00am. Lucho is a good mariner. I
don't need to worry about his frame of mind but I give him the same instructions
as I gave Big Ed. Now I can really get some rest.
Besides our near shipwreck only one more event is worth while telling you
about.
We decide to take a short rest in the lee of some island, swim around the
boat and do some spear fishing for lunch. We're having such a good time that
we hardly notice the arrival of a Cuban patrol boat. Two or three guys tie
up alongside Stardate and I invite them aboard. "Would the gentlemen
like a cool beer?" Cubans, wether on duty or not will never turn down
a beer. They are no exception and in two minutes we have made the best of
friends." Would they liike to inspect the boat?" See the boat yes,
inspect? Nah!!
I try to find out what brought them to us. The skipper explains that along
the entire coast, hundreds of volunteers scan the horizon night and day with
powerful binoculars
to check if anything threatening is out there. When there is or when the observer
is in doubt he or she gets on the VHF and gives a nearby fishing boat or Coast
Guard vessel the message to shadow or to board the "intruder".At
night they are aided by sweeping search lights of a reach and brightness I
have never seen before.
The uniformed Coast Guard guys are in awe of what they get to see down below.
Hot and cold running water, two bathrooms, a shower, a complete kitchen with
gas stove and an icebox with bottles of rum.....mmmmm, mmmmmm.
"Would they like a shot of rum?" But of course, they are Cubans...........
Ten minutes later the entire crew of the Cubn Coast Cuard Patrol boat is smashed.They
thought they were going on yet another boring patrol and they ended up in
heaven. Ed and I are in the cockpit, Lucho and Bill are keeping an eye on
our "guests". To our surprise we find the keys of the patrol boat
right in the ignition. We are tempted to take the boat for a ride around the
bloc but we it might create some nasty consequences for the crew.
We give them time to restore their dignity, serve then some strong coffee
and shove off.
Varadero's harbor, we are told by the Cuban Navy or Coast Guard, is closed.
They point to an offshore island and suggest that it is only a short time
before the blockade is lifted by pointing to an offshore island where we can
anchor. But the next morning there is no change and we decide to try to get
to Varadero through the back door. That back door is called Bahia de Cardenas.
It has a deep channel for ocean going ships to reach the Port of Cardenas.
If we use the channel to Cardenas, perhaps we can get some advice or a detailed
map of the shallow bay. We get lucky.
A small workboat comes close . The skipper asks if we need help. We tell him
that without a good chart, we cannot proceed to Varadero. He waves his arm
to follow him. He tells us that guiding in Yachts is his job, he has done
it for years. I somehow trust him to get us to our destination and he doesn't
disappoint us. An hour later we dock in a narrow channel connecting the Bay
of Cardenas to the ocean in the North.
Varadero is a different breed of cat. It's no longer Cuba as we knew it. It
is a tourist's resort like any other in the world., except that here foreigners,
mostly from Europe,
exploiting Cuban innocence about business. A German guy is introducing surf
boards, another one has talked the Slovenian Government into financing 20
sailboats
for the tourist entertainment Payment will come when tourists rent the
boats for a short sail. Some of the 20 boats are in Cayo Largo , on Cuba's
South Coast, some in Havana. None have made any money because there are no
qualified skippers to run them. We are hustled to stay and make "BIG"
money by taking tourist for a sailboat ride along the coast. When I see my
way clear, I head for the beach.
I read a book and enjoy the scenery of frolicking Canadians in the surf. I
timid guy sits next to me and wonders if I am an American. I tell him "No,
soy Holandes"
That is good enough for him. He is a musician and works for the tourist with
a group in one of the hotels. He is obviously a party member given his enthousiasm
for the accomplishments of the Cuban Revolucion, the healthcare, the cradle-to-grave
educational system, and, connecting with his own profession, the governments'
dedication to promote and develope Cuban music. He reaches for his tote and
show me a paperback book.He gives it to me to inspect.
It is an unbelievable work of Provincial Governments to catalogue complete
with CVs,
backgrounds and histories of major musical talents in those provinces.
Illustrated with fotos of individuals, groups and scenes from a certain
province it is a
testimony of Cuban Governments' resolve to support and recognise the musical
and cultural value of its talents.
As an ex disk jockey and musician myself I always enjoy keeping in touch with
the musical scene and the people who make it happen.
But my new found Cuban musician friend has to go to work. But he leaves the
book with me to study and wants to meet again tomorrow.
Still trying to digest yet another experience, I slowly leaf through the amazing
booklet from back to front.
When I get to the first page there are ball pen scribbles that are hard to
read. They aren't meant for anyone but the author, my friend the communist
musician.
It reads in ( In translation):
I am doubtful about life.
I am mediocre but I will be great when.................
And then follows a list of weaknesses that require improvement.
It is the confession of a wannabe perfect communist and I feel like a peeping
Tom looking into someones most private thoughts.
Elsewhere is notice scribbles dealing with some that have left Cuba for good,
It simply states "Out of Cuba".
I only recognize one: Arturo Sandoval, a brilliant trumpet player who defected
during an engagement in Rome, Italy and who moved on to the US.
I failed to return the book to its rightful owner. My musician friend didn't
keep our appointment the next day. I still have the book, I consider it a
treasure.
Back on the boat, word has it that the British owner will meet us in a few
days
That means that there isn't enough time to sail to Havana. Bill and I decide
to rent a car and drive to Havana instead. Bill wants to see Havana
and I want to check out Marina Hemingway.
We arrive there the next morning and because we cannot locate the harbor master
someone suggests that we have some lunch at Papa's. Papa was Hemingway's nickname.
The marina is in pretty bad shape. Some restoration has been attempted but
not completed. Too bad, there is about 6 kilometers of waterfront along three
paralel channels. There is space for hundreds of boats but only about twenty
are moored there when we are there. Most boats are Canadian flagged, a few
are from European detinations and one courageous American proudly flies the
Star spangled banner.
Papa's is on the first floor, overlooking the entire marina. When we reach
the top of the stairs we are welcomes with nice background music, the kind
you don't expect in a run down marina.But when we turn the corner we step
into an entirely strange world. At least six perfectly dressed waiters, white
towels over there arms, bow to welcome us. I say to Bill, "We are in
the wrong place, let's get out of here" But Bill is as curious as I am
and clearly determined to stay. The room is big. Rows of tables are lined
up with military precision. All covered with white linen, sparkling silver
ware, fresh flowers and spotlessly polished crystal glasses all enhanced by
flickering wax candles. This is crazy. We shouldn't even be here in our shorts
and T shirts, leave alone order lunch. But no one has told us about a dress
code, everybody is polite and friendly as if shorts and T shirts were the
usual. Alas there is no way to find out what is usual in this place. There
is nobody but us and the staff. Are we early or is the crowd late? Or are
they waiting for some large group of tourists? It is close to one o'clock,
a normal time for lunch. And yet.........nothing. We order lobster,
we've come to the point that nothing matters any more. We 've arrived at a
funny farm, we might as well play along. And before long we get a chance to
play our part in the surreal play called Papa's. In the corner where we had
entered appear three stroling troubadours playing a love song to empty tables.
Everybody acts like nothing unusual is going on. Then the troubadours
catch us sitting there in the corner by our lonely self and happily
strole in our direction. The sheer idea of what will happen next fills
me with utter delight. The musicians gather behind us and play "Besame
mucho" and I say to Bill "Hold my hand Bill this is a moment to
remember" and Bill complies. Then we both break out in hysterical laughter.
Here are two card carrying hetrosexuals dressed in sailing shorts and T shirts
holding hands in the Royal setting of Paps's while being serenaded by stroling
troubadours. could anything be more surreal?
to be continued