WHICH WAY TO CUBA?
24 Hours of Detention in Castro-land: Cuba
It's tough enough for one lost man to ask for directions. When it's four American guys inquiring about boating to the forbidden island of Cuba, the results can be a nightmare.
6:44 P.M. "GIVE US YOUR KEYS," THEY SHOUT TO OUR BOAT.
"Why?" I scream back. I'd never been mugged by pirates, so I dashed below deck to stash valuables on my body. Back on deck, I can't argue with the impatient, AK-47-wielding crews on the two larger boats flanking ours. Only one of the 20 guys on either boat wears anything resembling a uniform; both boats have big cannons and nobody is smiling. After a useless protest against surrendering the keys, I also throw them the line they use to tow us into port and start "the investigation."
 7:28 p.m. As we approach the shore, things become clearer, if no less unsettling. Waiting on the dock is a 100-person army/cavalcade of drug-sniffing-dog handlers, police scribbling on clipboards, brooding military personnel, doctors, interrogators and interpreters. Welcome to Cuba? Because of government sanctions, Americans typically fly through Mexico, Canada or elsewhere to visit the largest island in the Caribbean. This procedure has always struck me as tedious. I wanted to conquer Cuba by boat, and the publisher of a magazine to which I regularly contribute had made it happen. For years the publisher, Lenny Gropper, pondered venturing there with his father, Lenny Sr., a retired steamfitter of merit who's been boating to and from Cuba for decades. Recently, Lenny Jr. and I flew to Fort Lauderdale, Fla., boarded his dad's 30-foot fishing boat, the Steamfitter, and motored south. We soon reaffirmed a time-honored maxim of travel: The adventure begins when the plan fails. Our captain traditionally docked near Havana, but headwinds burned more gas than expected, so the straight line from Marathon Key, Fla., was to the marina in Varadero, 80 miles east of Havana. As Cuban soil rose into view, we made several unsuccessful attempts to radio the marina. Roaming 100 yards offshore, hunting for the inlet, the only other boat we'd seen in Cuban waters was a dilapidated, 120-foot, steely vessel that kept its distance but mimicked our movements. When we turned and approached them to ask directions, another rusting steel beast raced onto the scene and detoured the vacation, just as the sun sank into the ocean.
 9 p.m. As the moon arcs across the sky, a stream of officials search and pick apart the boat. In between visions of a federal court - or worse, a Cuban jail - I occasionally nap on the comfy wooden dock, using a pylon base as a pillow. The drug-sniffing dogs are followed by a team of quarantine doctors. "Anybody want a soda?" inquires Lenny Jr., ever the gracious host.
10:50 p.m. A young female physician gives us physicals. Cuba is rumored to have one of the best healthcare systems in the world, but at the moment I find it hard to appreciate this. Using the pilot's bench as an exam table, she probes our abdomens and wears an expression of deep concern. The medic suggests that the captain "keep his legs elevated," and returns later to retake his blood pressure. If his ticker's feeling overtaxed at the moment, I can't blame him.
| THINGS TO DO IN CUBA (IF THEY EVER LET YOU OUT OF DETENTION)
UPON RELEASE, WE DROVE TWO hours to a random suburb, Santa Fe, on the western outskirts of Havana. A restaurateur suggested we stay in the side apartment of a family home. Migdalia and Deredio, a couple in their 50s, opened their homestead and hearts to us, sharing photos, books, stories and urgent truths. For the rest of the week, I strolled their barrio's humid streets, befriending classic- car zealots, backyard carpenters, mothers hand-fanning their babies and everyone else along the way.
Cubans endure and embody Indiatype survival, with flair. There's no litter, because everything is modified and reused - a far cry from our throwaway society. They still maintain and use toasters made before JFK was elected. Ancient cars, surely condemned even in India, roll on. Once inside one of these gems, it's typical for the driver to pass around one window crank-handle to open each window. Their passion for breathing life into otherwise dead cars (and appliances) celebrates 1950s pride; restored Detroit classics piloted by mechanical geniuses can be found everywhere.
Ninety-eight percent of the 12 million people living on this island - with the same land mass as Louisiana - are literate. But it's an undeveloped country with developed people, and the Communist hangover means that pens, matches, grocery bags and the freedom to speak freely about politics are in short supply. There's no malnutrition or neglected illness, and sports and the arts are encouraged, but their system mandates that dreams of rising above the norm are unattainable. However, though money for luxury items is sparse, nobody worries about house payments, medical bills, or not putting food on the table. They chill. Castro's domain struck me as a sultry, non aggressive, island prison. But the amazing patience, grace and warmth of the people makes it more than just another sunny vacation romp. |
1:33 a.m. A technology expert, presumably, steps onto the boat, gives us nods of confidence and completely dismantles our cell phones, taking ferocious notes about each part and serial number. Spy stuff.
3:54 a.m. I become keenly aware that several stone-faced men have been photographing and videotaping the whole show. This realization occurs when the video-camera operator wakes me from part four of my nap with the light from his camera. "How could this possibly serve the national interest?" I groggily wonder.
Though the relationship between Cuba and America has been nothing
less than chilly during the last four decades, tensions are spiking again between the two countries. Last year, Bush and Co. sanctioned Swiss banks for the "laundering" of Cuban currency. Cuba's retaliation, starting in November 2004, outlawed the previously common U.S. dollar transactions for all goods and services, and imposed a 20 percent fee for mandatory dollar/peso conversions. And, Yanks arriving unannounced by boat also became a tad more problematic.
6:16 a.m. As our detainment by the Cuban coast guard and friends approaches its 11th hour, the sun begins to rise. Emerging from a dream about missing a meal while in solitary confinement because my Spanish is rusty, I wonder aloud if we should call a lawyer. Lenny winks and informs me, "Spending that quarter could multiply our legal problems."
11:12 a.m. In Varadero, the officials interrogate us individually in a small, windowless office with three desks. Delivered by a Spanish-speaking inquisitor via an interpreter, the high-volume questions range from, "Do you have any Cuban friends in the United States?" to "Have you ever been in trouble with the CIA?" Four other serious types look on without blinking.
2 p.m. Mildly panicked paranoia sets in. Cuban detention takes me back to the many hours I'd restlessly endured in my junior high school principal's office. I plunge into a semi-hallucinatory state. "We're calling your parents," I think I hear someone mumble in Spanish. Images of a $10,000 Uncle Sam fine and a year in prison swirl in my head.
3 p.m. Every two hours, I peek back into the interrogation chamber to ask when we'll be free. They maintain poker faces and predict a few more hours. "We're checking with your government," the interpreter nods. Is he joking? If I'm here trading with the enemy, why the hell are they calling Washington? Was I going to become an international media example exposing the flipside of the Cuban refugee boating issue?
4:01 p.m. I want my mommy.
7:05 p.m. The sun sets - for the second time since our confinement. A Canadian boat-dweller ambles by and attempts to illustrate the bright side of Cuba's militarized bureaucracy: "Thick bureaucracy, thin crime!"
7:15 p.m. Our 24-hour detention concludes with an apology. We had no idea that our beachfront search for the inlet raised red flags. Occasionally, speed-boat mercenaries storm beaches and ferry locals to Florida. In addition, some cell phones have GPS chips (and, based on their wireless dismantling science project, you'd think lasers) that could help navigate a rafting refugee. Obviously, most Cubans can't afford boats, and the Cuban government very much discourages Cubans floating on anything. It's even illegal for foreign boat visitors to use the kayaks they've brought along; any craft could become a local's ticket to a Dolphins game. For sure, very few Americans storm Cuban shores by sea, and their lawmen didn't seem to have much going on otherwise. If it was an embargo formality, at least they now have a training video for shaking down American buccaneers.
7:37 p.m. Group discussion/summary in a Havana-bound taxi: Perhaps the adage about men refusing to ask for directions when lost has merit - the rare moment when four asked at once, the banana hit the fan.
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