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Clearing in with the local authorities went like clockwork. I kept opening Coca Colas, serving cookies, mouthing mucho gustos and por favors, and that was that. An hour and fifteen minutes after her arrival at the Guarda Frontera (coast guard) dock, Kerry Deare moved to her slip in the marina (photo above). In Cuba that's lightning fast. After relaxing a day I headed into Havana on Wednesday with Tom and Janis from the yacht Tomboy, whom I'd met at Tortugas. We all loved the crumbling, romantic city from the start. We intended to purchase charts, sightsee, eat lunch, buy postcards, etc. At "El Navigante" we bought 20 Cuban Hydrographic Institute charts and while they were being hand-corrected, we wandered into an open air cafe to enjoy beer and chicken. We then watched the comings and goings in the market and enjoyed the live "son" music, a mix of salsa and other rhythms and styles. The feeling was mid-1950's. Later our driver took us to the diplo-supermercado (a "dollar" store, see below) to check out the selection of foods and to lay in a few provisions. My "few provisions" (including a case of beer at $20 and a case of soda at $13) came to about $60 US. On Friday Tom, Janis and I went once more into Havana, this time with another driver who'd been recommended by other foreign visitors at the marina. Henry (Enrique) had retired after 30 years in the Cuban army, having entered 2 years after the Bay of Pigs. As a lieutenant colonel he'd had considerable authority (he was 51 years old) but he retired early to get a jump on the political and economic changes afoot in Cuba. He planned to open a restaurant in his home but meanwhile he was running a taxi service for tourists. We paid him $30 for the day (about 0900 to 1830), which must be compared to his pension: after 30 years as a lieutenant colonel he drew $10 per month from the government. In one day with us he made 3 months' retirement pension. (Photo below left: The Malecon, Havana).
Next Henry showed us how to evaluate the unfamiliar vegetables and their prices. When finished, I had an armload of fresh produce for 16 pesos, or about $0.67. This compares with my earlier experience at the diplo-supermercado.
By the way Cubans exhume their dead after a few years, collect the bones, and store them in a small box at the bottom of each grave, evidently to conserve save space. When we visited the cemetery there was a Catholic funeral in progress. The chapel had a full complement of priests, sacraments, religious art, etc. Good old Communist Cuba. Our next stop was the Hotel Capri built in the 1950's by Meyer Lansky and the East Coast mob. We went immediately to the top floor of the hotel for a panoramic view of Havana. The penthouse featured bars, swimming pools, and restaurants, all 50's modern and all in various states of decay. It felt the way South Beach in Miami might after 40 years of zero maintenance. Lansky had almost finished building this multi-million dollar boondoggle when Castro took over and appropriated his entire investment.
Later we settled on a private home restaurant for lunch. Cuban citizens can get a license for a home restaurant, one of the few forms of private enterprise officially permitted by the government. A maximum of three tables (or 12 chairs) is allowed and liquor can be served with an additional license. More of these open every day. This is what Henry wanted to do in his own home. The food in this particular spot was good, with a fish dinner, salad, beer, and vegetables for under $5. The service however was strange and uneven. Henry made the point that at his restaurant such a thing would never occur. An ex-soldier speaking.
By Cuban standards it was quite nice. However the water wasn't running that day, the chairs were broken in many spots, and the paint on the walls was peeling. We met Henry's second wife, his 11 year old son, and his mother-in-law. Then back to the marina where Henry visited with me for over an hour and told me about his hopes for his son and for Cuba. He signed Kerry Deare's guest book in Spanish and I later worked for an hour or more on the translation. A few comments on paperwork, which is often quite confusing and annoying for first time visitors. On entry I was issued a visa for 30 days (the usual maximum) for $15. Renewal is complicated and was later quite bothersome. I was also issued a customs certificate ($20) listing "special" gear on Kerry Deare (computers, bicycle, outboards, etc.). These items would be checked upon departure and must be on board at that time or a customs duty of 100% would be levied. In addition I received an agricultural certification (no charge). At the time of my visit eggs from Florida were being confiscated and all other poultry products were prohibited. Meats and fresh vegetables were allowed, but what was permitted and what was not permitted seemed to vary with the tide. On the sail over from Tortugas Janis had dumped nine dozen eggs into the Gulf of Mexico. Considering the penalties for importing eggs, she was glad she did. But later some folks on another yacht told me they brought in chicken and eggs with no problems. Go figure. Most boat visitors to Cuba decide that a stay at Marina Hemingway is about all they want to accomplish on a first cruise. I had decided otherwise, but in order to cruise the Cuban coast I needed much more documentation. The basic rule is that the yacht must have a despacho stating she left her last port authorized to proceed to the next port on a precise schedule. This is of course nonsense for a sailboat but the problem can be solved with a permiso de salida (no charge), a document that can effectively say anything you like. Using the word processor on my laptop, I developed a number of forms designed to "grease the skids." I listed all the ports I might visit, put in some notes about anchoring when possible, indicated I'd have no schedule, and suggested maybe I wouldn't visit the listed ports anyway. Before the permiso could be issued, Kerry Deare needed a safety inspection ($50 for boats over 30 feet, $25 for less than 30 feet). Both Tomboy and Kerry Deare passed, so I made up a permiso for both yachts. We submitted the forms and when they were returned the authorities had simply covered each of them with official stamps and signatures and attached them to the usual government forms. Lesson number one in Cuban bureaucracy. Every one seemed satisfied and we were now ready to depart. The next morning I slipped the lines and motored to the Guarda Frontera dock. Tomboy and 3 other yachts were milling about, wondering what to expect. The answer was: delay. Surprise! Due to the number of boats clearing both in and out the process took over 2 hours. During the clearance formalities the immigration officer asked me outright for $5 for his young son, and the customs officer wanted a Beatles tape. I told the immigration officer that when I returned to Havana, met his son and the rest of his family, and visited his house, I might be able to help him. I told the customs officer that we only sail with Mozart. This incident was the single lapse in the otherwise professional and courteous behavior of Cuban officials. Finally at 0950 we pushed away from the dock and got underway for Phase Two of this adventure. Our destination was Bahia Honda, 40 miles to the west. It was calm so I charged the batteries until the wind came up and then sailed in by the reefs for a close view. This section of the coast is not interesting except for Mariel, 15 miles along, where the 1980 boat lift originated. It's an industrial port and useless to yachts. By 1600 I'd spotted the large cranes at Bahia Honda, part of a facility for dismantling old ships. The harbor was filled with old hulls lying in shallow water and showing off their bums. Tomboy had arrived ahead of me and had already talked to the Guarda Frontera. We didn't have to physically check in but could anchor off and explore the large harbor during the day. However we had to anchor in front of the GF dock at night. By the time I returned to Bahia Honda on my return to Havana the "rules" had changed, but more about that below. The next morning I rowed over to the GF dock to practice dealing with the authorities on my own (Tom speaks Spanish, and Janis can get by). Since my papers were in order we ended up smiling at each other and shaking hands. However I made a note of the serious manner of these gentlemen and the serious AK-47's slung over their shoulders. Later that morning the three of us sailed on Kerry Deare across the bay to Punto de Peidras. Once ashore we were greeted by a throng of children on our walk through the village. The village consisted of about 30 small houses along a main street, poor but neat. There were also a cabaret open on Saturday and Sunday for a few hours, and a "general store" with a few containers of beans on the shelves (and nothing else). Janis gave one of the women some chewing gum to distribute to the kids, and amidst the ensuing chaos we took off in the dinghies. After visiting for a few minutes with a small piece of coral right off the village, Kerry Deare sailed back to the GF anchorage for the evening. We got an early start next morning (Friday 02 Feb 96) for Cayo Paraiso, 20 miles to the west. Along the way I caught 2 barracuda, the second of which broke the hook. Fortunately my bad luck fishing was compensated for by perfect sailing conditions. Cayo Paraiso is a small key just inside the barrier reef. It must be approached by an unmarked passage through the reef. I think Tom and Janis were spooked by their first reef entry, but like most passes in Cuba this one was straight forward and deep. Cayo Paraiso was a favorite haunt of Ernest Hemingway but in Cuba it seems Hemingway haunts occur every 20 meters. We stayed put on Saturday to explore the key and wait out a strong cold front. When I tried snorkeling in the morning the seas were rough and I didn't see any fish or lobster. After staring at gusty north winds for 3 days I moved on Wednesday to Cayo Levisa, 6 miles to the west. I barely had the anchor down when a small green rowboat came alongside with two Guarda Frontera. The Cruising Guide had indicated there'd be no formalities at all, but there were (even though they were quite pleasant). The officials spoke no English and wanted to hold my permiso until I left. I said I couldn't permit this since I might have to leave quickly in bad weather. They acknowledged this might be possible and settled instead for a lista de tripulantes (crew list), one of the bogus forms I'd prepared earlier on the computer. I stamped it very officially in their presence, all the while aware of the Fellini-esque nature of the proceedings. Cayo Levisa is a small resort that is partly owned by Spanish investors and managed by Cubans. There is a restaurant, a bar, a dive shop, and about 10 cabanas facing the sea. It's pretty enough but when I sat at the bar that afternoon, the resort, with its languorous Spanish and South American tourists, appeared fake and lifeless. It seemed quite like a movie set with the actors and crew on lunch break. On Thursday 08 Feb 96 I sailed to Ensenada las Playuelas, west of La Esperanza. I wanted something quiet, and Playuelas was it. Not even mosquitoes for company. After setting the anchor I began to wonder about my chances of encountering banditos out there, where help from Cuban authorities could not reach. However the night passed quietly with the magotes of the Sierra de los Organos mountains framing the sky and a bright moon shining on the water. The next morning served up a pretty sail inside the reefs and by 1130 I was heading into the manufacturing town of Santa Lucia. The town was given low marks in my Cruising Guide, but I smelled something interesting there. It could have been the fumes from the copper processing facility, or even the aroma of the sulfuric acid plant. But there was something there. The harbor at Santa Lucia lies at the end of a long narrow channel edged with mangroves. Not until you are all the way in does it widen to show rusting factories and cranes, two large Russian tugboats, and a Cuban gunboat in need of paint. I started to anchor to row in with my papers, but the Guarda Frontera representative on the dock shouted that I had to come alongside. Since the docks were lined with huge oily tires and a rising wind was blowing onshore, this wasn't appealing. Instead I dropped anchor 200 feet out and drifted back until the boat was 3 feet off the dock. I threw a line ashore to a huge cleat and winched it in tight. No one in the crowd on the dock said anything since they'd never seen this maneuver. They just looked at one another, stared back at me, looked once again at one another, and remained silent. The fellow in uniform whom seemed to be in charge was Luis of the Guarda Frontera. I invited him on board, but he pointed at the 3 foot gap between the boat and the oily tires and refused my offer. So I brought the dinghy around, let out exactly 2 1/2 feet of line, he got in, and I pulled him alongside. Once in the cockpit Luis took off his shoes without being asked. Thinking this might be some sort of Far Eastern influence, I took off my shoes also. His courtesy became the foundation of a strong friendship, and I pondered this neo-Japanese ritual while we were below doing paperwork. All went well until I asked about anchoring, at which time he suggested a spot far out in the harbor. I'd been warned about swim-aboard crime at Santa Lucia and wanted to be close to the authorities. A brief reconnaissance uncovered a small canal at the end of the dock that sounded 9 feet with the hand line. With Luis' permission I moved the boat there and shortly thereafter a polite young man came by to inform me that dockage was 6 pesos per night. At 24 pesos to the dollar this meant $0.25 a night (including water, electricity, and security). I signed up for 2 evenings and spent the rest of the day recovering from financial shock. However I was shortly due for another lesson in Cuban economics as you'll read below. Next morning a young man came by the boat and tried practicing his English on me. Max was a 21 year old English language student at a teachers college in Pinar del Rio, the provincial capital 60 kilometers inland. We talked about his studies and Max offered to show me around Santa Lucia, so about 2 hours later I wandered into town as promised looking for Max. I took a right down the main street to find poor houses, a rough looking cantina with a few professional ladies at work, the usual small town square with a bust of Jose Marti, and not much else. I tried hellos and got wary stares in return. I did not find Max and returned to the boat thinking: so much for Santa Lucia. When Max showed up at the boat later I told him I'd been to town and looked for him. He said he'd been helping his father. This time I noticed his fancy wristwatch and nice clothes, unusual in Cuba, and my suspicions were raised. Was a hustle coming? He said he'd gotten 2 cabbages for me and I said that later I might be able to come by his house for them. This didn't seem too promising but he was satisfied and left. That afternoon I saw a yacht entering the harbor and called on VHF to suggest the berth I'd discovered. The boat turned out to be Tomboy with Janis and Tom. They tied behind me and once they were settled we walked into Santa Lucia to try to locate Max. This time we took a left instead of my earlier right. I figured 3 Americanos would be able to bargain successfully for 2 cabbages with 1 young Cubano. The difference between this section of Santa Lucia and what I'd seen earlier was startling: neat houses with small gardens, children playing, goats and pigs "feasting" along the roadside, and in general an upbeat feeling. We came upon a fellow selling coconut-filled empenadas for one peso and we each devoured two. Eventually we found Max's house and I soon saw another side of this young man. We met his grandmother and grandfather, his father, his 19 year old girlfriend Mila, and others. They were very hospitable with the little they had. Max's star was rising.
After about 2 hours (for the 30 mile trip) we pulled into bustling Pinar del Rio. According to my Guide Book, Pinar is "what's happening" in the province and we intended to see the sights. We set out on foot through narrow streets to tour the cigar factory, where the first fireworks of this cruise went off. At the crowded entrance we were informed that tourists could enter but Max could not. I told the ticket person that the 4 of us, including Max, wanted to purchase 4 tickets. He directed us inside and before we knew it Max was whisked out of sight by a uniformed police woman. A smiling guide appeared and told us the ticket prices, so I smiled back and told her I was more interested in Max. Meanwhile Tom and Janis had backed into a distant corner and developed a deep interest in the factory architecture as though nothing unusual had happened. The guide's smile now appeared somewhat forced. I told her we wanted a tour but we also wanted our guide to accompany us. After a huddle with what looked like security personnel she said it was not possible. I then told her that perhaps my "friends" in the corner might wish to tour the plant, but I did not. However, where was Max? 10 or 15 minutes later Max was returned to us, wide eyed and almost in tears. The police had accused him of being a jinetero (hustler) and of bothering tourists in front of the cigar factory all that morning. When they discovered he was a student at the college they had threatened him with dismissal and jail. He told them he'd come to Pinar del Rio from Santa Lucia that very morning but they ignored his pleas. He was badly shaken and asked (of no one in particular): "This is my country and what are they doing to me? Are they crazy?" Obviously this put a damper on things so Janis suggested we stop at a sweets shop where Max could catch his breath. We did and he brightened a little, but he remained shaken for the remainder of the day. Next off to Max's college, the Instituto Superior de Pedagologica, where I met several teachers (and students) of English. These were intelligent, well spoken, well dressed individuals, and evidently more "equal" than many of the other Cubans I'd met so far. Several were involved with IPAC, a Cuban organization for academic interchange with schools around the world. Since we'd come informally and without prior arrangement, they could not understand how we'd managed to accomplish the visit. I said we had no official purpose and merely wanted to see the school and meet students. In return I got uncomprehending stares. When I explained I was presently sailing single-handed along the Cuban coast in a small sailboat, going where I wished when I wished, I might have been speaking Swahili. They were shocked, but also fascinated. We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and agreed to a tentative return visit (with official sanction) once I reached the south coast of Cuba. Although it was a stimulating afternoon and although I'd have loved to lecture Cuba's future leaders, I later decided that treading very lightly was the preferred course.
Finally we toured the Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) on the outskirts of the town, once used by the Guanahatebey Indians as a refuge from the Spanish. For $3 you walk a quarter mile through an eerie cave, get into an outboard powered boat, and cruise a small river inside the bowels of the cave for another mile or so. At the exit there is a shop selling $4 postcards. Although I was glad to get back to the boat for a rest, this may have been the best day yet in Cuba. On Tuesday 13 Feb 96 I waited on the weather, did boat chores, and thought about Monday's trip. We'd seen an alarming side of Cuban society at the cigar factory. I was enjoying the cruise but I never forgot that I was a visitor and Cuba is a Communist dictatorship. Perhaps Max was hardest hit by the cigar factory incident, but my friendship with the Bells also suffered. I was quite vocal trying to locate Max, but their silence was louder than any words. It was time to part, but first we had to unravel the problem of the dockage fees I hinted about above. The official who had charged me 6 pesos per night returned to collect for 3 additional days. However he now wanted 6 US dollars per night instead of 6 Cuban pesos. He told us that only Cuban "patriots" may use pesos; all others must use dollars. I guessed that his boss, the Captain of the Port, had studied his rule book when he found he was in an unusual situation and had discovered his earlier error. The difficulty was that while "officially" the peso is par with the dollar, in Havana we'd legally exchanged dollars for pesos at 24 to 1. We explained this but the Port Captain insisted on the official rate, meaning $6.00 rather than 6 pesos ($0.25) per day. Janis and Tom were in a conciliatory mood, but I was of a mind that if the Cubans want to encourage visitors, they must to some extent understand how visitors interpret and react to the Cuban system. In other words, I was ready to "discuss." After much discussion the authorities compromised on $3.00 per day and of course we accepted. They were sympathetic and embarrassed by a situation where government rules said one thing, and market forces another. Yes, I was getting another lesson in Cuban economics, but the Cubans were also learning about the outside world. On Valentine's Day I sailed 40 miles west to Cayo Buenavista on the shallow banks at Cuba's northwest tip. Unlike the Bahamas, the water there was not clear enough for easy banks piloting and avoiding shoals was tiring. I anchored for the evening in complete isolation and set off early the next morning. I reached the protected harbor at La Fe, the last village on Cuba's northwest coast, the next afternoon. On arrival I tied to a huge Russian built concrete and steel dock (the monstrous steel girders made the ship's compass spin!) while about 20 adults and children watched in awe. This was evidently not a common port of call for visiting yachts. My Cruising Guide had warned that the Guarda Frontera here see few visitors and might want to hold my papers. Instead they accepted my home made computer forms as bona fide documents and even refused to come aboard for un poco reviso (a little look around). Things couldn't have been easier. After clearing I anchored about 200 yards off the dock, relaxed with a hot shower and something to eat, and worked on navigation. Then I heard guitar music from the dock. A young man, legs hanging over the edge of the rusting dock, was singing and playing his guitar while several adults and children listened. Vincente called me to come to the dock. At first I said maybe the next morning, but eventually I rowed over. We chatted despite my limping Spanish and soon Vincente's sister invited me for a fish dinner the next day. Vincente also promised a tour of the village. So the next day after morning chores I went to shore, anchored the dinghy, and waded through the mud to where Vincente was waiting. He suggested I remove the dinghy oars for security. However I didn't want to carry the 6 1/2 foot monsters around. What to do? The nearby Guarda Frontera post, consisting of 4 white buildings with red tile roofs, barbed wire fences, search lights, and machine gun emplacements, was protected by a young armed sentry. Although things seemed tense I asked permission to leave the oars at his post. He immediately became suspicious, looked around the harbor for invading sailboats and yachtsmen, looked at my weapons (the oars), and gestured that I should wait right there. After consulting his superiors, he said I could leave the oars. While I was gone the officials removed the live ammunition I had been hiding in the oars and replaced it with blanks. The village of La Fe was impressive. The one main street was well paved and had sidewalks. As in all Cuban villages there was no litter or trash (unlike most Bahamian villages). The houses were in good repair, many with TV sets and comfortable looking interiors. Teachers were leading school children in physical exercise on the street in front of a well kept school. We went to Vincente's house where his 25 year old (large) sister was doing laundry in a (large) tub in the yard while her 2 year old daughter played on the ground nearby. The place gave the impression of being very poor but very neat. I met Vincente's mother who offered me a cup of Cuban coffee. She had the defeated appearance of other older Cuban women I'd met (in particular Henry's mother in Havana, and Max's girlfriend Mila's mother at Santa Lucia). Her eyes said: "I've worked hard all my life but we are still very low." I also met Vincente's 2 brothers and tried to understand the family relationships. There was no polite way to determine the father of the sister's baby, and some of the brothers were his brothers, but not her brothers. Meanwhile every one claimed the same mother. Since I never was much on the familial aspects of dialectical materialism, I was a bit puzzled. While working on these family threads I tried to assure Vincente's brothers that it really wasn't too dangerous to sail alone along the Cuban coast. Vincente once again played his guitar and offered it to me. I tried to play I but I was unable to tune it in the normal way. Vincente had strung it with fishing line and invented his own tuning to compensate for the lack of proper strings! Having absorbed as much as I could I returned to the boat. When the winds came up later in the afternoon I was prevented from returning to their house ashore for dinner, and I did not see the family again before I sailed. Next morning we headed west 35 miles to the Cayos de la Lena (Firewood Keys) near Cabo San Antonio at Cuba's western tip, arriving in time to trade beers with the local fishermen for fresh lobster. This was as far west as Kerry Deare had ever been (almost 86 degrees west longitude) and here we prepared to round the cape and head east along Cuba's south coast. Weathering the cape can be rough but we were lucky and our passage was easy. Once around the cape I shut down the diesel and sailed along the very attractive and imposing southwest coast to Maria la Gorda, a dive resort 25 miles west of the Yucatan Straights. It's a beautiful spot with palm trees lining a white sand beach, red roofed guest cottages facing the sea, and about 20 superb nearby dive sites. The anchorage is open to the south, west, and north so when the weather acts up you move and move fast. At the dock I was greeted by Port Captain Joachim, diving instructor Nelson, and resort general manager Jesus Perez, quite a welcoming committee. Joachim noticed that my visa (issued at Havana for 30 days) was close to expiration, but he said all would be fine if I left Maria la Gorda before the expiration date. In other words he suggested in a friendly way that if I did not renew on time he'd appreciate my taking the problem elsewhere Shortly after clearing and anchoring off I heard Joe and Merlita of Berolina on the VHF. Merlita is from the Philippines and Joe's from a country called California. I'd met them earlier at Cayo Paraiso. They'd been at Maria la Gorda a few days and had already learned the "hows 'n wheres" of the resort and the local population. They invited me to tie alongside and that evening Merlita cooked Filipino spaghetti, a secret recipe based on cutting canned ham into small cubes, warming the cubes in canned tomato sauce, and pouring the resulting emulsion over a bed of angel hair pasta cooked to the consistency of well aged liquid Ivory soap. Despite its culinary deficiencies the evening was fun. The next day Joe made pancakes for breakfast and I supplied a rare syrup obtainable only at Shoprite Supermarkets in New Jersey. In the afternoon Merlita and I went diving right off their boat using a hooka. It's basically a gasoline powered compressor attached to a long hose ending in two pressure regulators. Merlita, a certified dive instructor, is very capable and I was in good hands. We dove beyond 30 feet with the hooka and thanks to her excellent instruction I did well. On Tuesday 20 Feb 96 I went to Pinar del Rio to renew my visa. Merlita had made the trip a week earlier and warned me of what was involved: time, money, and a large pain in the ass. I took off at 0830 with driver Pepe for the 150 kilometer (one way) drive. In Cuba 150 kilometers is a very long distance. My attitude toward Cuban regulations that morning was a trifle negative, but the day was salvaged by (a) Spanish lessons from Pepe who spoke no English, (2) another visit to the Instituto Superior de Pedagologica to see Max and other friends, (3) a stop for bread, booze, and a pizza lunch, (4) a successful visa extension, (5) introductions to Pepe's wife Aida and dental technician daughter Lourdes, and (6) a ride through the beautiful and interesting Cuban countryside, home to the world's best tobacco. I arrived back at the boat at 2030 in the dark and collapsed immediately. The car ride had been bumpy, dusty, long, and tiring, but much was accomplished. Unfortunately the economics were unpleasant. Visa renewal had cost $25, and the resort wanted $60 for transportation (which I argued down to $30). Add in lunch for Pepe and Aida and a few incidentals and things began to add up. For a mere visa renewal this would have been way out of line, but we were in Cuba and the cultural experience was hard to duplicate, so...
The BBC also reported that following his recent trip to Cuba, a US government official had stated on the record that Cuba had been asking the US since 1994 to prohibit such flights (which it could easily do). Washington either ignored the requests or had no stomach for the task in an election year. Also according to the BBC, there was evidence that the pilots lied to the US FAA about their flight plans. When I listened to an interview on Canadian radio with Inglesis, the head of the anti-Castro group Brothers to the Rescue, he sounded deranged. The next day Cuban television reported the official Cuban version of the incident. According to government sources, 3 planes entered the 25 mile outer limit of (so called) Cuban air space and were asked to turn and leave. The 3 continued toward Havana, eventually crossing the 12 mile limit of international air space. They were again asked to leave but continued toward Havana in an erratic pattern. Cuban MIGs then intercepted the intruders and shot down 2 of them. The third escaped. Cuban television also reported Clinton's statements about tightening the embargo, etc. The Cubans I spoke to thought the US government's position was silly, since there are presently no "official" relations or exchanges between the US and Cuba and increasing the sanctions means little in practical terms. They said I had big cahones for ignoring my country's restrictions on travel to Cuba. I said nothing. My impression was that US sailors in Cuba faced no new difficulties except for the increased presence of US warships and Coast Guard vessels in the Straights of Florida and a higher probability of interception when returning to the Keys. The plot had thickened but nothing had really changed. These developments, while unpleasant, had little bearing on activities at Maria la Gorda. The same evening the planes were downed the resort hosted a pig roast with all the trimmings. The resort was fully booked with divers from England, France, and elsewhere, and the people on visiting yachts were invited to attend. The food was the best I'd had in Cuba, and the festivities included beer, rum, live Cuban music, etc. The resort manager Jesus, a short balding man in his early 60's, helped out on vocals after rinsing his tonsils well with rum. He was splendid. All the Cubans I'd met were there and in good form. At Maria la Gorda we'd been pinned down by easterly winds and had not been able to continue east along the coast in an easy manner. The winds were moderate (15 - 20 knots) but in combination with local currents and certain geographic features they made the next leg difficult. Finally I got the bright idea that since the winds fell off sharply at 1700 and remained light during the night, why not make some easting then? So Joe, I, and another yacht started east at about 2300 Tuesday evening. All went well until we reached Cabo Corrientes. This means Cape of Currents, and it sure was. Even in light winds it was tough. After slamming into it for 2 hours I turned back to Maria la Gorda for the night while Joe and the other boat continued. Early next morning I set sail in the opposite direction and headed west to Cabo San Antonio and eventually Havana. I was heading back and was happy with the decision. I'd sat at Maria la Gorda 11 days waiting for good conditions, about the limit of my patience. During that time Clinton and Castro complicated things a little for US visitors in Cuba. Factor in low supplies and the desire to get to the Keys for a newspaper, etc., and it was time to return. Also the trip had gone well from a sailing and equipment perspective, and I didn't want to push my luck. So... On Wednesday 28 Feb 96 I rounded Cabo San Antonio, crossed the Golfo de Guanahacabibes to Cayo Buenavista the next day, and on Friday continued east to Santa Lucia in perfect sailing conditions. The Guarda Frontera Luis was on the dock once again to greet me with a big hug and to tell me how they'd improved their handling of yacht traffic. Now there was a handout in English explaining dockage rates and procedures, all this a result of the earlier visit of Kerry Deare and Tomboy.
The next day gave bad weather but I was pleased because it was also the day Clinton and his Miami buddies planned a "memorial service" for the pilots who had invaded Cuban air space. I wished them good sailing in the Gulf Stream in about 25 - 30 knots NE. Also that morning a new friend named Espina showed up at the boat for the fish hooks I'd earlier promised him and asked if I wanted to visit his house. I went over that night and 4 of us (no women) drank Cuban rum, played chess, ate lobster, and exchanged stories. None of them spoke English and it was slow going, but it was also spectacular. The house was simple and plainly furnished but even with little to give, Espina gave everything he could. When I mentioned to him that as a child I was a fan of the great Cuban chess player Capablanca, Espina wrote an inscription in his biography of Capablanca and presented the book to me as a gift. Sunday was again spent with Espina, Carlito, Pablo and a few others. We played more chess and this time Carlo cooked a fish dinner in my honor. There was rice with onions, an unidentifiable fish that was deep fried, bread, and an apple-based something for dessert. I bought beer for the dinner but I'm afraid it seemed extravagant to my friends. In US dollars it wasn't expensive, but compared to the usual flow of funds in a small Cuban village it was. I enjoyed the festivities but it was tiring because I'd spent 2 full days with these folks and had been trying to get my ideas over in Spanish while technically being unable to speak Spanish. I gave out "care packages" to several people (soaps, shampoos, etc.). They didn't recognize many of the items but they'll figure out what to do with them because Cubans are of necessity a resourceful people. Pablo, a new friend and a diver, presented me with a piece of carved black coral, a local rarity.
The next morning the Guarda Frontera had too much pride to personally row out my papers so I waited an hour and forty five minutes for a low ranking individual to appear and deliver them. I finally got underway for Cayo Levisa where fuel was available. I made reasonable time and the weather held sufficiently well for a comfortable passage. Cayo Levisa is the key where the restaurant had earlier reminded me of an empty movie set. I went to the bar to see if my first impression still held and it did, except this time there were 2 dozen fat Italian bit players hanging around the set waiting for a casting call. More importantly I got fuel here, sort of. Before I went to sleep Tuesday evening I jotted a few notes for Chapter VXII of my forthcoming book, Why I Love Cruising in the Tropics. The chapter title is: Purchasing Diesel Fuel in Cuba. Here are a few highlights.
I headed east to Bahia Honda next morning, expecting the relaxed atmosphere of my last visit. But remember: this is Cuba. The rules had changed and as I was rowing in with my papers two young men in uniform were rowing out to Kerry Deare in a rough rowboat for an inspection (I'd had two inspections a few hours earlier at Cayo Levisa). I told them to not even think of coming alongside until I had large fenders out, and once alongside they spent an hour and a half writing down the particulars of the boat. Since I'd given them all the required information in perfect Spanish on a single piece of paper, I left them to stare at the paper and ask each other questions while I completed the boat chores. They finally took off but their visit convinced me that I was losing it more and more with the formalities. The weather on Thursday was predicted to deteriorate by late afternoon. In order to make Havana in good conditions I needed an early start and this meant no time next morning for the entire Cuban navy to inspect Kerry Deare and stare endlessly at my papers. I decided to depart before sunrise without authorization. Before first light the next morning while leaving the harbor I spotted a Cuban patrol boat tied to a buoy, apparently defending against attacks by cruising sailboats and renegade yachtsmen. As I passed by the lights in the patrol boat went on, so I turned off my lights and continued. I guess they went back to sleep because I heard no more from them. However I kept looking over my shoulder during the entire sail until I arrived at Marina Hemingway at 1230. It had been windy from the right direction and we had made a fast 40 mile passage. At the Guarda Frontera dock I again had to endure customs, immigration, a medical interrogation, an agricultural inspection, and a coast guard inspection. This 2 hour ordeal wasted the gains of the fast passage. During the proceedings I asked the officials why repeated inspections were required. I said I could understand the need when arriving from a foreign port, but I could not understand the requirement when arriving from a Cuban port forty miles away. They looked at me uncomprehendingly and I let the subject drop. I decided that these were my final inspections on this cruise.
But it was clearly time to move on.
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Hello from Cuba. I
arrived at Marina Hemingway just west of Havana at 0900 Monday 22 Jan 96. s/v Kerry
Deare of Barnegat had sailed all night from the Dry Tortugas in winds 15 to 20 north,
having encountered only 3 ships (all before dark). It was a comfortable and uneventful
single-handed passage. 
We
started the day with a stop at an open air produce market, where we got our first lesson
in modern Cuban economics. There are "dollar" establishments and there are
"peso" establishments. Henry taught us how to distinguish between them: if the
facility is in good shape and there's something that you're even remotely interested in,
it's a "dollar" establishment. This was a "peso" market. We were able
to exchange money at the market, but the arithmetic took a little getting used to. The
official rate is one new peso to a dollar, but everyone gives at least 24 pesos per
dollar. Yet the currency exchange booth was quite official looking and was guarded by
uniformed police. Cuban economics lesson number two; more Cuban economics lessons later in
the story.
We then
drove to the Cementerio de Colon, one of the largest and strangest cemeteries in the world
(photo at right). Construction began in the late 1860s using a grid of interlocking
crosses that separate the dead inhabitants by social standing. Wealthy Cubans tried to
outdo one another for the fanciest and most elaborate family tombs, and the result is both
morbid and entrancing. One of my favorite chess players, Jose Capablanca, is buried here.
So is Amelia Goyre de la Hoz, buried in 1901 with her child at her feet. When she was
later exhumed the child was supposedly found in her arms. Many Cubans lay flowers on her
tomb and touch her statue for a blessing.
We toured several other hotels including the Hotel Nacional,
the most elegant in Havana. It features beautiful Spanish tiles, airy wicker furniture,
and large verandahs looking out over Havana Harbor. The hotel is in first rate condition
and the care lavished upon it was obvious. On the lush lawn huge gun emplacements guard
the harbor entrance against Yankee invaders. We were all glad we'd decided to berth the
boats several miles to the west. (Photo at right: Church of Santo Domingo, Havana).
After
wandering for a while in Old Havana (photo at left) and visiting the Museum of the
Revolution (Fidel's old cars, a few tractors turned into tanks, a US U-2 spy plane shot
down by a Soviet missile) and a few of Hemingway's old haunts, we drove to Henry's house.
Next morning I
arranged with a driver to take the 3 of us boat people, with Max as our guide, to Pinar
del Rio. We wanted to tour the provincial capital, buy bread, visit a cigar factory, and
visit Max's college. We took off early Monday morning stuffed into a 1953 British Anglia
that seemed to be on life support. A new week was beginning in brilliant sunshine as
children headed back to school, workers back to factories, farmers back to their fields,
and we to Pinar del Rio, soaking up local color. The road was filled with potholes, shaky
narrow bridges, ox and mule drawn carts, etc., and led through the Sierra de los Organos,
small rocky mountains (magotes) that shoot straight up to their rounded tops from
the flat plains (photo above). 
On the return to Santa Lucia we stopped in Vinales, the top tourist
destination in western Cuba. The porch-lined buildings on the main road had even been
painted in recent memory. There was a festive and "old-Cuba" feeling to the
place. We visited the Hotel Los Jazmines and the Hotel La Ermita, both with balconies
overlooking lush green valleys. We also lunched at a home restaurant (the 3 table maximum
kind) where the owner serenaded us with his guitar while we enjoyed Cuban coffee and
sweets.
On Saturday 24 Feb 96 off the northern coast of the island, Cuban
MIGs shot down two private planes out of Miami. The BBC reported that they were flown by
members of an anti-Castro organization that had dropped leaflets over Havana a few weeks
earlier. At that time Fidel said he wouldn't tolerate a breach of Cuban air space, but
apparently the pilots didn't believe him. (Photo at right: Plaza de Armas, Havana).
That night I
went with Max and his girlfriend Mila to a cabaret where the entrance fee was 1 peso and a
small glass of rum was 2 pesos. Cost for the evening (during which I bought all the
drinks): $0.41. Mila had asked her (19 year old and beautiful) girlfriend along to
accompany me. When I tried to follow her lead and dance to the Cuban rhythms, I felt like
an awkward tourist in a travel advertisement pretending to enjoy the local culture. The
tide waits for no man, I suppose. (Photo at left: A farmer in Pinar del Rio).
If Sunday had gone
well, Monday was a bust. I left Santa Lucia for the short hop to Esperanza where I'd been
told diesel was available. It wasn't. Children were (photo at right), but I needed fuel.
The officials at Esperanza insisted on holding my papers and during their visit they left
black footprints all over the decks and cabin sole. Further, Esperanza was an open
roadstead and in the afternoon the wind came up from the wrong direction.
I finished writing this story
at Marina Hemingway while visiting the facility for the second and final time at the end
of the cruise. It had been a spectacular cruise, with superb sailing and many special
experiences with the Cuban people. All that remained were a few chores, a little stocking
up (if I can use that term in Cuba), and some good weather. I also wanted to
"tourist" a little more in Havana (the Cathedral is at left).