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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Novels
- Published: 02/28/2020
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CUBAN RAFT VOYAGE
INSPIRED BY THE 1994 CUBAN MIGRANT CRISIS
Dedicated to the brave balseros lost to Mother Ocean
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks to Luis Alvarez for the extensive material he provided about Cuban life and his proud heritage. Thanks also to Dwight Ramirez, Alfredo Matos, and Carolina Alvarez for refining my Latino knowledge, and to Ron Sparks for his fishing voyage on the Perseverance, which inspired this story.
As always, this book matured with guidance from Mary May Burruss and her Cocoa Beach Writers Workshop.
Introduction
In the summer of 1994, I encountered several empty Cuban rafts afloat in the Gulf Stream off Cape Canaveral while I was fishing on the 36-foot sportfishing boat Perseverance, owned and captained by Ron Sparks. After discovering these eerie platforms of ill-fated tragedy, I often wondered what arduous stories could be told of the brave people who left families and homeland, only to perish after horrific journeys of misery on makeshift rafts.
In Cuba, this was a time of great unrest that peaked when Castro opened his borders and allowed a wave of “balseros” (rafters) to migrate from his country on boats or improvised rafts launched in hopes of finding freedom from tyranny. Tens of thousands of these balseros survived harrowing journeys to South Florida, though many others undertook the seemingly short 90-mile journey only to be swallowed into oblivion by Mother Ocean’s harsh Gulf Stream where only the strong and well prepared survived.
Nearly one million Cubans have fled their country in several waves since Fidel Castro’s takeover in 1959. The first waves of exiles mostly contained Cuba’s middle and upper classes fleeing reprisals from the new Communist government. They left in hopes of someday coming back to their homes after the Castro regime was overthrown.
The next significant flight occurred during Cuba’s infamous Mariel Boatlift in 1980 when Castro allowed 125,000 dissidents to leave Cuba. Many left on private American boats arriving from Key West on rescue missions. Castro also sent several thousand inmates from prisons or mental health institutions, known as Marielitos, in that wave. The movie “Scarface” epitomized the resultant increase in Miami’s crime and drug trafficking after those boatlifts.
In contrast, the next generation of refugees in the balseros exodus did not contain political exiles or criminals. Rather, they were ordinary citizens migrating from deplorable conditions in their poverty-stricken nation that floundered after losing Russian support at the end of the Cold War. Misery bred desperation, and around 35,000 balseros left Cuba on rafts built from wood, barrels, inner tubes, and hope. Of those, the United States Coast Guard picked up some 32,000 rafters and returned them to Guantanamo Bay for processing in an eighteen-month long program to introduce them to American culture. No one knows how many of the remaining migrants survived the trip to Florida undetected, or how many perished at sea.
Based on testimony from successful balseros, I now give you my fictional story of one of those fateful journeys. While the locations and historical events in this story are true, any references to real people or events, organizations, or locations are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity.
Gordon England
Chapter 1
Juan de Hoyas peered through long roots hanging like hair from sacred Kapok trees. White turrets with red tops glistened in moonbeams peaking through clouds above Cuba's Sierra Maestra Mountains. Brown clothes and skin, long black hair, and a thin mustache concealed the slim nineteen-year-old Cuban in the darkness. In torpid September heat, a writhing snake of yellow-clad dancers marched up a torch-lined path pulsating to a beat of metal tambour drums. The trail led to the National Shrine Basilica of Our Lady of Charity in the village of El Cobre near Santiago. Juan joined the rear of the procession as it entered a candle-lit sanctuary. The annual ceremony synchronized Catholicism and Santeria - the unofficial religion of Cuba. Ochun's Feast Day had begun, a tradition dating back to new world Yoruba slave mythology.
Juan lowered his shoulders and stepped to the back row of worshipers as they sang, played classical violin music, and placed treats of honey and pumpkins on altars before a 16-inch tall statue of Our Lady of Charity, lovingly nicknamed “Cachita.” Though normally secured in a locked glass enclosure high on a wall, tonight the venerated Patroness of Cuba stood on an altar for all to see. With his head bowed, Juan dropped a sunflower at her feet and sneaked a furtive look at the beautiful Virgin Mary statue. A polished, fine white powder coated her clay head, jewels encrusted her dress, and she stood atop a brilliant moon with golden-winged cherubs above her on a silver cloud. In her arms, the Christ child’s right hand rose in blessing, and his left held a golden globe.
The sight of Cachita up close took Juan’s breath away. He wheezed through his nose, broken by a policia’s club. He left the altar, walked to the rear of the church, and quietly slid into a dark vestibule. His hands trembled. Sweat poured from his face. Could he go through with his plan? He loved Cachita with all his heart. Surely, she would realize that his need for her protection surpassed the priest’s need for her to watch ceremonies. For hundreds of years the Lady of Charity had protected sailors on dangerous voyages across the sea, and now, she would protect him on his.
He fidgeted as he waited for Mass to end. After the worshippers slowly left, a priest extinguished aisle candles. Juan crawled quietly to the front row of pews and raised his head to look at Cachita’s kind smile.
“May I help you, my son?” asked the priest.
He froze.
“Do you wish to tell me something?”
Juan dashed to the altar and grabbed Cachita.
“No,” shouted the priest as he started toward Juan. “That’s blasphemy.”
Juan dodged to an opposite aisle and raced to the rear of the basilica as the priest yelled in pursuit. He vaulted down steep rock steps and disappeared into thick dark woods. Juan stopped behind a large boulder to admire Cachita’s golden crown glistening in golden moonlight. He wasn’t blasphemous and wouldn’t hurt her; he just needed Cachita’s strength and protection for his dangerous journey. He changed into a farmer’s dirty white clothes, carefully wrapped Cachita in a burlap cane cutter bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Juan descended the mountain on a rocky switchback trail illuminated by flickering moonlight.
Chapter 2
As the sun rose over green mountains, Juan shuffled through the sleepy city of Santiago and made his way to the Ferricarriles de Cuba railroad station. He crept through the dirty rail yard to avoid watchful guards and crawled into a rail car full of sugar cane held in place by oval shaped iron bars bowed out like a whale's rib cage. Juan buried himself and his cane cutter bag under a pile of cane stalks and waited for the start of the eighteen hour ride over 543 miles of tracks back to Havana. He would guard Cachita on this journey to her new home and protect her with his life.
Coming to life, the locomotive spewed black diesel smoke as it gathered speed on a track that wound westward through a patchwork of tobacco fields, green fields of sugar cane higher than his head, and villages with thatched roofs, dull women, and banana trees. Juan chewed on a sugar cane stalk, ate potatoes stolen from a farmer’s field, and watched the beauty of Cuba’s fields and mountains, soft and warm in the glow of late afternoon.
Reality broke the aura of tranquility whenever the train approached highways. Peasants and farmers were streaming in anger from the countryside toward Havana to protest their dismal living conditions. Cuba was undergoing a ‘special period' after Russia collapsed and cut off their Cold War subsidies. The economy had crashed, and people were starving. Riots had broken out over food shortages in Maleconazo last week. Outnumbered police stood back, reluctant to crack down on protesters.
For a few hours, Juan relished freedom from watchful eyes of Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, (CDR) Block Captains, who watched every person entering homes or buildings on each city block to determine if they incited revolutionary activities against the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC). The PCC used CDRs to control the totalitarian society. Trouble-makers identified by Block Captains were known as gusanos, Worms, and their identification cards, to be carried at all times, branded them as such. They were at the bottom of Cuba’s three-caste system. The government denied gusanos almost all rations of food, medicine, and necessities of life, forcing them to turn to a vital black market for survival.
Block Captains and CDR members made up the second caste of society. They were the poorest and uneducated, often joining the military or police for government jobs. The Worms called them “The Brainwashed.” They received libreta cards (ration cards) that barely provided enough food to eat. The PCC paid them rewards of TVs, washing machines, refrigerators, cars, and positions of power for reporting Worm activities. The Brainwashed could not participate in black market activities to obtain goods or they themselves would become Worms. Therefore, Block Captains often entered a Worm's house and took his possessions with no reprisal.
At the top of the caste system stood light-skinned PCC leaders who stole the best of everything. Communist leaders made up about 10% of the population.
That evening, Juan awoke from fitful sleep when the train stopped at the end of the track in Havana. Luckily for him, this part of Havana was dark due to the normal nightly apagon (power outage). Soldiers checked papers of passengers in every railcar. Security was tight tonight; word had spread fast about the basilica theft. He crawled undetected from the cane car with his bag and slipped into darkness.
Chapter 3
Juan nonchalantly walked along the hot, grimy streets of Havana with his head down under a straw hat. Once glorious buildings now stood drab with worn concrete and rock, unpainted inside or out because all properties belonged to the PPC that spent no money on paint except for a few colorful government buildings and tourist areas. Many houses had collapsed roofs and crumbling balconies that occasionally fell on passersby. Years of black diesel fumes from buses had coated buildings with depressing gray soot. Humid ocean breezes constantly spread mold throughout the structures. The PPC owned all homes so the people had little incentive to maintain them.
For the last few weeks, shelves of the government's dark grocery stores had been empty, leaving citizens desperate and hungry. If people had gathered in groups in the past, Block Captains would have reported these troublemakers to the police, and food cards would be withheld or jobs lost. In this ‘special period,' Worms became brave from hunger and desperation, no longer afraid to protest against the Beard, though no one yet dared to say Fidel's name. Small groups of protestors merged into larger groups. Mob mentality took over and challenged other gangs of The Brainwashed who gathered in support of the Beard. The streets grew tumultuous and curfews ignored as enforcement waned.
Making his way five miles to his hometown of Cojimar, a seaside suburb of Havana, Juan crept from crowd to crowd. Originally a center of astonishing grandeur and wealth, the town had deteriorated into a third world slum. He avoided the house of Franco, his CDR Block Captain, and crept through yards and alleys to a three-room house where he lived with his twenty two-year-old brother, Hector, and seventeen-year-old sister, Maria. He hid Cachita in a cupboard, rolled up his pants for a pillow, and succumbing to exhausting, collapsed on a straw mattress.
Juan’s parents had fled to Florida during the Marielito Boat Lift in 1980. They left their children to fend for themselves on the government’s $20 per month allowance and an occasional remittance payment they sent from Miami. The children suffered reprisals of limited libreta cards, which, in the long run, resulted in stunted growth. Hector, like many Cubans, suffered from poor eyesight due to childhood malnourishment. Juan was unable to perform real work; he survived by thievery and black market friends. The police knew him well. The last time he was caught, they sent him to a dark prison in an ancient Spanish castle. That terrifying experience had convinced him he had to leave this dreadful island.
Later that night, Hector shook him awake.
“Where have you been?” Hector wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “You’re filthy. You were gone for three days. I thought you were in jail again.”
Juan beamed at his big brother, who had broad shoulders, a scraggly goatee, and strong arms.
“I did it.”
“Did what?”
“You said I needed to prove I was serious about leaving Cuba, so I’ve ensured good luck for our trip.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Juan walked to the other room that revealed walls with peeling paint, a broken TV, and a few cheap gold lamé wall decorations. He looked out the front door for prying eyes, then closed it and carefully removed his cane cutter bag from behind plates in the cupboard.
Hector snarled, “Are you loco? What good is a machete for a boat ride?”
“Look.” Juan took the statue from the bag and held it up to candlelight where it sparkled.
Hector pulled it close to his face.
“Is it real?”
“Yes,” Juan replied with defiance.
“What have you done?” Hector whispered incredulously, brushing his hands through shoulder length hair. Juan replaced the statute into the bag. They moved to the bedroom where no one could hear their muffled conversation.
“Cachita will take us across the sea,” Juan insisted.
“You stole her from El Cobre!”
“The Virgin of Charity has always protected sailors. She will keep us safe also.” Juan whispered indignantly. “I thought you would be happy.”
“No one must know we have Cachita,” Hector replied in desperation. “The police have been looking for a thief with a crooked nose who stole her from the basilica. Keep your face covered or you’re going to bring us big trouble.”
Juan pleaded, “Hector, you have to take me with you.”
"If I leave you here, you'll go to jail and probably be executed." He paused in thought, and then sighed in resignation.
“It was just supposed to be the guys in Carlos’ band on this raft. The bongo player, Javier, was thrown in jail last week, so there’s a spot open. I have to talk to Carlos Alvarez. It’s his boat.” Hector wagged his finger. “Not a word to anyone about Cachita.”
“I knew you would take me,” Juan beamed.
“Stop smiling, or Franco will know you’re up to something. No one’s allowed to be happy in Cuba.”
Juan reverted to his usual dour frown.
“That’s more like it. Now go clean yourself in the ocean. We’ll go to Carlos’ house tomorrow to build a raft.”
Juan returned after a quick dip in the sea and they went to sleep.
Chapter 4
The next morning, the brothers left their house and shuffled through the streets inconspicuously. Dark-skinned Franco with curled greasy hair sat on his porch watching everyone pass along the road. He shamelessly wore new clothes and white shoes and wore a fat mustache. Everyone shunned this miserable informer.
“Who’s there?” Franco stood, squinting against the morning sun.
Juan pulled his hat down as Hector stepped in front of him.
“It’s me, Carlos.”
“I know that. Who’s the other Worm?”
“That’s just my cousin Hernando.”
“Yeah, I remember. The boy who walks like a girl,” Franco sneered. “Where’s your brother? People are looking for him.”
Hector shrugged. “I haven’t seen him all week. He’s probably in jail again. Ask your friends.”
“Where are you boys going?”
Hector raised his head defiantly. “We’re men, and we’re building a raft to leave this miserable island and smelly rats like you.”
He knew Franco would do nothing. Last month the Beard had announced his Coast Guard wouldn’t stop anyone who wanted to leave Cuba by boat. With virtually no food left on the island, allowing dissidents to leave would reduce the number of mouths to feed as well as get rid of trouble makers. Starving people all across Cuba feverishly built makeshift rafts with barrels, boards, inner tubes, and anything else that floated. Rafters left daily with people fleeing to Florida in desperation.
“I hope you can swim.” Franco laughed. “It’s a long way to Miami. We’ll be glad to get rid of two more Worms. Get off my street.”
"Think about us when we're in Miami with big, shiny cars," Carlos retorted.
They continued down the street, with Juan walking behind Hector, and slipped through a maze of simple, box-shaped homes on streets filled with angry peasants gathered in protest around Block Captains' houses. Fists shook in the air and shouts rang out for food. Afraid for the first time, Block Captains cowered in their homes. They were easy targets for a hungry mob wanting to retaliate against the government. Police patrolled the streets but were reluctant to arrest people unless violence erupted. The lack of reprisals by authorities emboldened people unused to protesting freely.
The brothers blended into the crowds and made their way to Carlos’ home. Hector pushed through a crowd gathered outside a small brick-walled backyard filled with an assortment of lumber, barrels, scrap material, and a filthy bird coop. Four barrels converted into aquariums held tropical fish that Carlos sold to make money to buy food for his beloved carrier pigeons.
In the center of the yard, curly-haired Carlos held a 2 x 4 board tight across his knees as 25-year-old, muscle-bound Jose Famosa cut it with an old hand saw. Jose's bald black head sweated profusely into his beard and across his bare chest marked with black moles. He struggled with a dull saw until the board broke. Carlos stood up, his head towered six inches higher than anyone else in the yard.
“Good work,” he said. “Only three more to finish the frame.”
Jose blew sawdust off the board. “I can’t wait to leave this stinking hellhole. The Beard announced a few weeks ago that we could leave Cuba, so I started building a raft to sail to Miami. Last year I left on a raft, but the Cuban Coast Guard caught me. That cost me a month in jail. My father died in a terrible prison for speaking out against the government in 1980. I’m not going to live here and die like him.”
“We’re here to help.” Hector winked.
“I said you could come with me because you have big shoulders for rowing. But I didn’t say anything about your scrawny brother.”
“I can help,” Juan pleaded. “I’ll find anything you need.”
Hector nodded and said, “We haven’t had work for months and are starving. Please let him come with us.”
Carlos looked at Juan for a moment. He shrugged.
“What about Maria? Could she come too?” asked Juan.
Jose scoffed, “No women on our raft. She can take care of herself. She’s a woman, so she’ll always have a job.”
“Right,” agreed Carlos. “The trip is too dangerous.”
Hector and Juan looked at each other and nodded glumly.
Carlos put his hand over his mouth and whispered to Juan, “We need inner tubes. There are buses where I work at the Ministry of Transportation. I need to steal tubes tonight. Will you help me?”
Car tires had long ago worn bare and leaked air like sieves. Most tires had inner tubes to maintain air pressure.
“Of course I can steal tires. I can steal anything,” Juan bragged. “If you can get us through the fence, we’ll liberate your tires. No problemo.”
“Okay,” Carlos replied. “You’re in, but no one else. The raft is full.”
Desperate onlookers hoping for a free ride groaned in disappointment.
Carlos held out his fist. “We will be balseros. Rafters who leave Havana.”
The others put their fists on his.
“Balseros,” they replied in unison. The crowd outside the wall cheered, “Libertad!”
“When do we leave?” Juan asked.
They looked at Carlos, a frustrated mechanic with a job maintaining the government's ancient fleet of buses. With few parts and supplies, he struggled to keep buses jury-rigged. His job paid twenty two dollars a month, more than most Cubans made, but he knew he had no future at the Ministry. Much to the dismay of the government, legalization of the US dollar in 1993 created a middle class like Carlos who thrived on black market goods. In response, the PCC implemented a plan called ‘meceta’ to crack down on people who acquired black market material goods. When the Block Captain confiscated his car and television last year and threatened to have him fired, Carlos decided to leave Cuba. If he could repair buses, he could build a simple raft.
“It’s been a month since the Beard opened the border and lots of people have already left. He’s negotiating with President Clinton to end the migration. An agreement to close the border might happen any day, and hurricane season is here, so we must hurry. I think we can finish the raft in two days. When you go home tonight, start collecting food and water for the trip.”
The balseros nodded as the reality of leaving their homes and families set in. The trip would be exciting but dangerous. Juan and Hector knew there would be reprisals against Maria, just as when their parents had left, but all they could do was send her money after finding jobs in Miami. At least she was grown up this time.
Carlos pointed at his aquarium barrels. “These have been holding water for years, so I know they’re watertight. We’ll use them at each corner of the raft. Someday I’ll tell you a story about those barrels.”
“What about your fish?” asked Hector.
“I already put them in their new home in our washing machine. It’s broken but holds water fine. Turn those barrels over and dump out the water and gravel,” he instructed. “I have lids we can put on them and seal with tar.”
“What are you going to do with your pigeons?” Juan asked.
“My son will take care of them,” he replied with sadness. “I wish he could go, but the trip is too dangerous. We have no other relatives to leave him with, so my wife will stay here to take care of him.
“I know she hates that, but it’s the right thing to do,” Hector said somberly. “Our parents left when I was eight, leaving me in charge. We stayed with different relatives, but it was really hard. I wished they hadn’t left us.”
“Yes,” Juan agreed. “Look how we turned out. Hector’s a blind carpenter who hauls boards all day, Maria is a whore, and I’m a thief.”
Laughter erupted from the onlookers.
Hector picked up a board and shook it at the audience. “Shut up,” he shouted.
The crew solemnly returned to work and prepared four airtight barrels for the raft's flotation.
At the end of the afternoon, Carlos asked Jose, “Do you think you can find more boards? We need oars and a floor for the raft.”
“Yes. I know where there are more park benches downtown and lumber at the building where I work.” As a bricklayer, he had access to boards used to transport bricks. “But I’ll need help.”
Hector lifted his shoulders. “I’ll go with you. Let’s leave now before someone else gets them first.”
They left the crowded yard to start their scavenger hunt.
Carlos placed his hand over his mouth. “Come back in a few hours. We’ll liberate some of the Beard’s tires.”
Juan nodded and left. Hot and tired, he walked four blocks to the beach for his daily ritual of watching the sun drop into a golden ocean of shimmering waves. Clouds above the horizon turned red and orange on a blue canvas sky. Each day's sunset painted a different landscape of colors and clouds. High clouds sketched colorful sunsets while low clouds brushed silver or gray.
Along the roads, numerous signs on houses read ‘Raft for Sale.' These makeshift boats sold as fast as people built them. Each day, balseros brought vehicles to launch rafts and flee repression. Multitudes of unemployed people gathered on the beach to cheer for each raft leaving for freedom.
Juan walked between swaying palm trees and stopped at the water's edge to let his feet sink in Mother Cuba's cool sand. He daydreamed of Miami sand between his toes and a happy song about a job, a car, and a good woman. He entered the clear water, rolled onto his back, and floated, letting Mother Ocean wash away his sweat and revive his soul. He loved his island's beauty but realized the grim reality of greed. What was ravishing would be ravaged. Two more days and he would leave this miserable island for Miami, just ninety miles to where his parents and cousins would find work and a house for the brothers. He had traveled farther than that to liberate Cachita for his voyage. Floating on a raft would be easier than walking.
Juan swam back to the beach before sharks showed up on their nightly patrol. He walked along dark streets strewn with rotten garbage that had not been picked up for weeks. Another apagon darkened the few remaining unbroken streetlights. In the dark gloom he didn’t worry about being identified as Cachita’s thief. Green gutters flowed with backed up sewer water. Diapers and rags hung from balustrades and windows above him. He made his way home through evening shadows, frangipani blossoms, diesel fumes, and the sound of horseshoes on asphalt.
Juan entered his bleak house to find Maria preparing for her night by candlelight. Though only seventeen years old and small, she was fully mature and curved like most Latin women her age. She wore a short red skirt and long dyed blond hair spilled across a silver tank top pulled tight over full bosoms unrestrained by a bra. He watched as she applied thick makeup around her large brown eyes. White rice powder and bright lipstick hid her gaunt, pockmarked face.
“Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you,” she asked.
“I’ve been working.”
“Ha. You never work. Where were you?”
Juan gazed at the floor. “Hector and I are building a raft with Carlos Alvarez. We’ll leave in two days.”
She turned from the mirror to look at Juan. Her lips quivered. Tears formed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“My brothers are leaving me all alone again. What will I do? I want to go with you.” Crying, she grabbed him and said, “Please don’t leave me here.”
"Oh Maria. The raft has no more room and the voyage is dangerous. Hector talked Carlos into taking me, but no one else can go. I'll miss you terribly. I promise to send money."
“I don’t want money. I need you and Hector to take care of me. I have no other family.”
She sobbed against his chest for several minutes as he held her tight.
She pushed away and said, “Look what you’ve done. I ruined my makeup.” She wiped her face with a rag and went back to the mirror to reapply her makeup.
“I know, Maria. I wish I could do something. We’ll figure out some way to get you to Miami to be with the rest of the family. In the meantime, maybe you'll find a husband or a job in a band. You're a great dancer."
“I’ll just be another poor Cubano.” She lifted her shoulders and head. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. You go on to Miami with Moma and Papa. Now everyone has abandoned me.”
“Maria.”
Outside the front door, a car’s headlights appeared. The car stopped. Two men laughed in the front seat. One of them honked the horn.
A man called out, "Maria; we’re here for our date."
“I’ll be right there,” she yelled. She told Juan, “I’m going to work. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a rich foreigner tonight. Maybe I’ll see you mañana.”
She ran outside and bent down to the open window as she gave the men an eyeful of ample breasts.
“Are you boys ready for some fun?”
“Oh, yes.”
She opened the squeaky car door of the 1956 Chrysler Windsor, climbed in and she squeezed he soft body between them. The car sped away to a Cuban night of age-old pleasure.
Juan shook his head. Poor Maria. Without Hector and him to watch out for her, she would have a difficult life. He ate cold frijoles and rice and went to sleep.
Chapter 5
Juan awoke with a start. It took him a moment to recognize his dark room. He normally slept next to Hector, who snored like a pig, but Hector had not returned from gathering lumber for the raft. Juan donned dark, nighttime work clothes and left for Carlos' house. He arrived to find Carlos impatiently waiting in a black hat and shirt.
“Where have you been? We don’t have all night.”
“I slept for a while, but I’m okay now. Nighttime is when I work best.”
“Let’s get going.”
“We’ll need a wrench for the wheels.”
“Don’t worry. We have tools at the bus yard. Follow me.”
They walked through empty streets, dark except for occasional flickering lights from cars driven by police or government employee rich enough to obtain rationed gasoline. They reached the fenced bus yard and sneaked to the rear where no one would see them.
“Where’s the guard?” Juan asked.
“He was fired last week.”
They climbed over a chain-link fence and winced as wire bit into their toes. Moonlight guided them to a repair building in the bus storage area.
Carlos pointed. “I left that window open.”
He slid the window up, and they quickly slithered in. He lit a piece of candle to reveal a bus with its hood up. Around the shop lay battered tools used by mechanics.
Carlos grinned. "This bus mysteriously broke down today, so I put it in here for repairs tomorrow."
“Everything we need is here,” Juan replied in approval.
“Bring the jack and tire tool from the corner. Take all the lug nuts off the wheels. I’ll go outside and bring bricks.”
Juan struggled with rusty lug nuts that must have been original parts on the forty-year-old bus. Few, if any, replacement parts existed on the island. He put grease on the threads and strained his small arms and back until the nuts broke loose. The tire tool would not grab some of the stripped lug nuts, so he resorted to a big wrench to loosen them. He pulled so hard on one rusty nut that the screw attached to the spindle broke off. He fell backward onto the bus's rusty bumper and cut his leg. Juan rose from the floor, cursing. He held his leg as Carlos climbed back through the window and dropped bricks to the floor.
“What’s the matter? Did that old bus hurt you?”
"Everything in this damn country is old and broken. But I beat it. I removed all those damn lug nuts."
“Your leg is bloody. Let me see.”
When Juan limped to the flickering candle and pulled his hand away, thick red blood flowed freely from a cut below the back of his right knee.
“Estupido,” Carlos declared. He grabbed a nearby dirty rag and wrapped it tightly around Juan’s leg. “If you’re too hurt, I’ll find a replacement.”
“No!” Juan pleaded. He pulled his shoulders back and shrugged it off. “It’s just a scratch.” He limped across the room, grimaced, and forced a smile. “I’ll be okay. Please don’t replace me.”
“We’ll see. Now jack up the front of the bus and I’ll put bricks under the axle.”
The old car jack barely lifted the heavy bus, so he put a pipe over the jack handle to increase the leverage and pushed on it to raise the bus a little by little. After the front wheels were lifted high enough to insert one last brick, Carlos wiped sweat from his brow and said, “Done with that. Now you take one wheel off and I’ll remove the other. Deflate the tires and roll them to the tire changer.”
“How do you get the tubes out?”
“Don’t you know anything? Watch.”
Carlos lifted a wheel onto the tire changer, a round platform three feet off the ground with a one-foot long, two-inch diameter pole sticking straight up through the center of the platform. The tire slid over the pole. Carlos screwed a bracket onto the metal wheel to hold it in place. He used a soft hammer to hit the tire until its rubber inner circle broke away from the steel rim all around. Then Carlos slid a bead-breaking rod onto the pole and walked it in a circle around the tire until the inner circle of the tire popped above the rim.
“Now reach inside and pull the tube out,” Carlos said. “Be careful not to break the valve stem.”
Juan gently pulled the tube out and held it up with a smile. “You’re a smart guy,” he said.
“Smarter than you. Bring me another tire.”
They removed all four tubes in short order. The men laughed as they carried deflated tubes and a spool of electrical wire out of the compound. The next morning, Carlos would feign outrage when he went to work and found a bus resting on bricks and a trail of blood leaving the building.
When they arrived at Carlos’ house, he said, “You better clean that leg up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll see in the morning.”
Juan limped home to find Hector asleep. Maria had not returned from work yet. She often didn’t return until sunrise. Like him, she did whatever it took to survive.
He lit a candle and took the bloody rag off his leg. Only a small amount of blood oozed from the wound. He took the cleanest cloth he could find and limped a few blocks to Santa Maria beach. Juan waded knee-deep into the sea and sat down to let saltwater cleanse the cut. He gritted his teeth in pain and pulled the cut open far enough to use his finger to wash out rust from the bumper. He pressed on the injury until bleeding slowed and then left the water before sharks followed the scent of fresh blood to him. He tied the rag tight over the wound again and applied pressure until the bleeding stopped. He hobbled back home and crawled into bed.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Jose returned to Carlos’ house with a load of lumber.
When Carlos showed up at lunchtime after claiming sickness at work, he said, “You should have seen my boss when he found the bus on bricks. He cursed and questioned everybody, but nobody knew nothing. We laughed behind his back. He promised to post guards at the bus yard from now on and he hoped the thief had bled to death."
Jose and Carlos laughed long and hard.
Jose proudly announced, “I brought just what we need.” He held up an old bicycle tire pump.
“Great, amigo. Pump up the tubes, and we’ll finish the raft.”
Neighborhood children on the street cheered with excitement as the tubes of freedom expanded. They knew another raft would soon leave. Two of the best tubes were chosen for the raft.
The daily crowd gathered outside Carlos' house to offer encouragement and advice on raft building. A few friends begged to go along on the journey, but Carlos firmly told them no. The crew quickly built a frame of 2 x 4s to tightly fit over the four empty barrels, one in each corner, and placed an inner tube in the middle for additional flotation. They spread tar over rusty spots on the barrels. Later that afternoon, cheers erupted from onlookers when Hector and Juan appeared with lumber in their arms.
Juan said to Carlos, “I’m tired. I’ll rest in your house for a while. Jose, will you go with Hector to find more boards?”
“You’re weak,” Jose sneered. “Carlos, why are you letting this thief come with us?”
“He’s scrawny, but he helped me with the tubes and supplies. Besides, he hurt his leg for us.” He dismissed Jose, “Go help Hector.”
They left and returned an hour later with more PCC surplus lumber.
Carlos told Jose, “Good job. Now, can you carve these boards into oars?”
“No problemo," he replied with a smile as he pulled a long, sharp knife from his belt. He held up his arms and flexed the muscles. "The Communists say I must lay bricks all day. I hate it, but it makes me strong. I'm a better carpenter than bricklayer."
“Yes, we need your big muscles to row. Now make the handles round and smooth so they won’t hurt our hands.”
“Yes, boss.”
“We still need two strong tree limbs for the sail.”
“Okay, I know where a big tree is,” Jose replied with a grin. “I have my knife and saw.”
Juan limped inside the squalid house and sat against a wall where onlookers couldn’t see him. He pulled his hat down to hide his bent nose. No telling who would rat on him. They would get a big reward. Maybe a new TV.
“Juan, how’s your leg?” Carlos asked from the doorway.
“Just fine.” He lifted his leg to show the rag with only a few blood spots. “I’m afraid if I help you it will bleed more. I’ll just sit here and watch.”
The rest of the crew sneered and shook their heads. They turned back to the raft and placed bench boards for flooring over the barrels. They tied boards down with electrical cord and rope made from strips of wound tree bark, thus leaving gaps between the boards. Hector secured short, stout poles on each corner, then strung rope from pole to pole for handholds to prevent falling overboard. Jose attached wooden handles to the rear for anyone unfortunate enough to fall overboard. Carlos' finishing touch was to use from scrap metal to create oarlocks that would fix oars to the raft to prevent them from being dropped overboard. This way the men could row with two hands on the handles and pull with strong back and leg muscles rather than using weaker arms. By the day’s end, they completed construction, much to the delight of the crew as well as onlookers who started a spontaneous street celebration.
Juan asked, “What will we do with these other tubes?”
"We’ll tow one behind us as a spare," Carlos replied. "Can you trade the other two for food and water?"
“No problemo," Juan grinned. "I hoped you would say that."
"Also, bring a sheet for a sail."
Hector moaned, “We’ll have water, but I don’t know how long I can go long without coffee.”
"Then you better row fast," Carlos responded. "Now listen. The sky is clear, so we leave tomorrow morning with an outgoing tide. Go home and say your goodbyes. Tell your families to pray for a safe escape. Bring whatever water and food you can, and only one bag each for other stuff. Too much weight will sink us."
“How do you know what direction to sail?” Hector asked.
“My grandfather taught me how to sail his boat. Florida is due north of us, but the Gulf Stream will push us eastward at five knots toward the Bahama Banks. Then it will swing north until we clear the Banks. From there it turns northwest toward Florida.” As Carlos instructed the crew, his confidence grew. “We want to row westward across the Gulf Stream as much as possible. Near Miami, the edge of the Stream is only a mile offshore, but then it turns northeast away from Florida. The farther north of Miami we go, the harder it will be to get to shore.”
“So, we just row west?” Hector asked.
“Yes, when waves are flat. But when they rise, going due west is dangerous because the raft will be crossways to the southern breeze and northern current that create waves big enough to roll the raft like a toy. The best course will be northwester so the raft will slide safely down the waves at an angle and still move west. We’ll use the sail to guide us northwest as we row. If you fall off, we can’t turn around to find you, so try to grab the tube behind us. Any questions?”
“How long do you think it will take us to reach Miami?” asked Juan.
"Maybe three or four days. We might land in Miami, but anywhere in Florida is great. Eat well and get some sleep. Be here at daybreak. No rum tonight. We need to leave early. I'll sleep on the raft so it doesn't grow feet and walk away."
Juan and Hector grabbed the extra two tubes and rolled them down the street with help from laughing children. Juan pulled his hat down low to hide from policemen.
Hector put his hand over his mouth and asked Juan, “Why are you frowning? You should be happy.”
“The trip will be hard. I’ll miss my friends, but mostly I’m worried about Maria. Life will be difficult for her without us. Her libreta card will be cut back to almost nothing.”
“Yes, I hate that too. But I can’t stay here and live with the Communists. I’m going out of my mind having to worry about block captains all the time and never enough food. Maria makes more money than I do. She’ll have to grow up and make her own way.”
“Someday I’ll find a way to bring her to Miami to be with us.”
A police car turned the corner and slowly drove in their direction.
Juan told the kids, “Help Hector with the tubes.”
They grabbed the tubes and scurried into an alley as the police passed. Hector continued home, creeping through squalid backyards to stay out of sight.
Later that night, Juan slipped in the back door and told Hector, "I have to do some trading."
“Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” He laughed and left with the tubes. He would bring back supplies from his black market contacts.
Chapter 7
When Juan returned later with provisions, he found Hector and Maria seated at the kitchen table where a candle cast shadows across the room. He placed a bag of supplies on the floor and sat on a rickety chair. Hector and Maria had been talking. Tears streamed down their faces. Maria ran into his arm and sobbed. Hector stood and clutched his siblings. They held each other tightly and wept until their tears ran dry.
Maria sniffled. “It’s not fair. You’ll be with Moma and Papa in Miami and I’ll be here alone.”
“You have to be strong,” Hector replied. “We’ll send money when we can. You have your US Visa, so keep trying to get your tarjeta blanca (white exit papers).” Both a cherished Visa and a tarjeta blanca were required to leave Cuba. The authorities reluctantly issued exit papers.
“I’ve been turned down twice. Each time took a year and I’m sick of trying.”
“Keep going back until you get them. Maybe the Beard will die.”
“Shh,” Maria whispered with her finger to her lips. “Don’t talk like that. Franco will hear you. I’m so afraid for the two of you. Your trip will be treacherous. Moma and Papa left on a real boat. You just have a small raft."
Juan replied, "Carlos is a mechanic, and he built a strong raft for us. Don't worry; we'll be safe."
She looked down at Juan’s leg and noticed the bloody bandage. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a little cut. No problemo.”
“I’ll cut clean bandages from your sheet. You’ll no longer be sleeping on it.”
“While you are at it, would you cut the sheet for a sail?”
“Sure.”
He whispered, “I have special protection for us.”
“What do you mean, special protection?”
Hector shook his head and looked away.
“What?” she asked.
With great seriousness, Juan said, “Our Lady of Charity will take care of us.”
“What do you mean?”
Hector looked at Juan and shrugged. Juan retrieved his cane cutter bag from the cupboard and placed it on the table with great care. He slowly reached inside and removed Cachita and held her with both hands.
Maria looked with mild interest. “Where did you buy that? At the black market?”
Juan lowered his eyes in silence.
“Tell her,” Hector insisted.
“Tell me what?”
Juan whispered, “That is the real Our Lady of Charity.”
“What do you mean, the real one?”
“Remember when Juan disappeared for three days last week?”
“Yes.”
Realization set in on Maria’s face. “You stole her?”
Juan nodded. “Shh. She always protects sailors. Remember that two brothers named La Hoyos brought Our Lady of Charity to Cuba in 1612. A storm came over them on a small boat at sea. They almost sank before Cachita floated up to them. She was dry on a piece of wood. When they brought her aboard, the storm subsided, and the boys were saved. They brought her to Santiago and built the Shrine in El Cobre for Our Lady of Charity. She will save us too.”
Maria drew her hand to her mouth. "Everybody's talking about it. The policia are looking for a boy with a crooked nose who stole Cachita from the basilica. Please be careful.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Hector said with excitement. “Juan will hide one more night.”
Juan pleaded, “This is our last night together. Please stay home with us.”
“Okay, I won’t work tonight. I’ll stay here and cook your last Cubano dinner. There’s a little bit of rice and beans left from this month’s rations and some chicken at my friend’s home.” She left to retrieve food from the only working refrigerator in the area. All the Worms on the block shared it. Her refrigerator had broken long ago and now was used for storage shelves.
They spent the evening in candlelight as they ate, drank the last of their rum, smoked cigars, and retold family stories of life before and after the Beard took over. As the hours passed, Juan felt increasingly guilty about leaving his younger sister behind. Maria didn’t remember much of her parents, so Hector and Juan passed along their memories to her, as well as a wedding picture. Their parents occasionally sent remittance money and had called once or twice, but communications between Cuba and the US were tenuous. When everything was said and all the tears were dried, they fell asleep late in the night.
Juan didn’t sleep well that night; anticipation of the journey, combined with the sadness of leaving everything he knew, dwelled heavy on his mind. He hated to leave Maria alone. Should he stay in Cuba and live as a Worm under the Beard? Or leave Maria and make the dangerous journey to start life over with his parents in Florida? Here, none of the girls would marry him because he had no work. With a job in Florida, he could find a wife and have a family with a son to carry on his name. But he would forever feel guilty about Maria.
Chapter 8
A key rattled in the ancient metal door lock. They were here again! He scurried to the far corner of the stone cell and brushed away squealing rats. Light hurt his eyes when the door squeaked opened. He screamed and struggled as faceless men in black uniforms descended upon him with wooden clubs swinging. Stunning blows smashed his bones and bruised tender flesh. A vicious strike across his face knocked him out. He awoke moaning in agony as guards dragged him down the stairs, deeper into the bowels of the filthy dungeon. No. Not again. As he panted in fear as blood spewed from his shattered nose. He stayed limp until they reached the last step. He lunged hard, broke their grip, and scrambled on his hands and knees down the dimly lit hall. The guards walked casually after him, laughing and dragging their sticks along the wall. Rattle, rattle. There was no escape. Rattle, rattle. At the end of the hall, he flung open a door and plunged through. Down he went. Falling, falling, screaming. Rattle, rattle. Splash. He splashed into a vat of black oil and helplessly sank. He pushed off the bottom and broke the surface in slow motion. He gasped. Laughing faces with no eyes pushed him down again. He struggled back to the surface. Guards bent over the vat and pummeled him repeatedly with giant fists. He tried to swing back, but it was like being in glue. Helpless, he roared in desperation. They were not going to take him. He hit one man in the face. Another struck his head. He turned and swung back in agonizing slow motion. The guard ducked and laughed. He swung at another and missed. Again, and again, and again, screaming. Helpless.
Hector grabbed Juan’s flailing arms and pushed him down on the bed.
“Juan, wake up!”
He was being pushed down in the vat. Drowning in oil.
Hector held him down. “It’s okay, Juan. You’re dreaming.”
Juan’s eyes opened as he gasped and coughed.
“It’s just the dream. You’re having the dream again.”
Juan fell back.
“Breath deep. That’s it. Breath again. Slowly, slowly.”
Juan panted and sat up. “I hate that dream.”
“I know. You have it all the time.”
“I hate the policia and the Beard.”
“Shh. Relax. Walk around a little.”
Juan gradually calmed down and said, “Tomorrow we’re leaving this god forsaken country and I‘ll never go to jail again.”
He lay back down and slowly fell asleep.
Chapter 9
The La Hoyos brothers awoke to their final Havana sunrise and slowly savored one last cup of strong Cuban coffee. It would be several days before they had another. Hector packed a small bag of possessions and clothes. Juan carefully wrapped spare clothes around Cachita to protect her and put the revered statue in an old brown suitcase. He found a scrap of paper and scribbled a note.
Goodbye, Maria. We left in a good boat and Cachita will protect us. I’ll contact you when we reach Miami. If Cachita comes back to Cuba, we did not make it.
Juan.
They silently left home one last time. Barefoot, wearing ragged shorts and old white tee shirts, they carried their bags and food over their shoulders. Franco wasn’t on his porch yet when they passed his home, so they spit on his door, laughed, and walked on.
A crowd of enthusiastic onlookers had gathered at Carlos’ backyard when the brothers arrived.
“I thought you boys would turn into chickens,” Carlos jabbed.
“Here we are,” replied Juan. “I traded the tubes for brought water and food.” He set down a worn bag, took off his straw hat, and bowed comically.
“What food do you have?”
“Crackers, cake slices, two cans of milk, and fish. I also have a hook and line to catch more fish.” He held up a fishing line wound around a short length of sugar cane stalk.
“Excellent, amigos,” Carlos replied. “I cooked my last chicken, so we have enough food. Jose, are you ready?”
“Yes. I visited my Santera (Santeria female priest) last night and she blessed me for the journey. I told my girlfriends and cousins goodbye. I’m ready. Vamanos.”
“Are the oars ready?”
Jose held up four carved boards. "I cut them to perfection all night," he said with pride, showing ragged yellow teeth. A white rag covered his bald head for sun protection, but he wore no shirt to cover his dark skin, hairy chest, and wiry muscles.
“What about a sail?”
“I brought Juan’s bed sheet,” Hector replied. “He won’t be sleeping on it anymore.”
Onlookers laughed.
“Maria cut it into a sail,” Juan said with pride.
Carlos asked, “Is everyone ready?”
The others paused, and replied, “Si.”
“Let’s take our raft to the sea.”
A dozen men from the crowd helped them raise their prized raft over the backyard wall and carry it to Cojimar's beach a block away. Word spread rapidly through the neighborhood, and a boisterous, barefoot crowd grew as dozens of people streamed from homes to cheer for the first brave balseros launch of the day. The street filled with excited people singing a Santeria song called Yemaya (Mother of the Sea.) Small boys reached toward the balseros, hoping to touch their new heroes. The boisterous crowd also attracted police, but they just stood back and took notes on who dared leave. The PCC would reduce their family's libreta cards.
When the balseros reached the shore's high seawall, they carefully passed the raft over it to men below on the beach. The balseros felt stones of Cuba under their bare feet for the last time as they lowered the makeshift boat to the sea and launched the spare tube connected to the raft with a length of rope. The tube would act as a rudder to stabilize the raft in rough seas.
Carlos solemnly paused and announced, “I christen this raft Yemaya, for our safety.”
The crowd cheered with excitement. Fists shook in the air.
Hector tightened lines and tied Carlos' suitcase to the raft. Juan secured his suitcase to the tube with rope. After the crew wrapped water bottles and food in plastic and tied them to the raft, they unfurled and rigged the sail. Hector and Carlos put on faded baseball caps, turning the bills to the rear of their heads. Juan desperately looked through the crowd, hoping to see Maria one last time; but she was not to be seen.
Carlos’ wife reached toward him one last time. “Be safe and let us know when you get there.”
He nodded, with tears in his eyes.
Carlos’ son ran to the beach, crying out, “Popa, please don’t leave.”
Carlos picked him up and held him tight. “Remember, I will get you to Miami. Be a big boy and take care of Moma. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Popa.”
Carlos gravely turned his back and walked to the raft.
The other balseros also exchanged final hugs and tearful goodbyes with family and friends. Some people cheered with happiness for the brave men. Others mourned to see them leave.
Carlos, Hector, Juan, and Jose climbed onto the raft, carefully adjusting their balance on the small craft while onlookers pushed them off the beach. Several envious men swam to the raft and desperately tried to climb on, pleading for a ride.
“Please let me go. I helped you build Yemaya.”
“It’s me, your cousin. Let me on. I’m stronger than Juan.”
“I want to go with you. I have money.”
With sad hearts, the crew pushed frantic boarders and relatives away from the raft. Wind grabbed their dirty white sail and drove them to out sea. They picked up their oars and began rowing toward freedom.
Spectators cheered, “Libertad! Libertad!” for the balseros courageous enough to leave the Beard and his terrible island.
***
The raft cleared Cojimar harbor and entered the open ocean where water changed from light blue to green, and the wind's smell shifted from land to sea. The crew quickly learned a rhythm to dip the blades, pull back, and raise the oars in unison to keep the raft moving in a straight line. If someone missed their timing, the short raft spun, and they struggled to regain their path. They rowed facing the beach and watched crowds gather again as another raft launched. The beach became a white line and then disappeared under green mountains.
The crew settled into a routine, alternating two men rowing while two men rested, to pace their energy for the long voyage. Sitting at the oarlocks in each corner would spread their weight to provide stability in rough water. The deck floated two feet above the water. They rowed with rags wrapped around their hands and feet braced on boards in front of them, bending forward and pulling back against the thrust of the blades. Carlos trimmed the sail on the mast in the center of the raft. Their journey to Florida had started.
Two hours later, Hector squinted back toward Cuba and asked, “Can you still see land?”
“Yes,” Juan replied. “We’re about ten miles out and I can see the Santa Cruz rum factory.
Dark blue swirling fingers of the Gulf Stream grabbed tiny Yemaya and pulled her eastward. For the first time in their lives they silently watched Cuba's mountains slowly sink into the sea and they realized they had passed the point of no return. The vastness of the ocean set in and excitement transformed to somber contemplation as their past lives disappeared. Mother Ocean, aptly named because she could be calm and giving in one moment, and turn angry and harsh the next, now controlled their destiny.
Chapter 10
A brisk southeast breeze picked up in the afternoon and filled their sail with favorable wind but also increased wave height. Up and down, up and down, they bobbed like a cork.
As they rose to the top of a wave, Jose pointed. "Look. Another raft."
A raft made of four bound tubes bounced in the waves where five men frantically paddled the hapless craft. Without oarlocks on the raft, they strenuously flailed paddles with both arms. With no sail to guide them the raft spun randomly in strong waves as the crew struggled to maintain a constant direction.
“They’re fools,” Carlos said. “If their tubes leak, they’ll sink. Even if they don’t sink, they have no sail to work for them and will tire before they cross the Gulf Stream. They’ll probably die.”
“And the waves will flip them,” Juan added.
“At least they’ll die free,” Hector said. After a moment of silence, he continued, “We’re free out here on the sea. We built Yemaya strong and will survive.”
“I can’t wait to see our parents in Miami. It has been so many years.”
“We’ll all miss our families in Cuba,” Carlos said sadly.
“I have no family left,” replied Jose. “I was just a kid when the damn Communists killed most of them. The rest escaped to Florida.”
Hector spoke up, “I have a plan for getting rich when we get to Miami.”
“Be quiet,” Juan said.
“What’s your plan?” Carlos scoffed.
“We brought something worth a lot of money.”
Carlos looked around. “I don’t see any gold here.”
Hector pulled the tube to the raft and untied Juan's suitcase. He carefully placed it in the center of the deck and opened it, proudly lifting Our Lady of Charity. She was dry, despite the waterlogged suitcase.
“So you have brought Cachita,” Carlos sneered. “She might protect us in the ocean, but how will she make us rich?”
“This is the real Cachita.”
“You fool. You can buy those anywhere.”
“No, amigo,” Hector said with a mischievous grin. “Juan stole her from the Basilica of El Cobre. She’ll be worth a fortune in Miami.”
With their attention focused on the statue, the crew didn’t notice a tall wave approaching. The raft tilted and almost flipped before racing down the steep face. Hector grabbed Cachita tightly in one hand and a rope with the other. The others waited for the wave to pass, then Carlos looked at Hector, who nodded. They looked back at the statue, noting shiny gold and colorful jewels.
“You’re the thief we heard about?” Carlos asked in disbelief.
Juan nodded.
“They said the thief had a broken nose. That’s you.”
“The policia did this to me last year when they rounded up thousands of us and beat us in Acts of Repudiation. When I got out of that rotten jail, I decided I would never go back again. I would rather die on this raft than go back to that horrible prison.”
Jose lowered his head. “The jail killed my father too. Before that, I was a Brainwashed. After he died, I revolted. They called me an undesirable, and I became a gusano. So here I am. But what will we do with Cachita?”
Hector tried to pass her to the others for inspection, but they declined to touch the venerated figurine.
Carlos said, "The Archdiocese of Havana smuggled a replica of Cachita out of Cuba. He sent it through the Italian Embassy, who gave it to a Panamanian Diplomat, who took it to Miami. Thousands of Cubans descended upon Miami Stadium to celebrate the arrival of Cachita from Cuba. Cubans in Miami then built their own Shrine to Our Lady of Charity.”
Juan said, “We will be famoso (famous) for bringing the real Cachita to them.”
"She'll be worth a lot of money," Jose grinned.
“Yes,” Hector agreed. “We’ll get rich.”
Carlos shook his head. “In school we learned that thieves tried to take Cachita from Cuba several times, but she always came back. Pope Benedict XV declared her the Patroness of Cuba in 1916 and her home is in Cuba. Even Papa Hemingway loved her enough to give her his Nobel Prize medal.”
“Castro has the precious medal, and no one sees it,” Juan retorted. “So what?”
Carlos scowled. “We have no choice now. Cachita is here.”
Hector said “She’ll protect us from the ocean. We’ll take her to Miami and be rich and famous. Does everybody agree?”
All heads nodded.
“How much do you think she is worth?” Jose asked.
Carlos thought a moment. “Maybe $60,000. That would be… $15,000 each.”
“$15,000?” Hector’s eyes grew wide. “I wouldn’t make that much money in my whole life in Cuba.”
They stared in wonder.
“Okay,” Carlos said. “Put her back before you drop her, and make sure the rope is tied well.”
Juan wrapped Cachita back in clothes and placed her in his suitcase. After putting her back into the tube, he released it to follow Yemaya.
The crew returned to their tiresome task of sailing. Row and watch waves roll under the raft. Up and down, up and down. Water left their bodies in rivers of sweat as the fierce sun beat on them under a cloudless sky.
Juan, the smallest of the group, wore out faster than the others. After finished his rowing shift, he drank heavily from a water bottle.
“Don’t drink so much,” Carlos snarled. “The water has to last four days.”
“Yeah, yeah. My hands hurt. It’s your turn to row. I can’t do any more today.”
“And just eat a few of the crackers. Maybe tomorrow you can catch a fish.”
Chapter 11
Later in the afternoon, gray storm clouds rolled in from the south. The raft’s speed increased as the sail stretched tight. Steeper waves fluttered Jose’s stomach, but he gritted his teeth and continued to row.
At dusk, the clouds dissipated and the wind lay down. They entered a silver world of flat water and sky separated by a thin blue line gliding on a circular horizon. Rowing was easier in calm water, but with an empty sail, their speed slowed.
“Let’s stop rowing for the night and rest,” Carlos said to his tired crew. “Move your fingers and hands so they won’t cramp. We’ll take turns keeping watch. Jose, you first. Then Hector, Juan, and me.”
“What do we watch for?” Juan moaned.
“Stop complaining,” Hector remanded.
“Watch for boats, whales, storms, pirates,” Carlos responded. “Anything.”
“Pirates?” Jose asked.
“Yes. We’re close to the Bahamas. They’ve had pirates for hundreds of years. Now drug runners go back and forth to Miami, stealing anything they can along the way. Let’s eat.”
Juan passed crackers, chicken, and water to the crew for dinner as they watched the sun recede into a calm sea. Carlos adjusted the sail to catch a faint southern breeze as the raft drifted northwards at five knots in the Gulf Stream.
Juan took the blood-spotted bandage off his aching wound. He dropped his leg into the saltwater for a while to cleanse the cut. Then he pulled it out to retie the bandage.
The noise of sloshing waves dissipated to wavelets caressing Yemaya and an occasional slosh of unseen fish breaking the surface. This was true and complete freedom, to reach for their own destiny. No one to tell them what to do. No one to help them. Whatever they made of this voyage would be their own fate.
Jose pulled his guiro, a long dried gourd with an open end and carved finger holes, from his bag and softly rubbed it with a stick.
The men sang songs of Cuba but were glad to be gone. They were proud of their heritage but hated how the Beard had ruined their once proud country.
After a while, Juan said to Carlos, “Tell us about your parents.”
“It wasn’t easy for them. They were Cuba’s Remington Firearms distributor. Everybody bought guns and they were extraordinarily rich before the Beard took over.” He stopped and smiled. “I can call him Castro now.” The others laughed and tried it themselves.
“Castro.”
“Castro.”
“Fidel Castro.”
Freedom.
Carlos continued seriously. “My parents refused to sell guns to Castro during the revolution. He was furious. My grandparents anticipated the overthrow and took their money from the bank. They hid $972,000 in the walls of our home.”
“$972,000?” Hector gasped.
“Yes. The Beard, I mean Castro, sent Batista running to the Dominican Republic. Afterward, Castro remembered his enemies. He came to our family business and took it over. Our guns ended up in Castro's army. He confiscated all guns on the island to stop resistance against him. My old and sick grandparents died soon afterward, and my parents left for Spain with passports stamped DESERTER. From there they moved to Miami in 1978 and only found work as farmers at low pay. They worked hard and saved a little but are no longer rich."
“I heard The Brainwashed took your home?” Juan asked.
"Yes, what a terrible day. The Block Captain sent a dozen men with baseball bats to kill us. They circled my house and called for gusanos to come out. I walked through the front door with my bat, though knew I couldn’t win. My sister saw my trouble, so she scurried back inside to find an ax. She returned and threw it to me. I started screaming and swinging at The Brainwashed and they left fast but said they would be back. That night we packed up and left to find a new home in Cojimar.
“Good for you,” Jose said. “What happened to the money?”
“Do you remember my aquariums?”
“Yes, in the barrels.”
“While my parents waited for their tarjetas blanca the year before, the block captain came to our house and took inventory. Tables, chairs, knives, forks, TV, everything. All to be redistributed when we left. We could take nothing with us. The day before my parents left, they packed only a few clothes and pictures. Everything else belonged to the PCC. When my mother removed a dress from her closet, the end of the hanger ripped the paper covering the closet walls. Paper had been used due to shortages of wood. Anyway, out fell my grandparent's money. All of it. My parents were terrified that the Block Captain would find the money when he came back for his final inventory of our house.”
“They would behead you for having Batista money,” said Jose.
Carlos nodded. “My father ran outside and knocked over one of my aquarium barrels. He told me to remove all of the sand and gravel. After I did, he put the money in the barrel and burned it.”
“No!” exclaimed the crew.
“Yes. I put the sand, gravel, and water back inside the barrel, along with fish from the other aquariums. We were frightened the next day when the Block Captain made his final inspection. Luckily, he didn’t smell the burnt money and my parents were allowed to leave. So now you know my barrel story.”
He pointed down. “And that barrel is saving us.”
“You fooled that Block Captain,” Hector said. “I loved to do that. You have great stories. Be sure your son hears them some day.”
“I am afraid it will be a long time before I see him in Miami,” he responded grimly.
“I’m tired,” Jose said. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Juan lay down on the deck alongside the others and pulled his hat over his face. Exhaustion from a long day put him into a deep sleep.
Later that night, Hector shook Juan as he thrashed. “Wake up. Wake up.”
Juan opened his eyes to darkness and screamed.
“Wake up, brother. You’re having the dream again. It’s okay. You’re not in jail. We’re on the raft.”
Juan slowly sat up trembling.
“You’ll never go to jail again,” comforted Hector.
“I hate that dream. Will it ever stop?”
“Stand up and shake it off. It’s your turn to watch.”
“Watch what? There’s nothing to see.”
“Go on. It’s my turn to sleep.”
Chapter 12
Juan stood in front of the sail pushed by a cool breeze that shifted from south to southwest during the night, bringing in clouds to hide twinkling stars above. He shivered as he held onto the mast, and stretched tired muscles not used to such arduous work. His back ached and his leg bandage still felt wet. Blackness as dark as espresso enveloped a moonless night in all directions as the raft rose up and down in a calm tempo. With nothing to see and only the sound of the waves, he felt as if he was standing on water. Never had such absolute darkness shrouded him. It reminded him of the dreaded Havana dungeon. The cells were terrifying. He couldn’t sleep because rats scuttled around the room in the dark, occasionally creeping across his limbs in their search for food. Out here he felt the same unknown. What would hit the raft or jump aboard it?
At first, lights flickered in the distance. They spread wider into an extended ribbon rolling through blackness.
Juan shook Carlos awake and said, “Look. Lights are coming.”
“Where?”
“In front of the raft.”
“I see them.”
“What is it?”
“Shh. Wait and see.”
The soft light grew thicker.
“It can’t be a boat,” Carlos said. “Wake the others.”
The crew stood and watched in awe as the unknown luminescent blanket slowly approached. The magical glow parted and surrounded Yemaya in undulating lit water. Hector reached down and grabbed a handful of the light.
“What is it?” asked Jose.
"Seaweed, called sargassum. Sometimes it glows in the dark like this.”
Juan said, “It’s magic from Cachita. See the tube behind us?” Weeds and luminescence parted into a ten-foot ribbon of blackness around the tube. The crew crossed themselves and watched in awe as the blanket of light swayed like it was making love to the ocean. Back at the front of the raft, darkness approached on the far side of the lights. The edge of the glowing weeds slowly rocked up and down, passed under the raft, and receded into the night. The Cubanos once again floated in empty blackness.
“Carlos, it’s your turn to watch,” said Juan. He lay down and curled up behind Hector for shelter from the cool breeze.
He told Cachita, “Thank you for another day of deliverance. You gave us calm water for our journey. In return, we will take you to your new home in Miami.” He fell asleep smelling the breeze of freedom.
***
The sun slowly rose from blackness, growing into a golden ball above Mother Ocean. Carlos awoke his crew to start another day of liberation.
Jose blinked and rubbed his bristled chin. “Did you see anything last night?”
“Just darkness and stars,” Carlos replied. “Later I heard singing in Spanish from other balseros far away. A pair of porpoises surfaced near the raft. They scared me at first when they jumped and landed with a splash. They came back up again rolling and blowing for a while, then vanished into silence."
“This is the first time I’ve seen a sunrise over the ocean,” Juan said. “In Havana, the sun rises over the mountains.”
“Get used to it,” Hector said. “Sunrise is always over the ocean in Miami.”
They bathed in the sea, ate salted fish, and shared a tin of milk opened by Jose with his knife.
“I miss hot coffee already,” Hector moaned. “I drank it for breakfast all my life.”
“I can’t wait to have coffee in Miami,” Carlos replied. “Time to row. Jose and Hector first. I’ll adjust the sail to turn us north. Duck your heads.” He swung the sail around to the other side of the raft.
Hector and Jose shook stiffness from their sore bodies and picked up oars for yet another day of arduous rowing.
Juan noticed a small blue runner fish darting between the raft’s barrels. He unwound fishing line from the cane stick and put a small piece of dried fish on the hook. He dropped the hook into the water and patiently waited as small fish circled the bait cautiously. A larger blue runner boldly swooped in to grab the morsel. Juan jerked to set the hook and pulled in line hand over hand to lift the struggling silver fish onto the raft where it flopped around the deck. Thin, vertical gray stripes flickered between two sets of dorsal fins, top and bottom. A long split tail ended in black tips. Juan used the hand line stick to club the fish into submission, bringing cheers from the crew.
Jose said, “I knew you were a thief, but I didn’t know you were also a fisherman.”
Juan grinned mischievously. “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
"Take my knife and cut him up. We'll eat the meat and you can fish with the guts."
Juan cut the fish’s head off and sliced thin strips of meat that he handed to the others.
“I give you breakfast today.” He beamed.
They chewed eagerly on the fresh white meat.
“Catch some more, little brother,” Hector said.
"Sure. Fishing beats rowing," Juan replied.
Juan caught more blue runners until the crew ate their fill. They passed a water bottle around and relaxed in the sea's rhythm of waves.
“I’ve never eaten fish until I was full.” Carlos said. “I already like this freedom. Now it’s time for Juan and me to row.”
The rowers settled into a brisk westward pace with renewed strength. After an hour of rowing, blood seeped through Juan's bandage and rolled down his leg, where it dripped through spaces between the boards and into the water below. Red drops swirled into an invisible trail for hunting sharks to follow.
He moaned, “My hands hurt already.”
“So what,” sneered Carlos. “All of our hands hurt. Keep rowing. You have to earn your freedom.”
“Right,” Jose said. “You want us to do all the work?”
“Just keep rowing and think of American girls,” Hector added.
Juan grimaced at his blistered hands and bloody leg. He lowered his head in determination and thought about Miami.
The crew continued to row in shifts through the day, watching endless waves and sky.
Chapter 13
By midday, the sea flattened into shimmering glass while the brutal sun beat down on them.
Jose brought his hand to his head and looked into the distance. "I see something ahead."
The crew squinted to identify a point on the horizon that slowly became taller as the current pushed them eastward. A thin black line appeared on both sides of the spot.
“I don’t see anything,” Hector said.
“It’s land!” called out Juan.
“Why are we seeing land?” Jose asked.
“I don’t know,” Carlos replied.
As they neared the mysterious sight, it grew into an island. Water beneath them changed from blue to clear turquoise.
“It’s a lighthouse,” Carlos exclaimed. They looked in wonder at a small island rising only a few feet from the sea. They rowed toward it in bewilderment as they crossed a long, white sand shoal and landed on a beach.
“Pull the raft up far so it won’t wash away,” Carlos barked.
The crew stepped ashore, stretching stiff legs as they searched for clues to their mysterious location. Scraggly vegetation barely held onto jagged, gray rock that hurt their bare feet. They carefully walked over a rise. At the base of the lighthouse, men huddled under a few tattered sheets spread over bushes. Rags and debris were on the rocks.
“Hola,” shouted Carlos. “Hello.”
Six gaunt black men in tattered clothes stood up and hesitantly approached them. The largest man stepped in front of the others. Jose touched the knife on his belt. Hector picked up a stick.
“Alo,” said their leader.
“Where are you from?” Carlos asked.
“Haiti.”
The Cubans paused to ponder this unexpected answer. After a military coup had recently deposed President Aristide, many Haitians had left their battered country on boats to immigrate to the Bahamas.
“I know a little Creole,” Jose said. “Let me try to talk to them.”
He spoke to the Haitians for a few moments and then turned to his crew.
“We are on a Bahamian island named Cay Sal, somewhere between Cuba and Florida. They tried to sail to Nassau, but their boat wrecked here one night a few weeks ago. They want food and water from us. We need to get out of here before they steal our raft.”
“Tell them we have no food or water to spare,” Carlos said.
When Jose repeated Carlos message to the Haitians, the two men moved menacingly toward him. The other Haitians picked up rocks and sticks.
“Spread out so they can’t get around us. They have knives, but they look weak. I don’t think they can put up much of a fight. Slowly walk back to Yemaya.”
Hector swung his stick back and forth like a baseball bat.
Jose pulled out his knife nonchalantly and said, “Adios.”
“No,” said the leader, who advanced two steps closer as he swung his knife with practiced ease. “The boat is ours.”
“This is going to be like fighting The Brainwashed,” smiled Hector.
The leader slashed at Hector, who sidestepped and smashed his stick against the exposed arm. The Haitian grunted and lunged again.
A melee ensued with bodies colliding and sticks swinging. Juan threw a rock that hit a Haitian in the head and knocked him out cold. Jose was a whirling dervish with his knife thrashing wildly. He slashed another Haitian’s arm and sent him running.
A Haitian swung a stick across Carlos' back, knocking him down. When the wood rose for another cruel blow, Juan screamed and jumped on the Haitian's back. They tumbled to the ground, lashing wildly with feet and hands. Juan was on his back, taking a beating to the face when Carlos bowled into the Haitian and pummeled him into submission.
Two Haitians circled Hector, feinting in and out as he swung his stick. One darted in from behind. Hector backhanded his stick into the black head, sending the Haitian down. Hector continued the swing in a circle to catch the other man in his knee, knocking him to the ground.
The Cubans circled the remaining Haitian. He spun in a circle, dropped the knife, and ran back to the lighthouse.
The crew raised their fists and shouted in victory.
“That was easier than fighting Cubanos,” Juan exclaimed.
“And just as fun,” Hector agreed.
"Let's get off this island," Carlos said.
They backtracked to the raft and pushed off from the empty beach.
“What do you think will happen to them?” Juan asked as they rowed to deep water.
“They’ll probably be picked up by Bahamians and sent back to Haiti,” Carlos said. “Now you know why we need to watch all night. We don’t want to run into anything and wreck our raft.”
“They weren’t as tough as Cubanos,” boasted Jose.
“That reminded me of fighting The Brainwashed at school,” said Juan. “Tell them the story, Hector.”
Hector grinned. “Everyday Juan and I walked home from school down the same street and a gang of The Brainwashed attacked us. We would fight and go home all bloody. One day, our father said ‘No more. You have my permission to fight back hard,’ and he gave me a baseball bat. After school the next day, The Brainwashed waited for us again. Only this time I started swinging the bat like Roberto Clemente. I hurt them bad. After that, we had no more trouble from The Brainwashed.”
The men laughed and bantered as they resumed sailing.
Chapter 14
The balseros rowed back to dark blue water and caught the Gulf Stream current.
“Florida is north of us, but the Gulf Stream is flowing northeast,” Carlos said. “We need to stay on a northwestern course. The good news is we have a southeastern Bahamian breeze.” He swung the boom until the sail filled and then tied it down. Once again, they settled into hypnotic rowing to cross two-foot waves at an angle as the tube and Cachita followed. Up and down, up and down.
Juan's leg had stopped bleeding in the night, but during the fight it began to drip again. A red rivulet of blood ran onto the floor as he pulled the oars. He tried to wipe the stain away with his feet.
“What are you squishing?” asked Carlos. “Did you bring roaches on board?”
“Yeah.”
“You and that leg.”
“Leave him alone,” Hector said.
Juan’s attention turned to a purple Portuguese Man-of-War floating nearby, trailed by long, deadly tentacles. A wave flipped it over, but the weight of its many appendages pulled the bladder right side up where the wind blew it again like a happy sail. Tiny fish swam between undulating tentacles, immune to the poison that inflicted fierce pain to other creatures. A sea turtle with a carapace nearly the length of the raft rose nearby. Its big eyes watched the approaching bubble that couldn’t see impending doom. The turtle opened its bony mouth, closed its eyes, and slowly inhaled the jellyfish, filaments and all.
“Look.” Juan pointed at the turtle. “It just ate that Man-of-War. It must eat those like I eat habanero peppers.”
“It is a leatherback turtle,” Carlos said.
“A turtle egg sure would taste good now,” replied Jose. “One night when I was a child, my grandfather took me to Buanahacabibes National Park to collect turtle eggs. He lived in La Bajada at the west end of Cuba near the Park. We weren’t supposed to take turtle eggs, but we just wanted a few. What could it hurt? Besides, we were starving. The turtles crawled ashore that night and dug holes in the sand with their big flippers. The pain of birth appeared to cause tears rolling from their eyes as they laid dozens of soft, large eggs deep in the holes. We waited until one turtle left, then dug up the eggs. My grandfather broke open the first one we found and ate it raw. He made me eat one raw too. It was muy bueno (very good). We put the rest of the eggs in a sack and took them to my grandmother. She cooked them up and we had full bellies for days."
“You’re making me hungry,” Hector said. He smiled at the thought of fresh eggs. “I sure could use some coffee too.”
The leatherback watched them a while longer with its perpetual smile and then sank from sight in blue water penetrated by shafts of sunlight reaching deep into the abyss.
They continued to row, trading shifts when hands cramped into claws.
Later, Hector asked Juan, “How’s your leg?”
"The cut is deep, and it's still bleeding some."
“Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
“You should clean that bandage.”
Juan took the blood soaked rag off his leg and leaned over the side of the raft. As he scrubbed it, a shadow passed deep below. It vanished, and then appeared again much closer. Only it wasn’t a shadow. A bull shark at least ten feet long glided beneath the raft.
“Shark,” Juan yelled.
A black fin broke the surface, slicing water like a scythe on a path toward Juan. Big black eyes searched for the source of blood it had trailed for hours. Juan sat at the same level as the ominous fin that extended higher than the raft's deck. Screams of fear rang out as the shark approached and bumped a barrel with its blunt brown head. They retreated in terror from a menacing fin close enough to touch. Only they couldn’t move far because the deck almost tilted to the water where the dreaded monster could reach for them with slashing teeth to shred their flesh.
“Damn,” Hector cried.
“Son of a bitch,” Carlos cursed.
They slipped and scrambled to grab ropes and pull themselves back to the mast at the center of the raft. All eyes watched the smooth beast with two remora fish attached to its back as it patiently circled Yemaya.
"What's a matter with you boys?” Jose snorted. “I'm not afraid of one shark." He waved his knife in the air with disdain. "I'll cut him with my knife."
“Yeah, right,” Juan said.
“Calm down,” Carlos yelled. “Juan, tie your bandage to stop that blood so the shark will get tired and go away.”
“Sharks don’t get tired,” Hector said.
“Shut up,” Carlos replied. He needed to get their minds off the shark. “We haven’t gone far enough across the Gulf Stream. All four of us need to row now to go farther west. Rowing will keep us from thinking about sharks.”
“How can I not watch it?” Jose asked as the nearby black fin rose and fell.
Hector tied Juan’s bandage tight and pushed hard on his leg until the blood stopped oozing through the rag. They moved to their oarlocks and rowed in unison, mesmerized by the ominous fin that stalked them. It vanished, and about the time they relaxed, reappeared behind the raft, patrolling with its fin and zigzagging tail above water.
Later in the afternoon, a large school of flying fish appeared. They built up speed underwater and launched into the air with long, silver wings spread to catch a breeze and sail like a bird for great distances to evade predators below. Hundreds of them launched in frenzied flight around and over the raft. The men reached for the fish as they flew past but couldn’t grab the slippery creatures in speeding flight. The school passed on and left the balseros staring in astonishment at another of Mother Ocean’s mystical joys.
They rowed and rowed, up and down, up and down.
Towering white clouds with flat gray bottoms built in the east from Andros to push a summertime storm across the Gulf Stream. Four foot high waves rose like sand dunes marching at three-second intervals to send the raft on a wild ride as they climbed the backside of a wave, paused at the top, then raced madly down the front, almost burying the raft's square nose in the bottom of the trough.
Carlos stopped rowing long enough to lower the sail, reducing the raft's severe pitching. When Jose's stomach revolted, he hung his head over the side. Black clouds rolled in with loud gusty, wind. Waves built faster and faster into racing valleys and mountains that broke into landslides tossing Yemaya through the angry water. A thick, jagged lightning bolt raced from the sky to water with an explosive boom. Yemaya turned sideways to a wave that crashed over her, knocking Jose down. He grabbed a rope and pulled himself back to his seat.
“Keep rowing or we’ll spin out of control,” Carlos yelled.
Jose moaned, “I’m sick.”
“So am I,” Juan said as he retched.
“Be a man and row if you want your freedom,” Carlos commanded.
"Will lightning hit the mast?"
“Maybe. You better say a prayer to Cachita.”
They rowed in fear, struggling against the ocean's tremendous power. Up the waves, down the waves. Up the waves, down the waves. The storm descended upon them now, with crashes of white lightning nearby, close enough that the sound and sight jolted them simultaneously. The crew ducked in terror but had no place to hide from the storm's fury. For hours they fought an endless legion of bucking waves and screaming wind. When exhausted, they quit rowing and desperately held on to ropes and the mast with cramped hands as Yemaya pitched in a witch’s caldron. The waves would rise high, threatening to crash over Yemaya, but then washed up through the spaces between deck boards and release the wave’s pressure as it passed underneath the raft and tube. The use of wire and rope to secure the boards provided an unexpected escape from the furious waves trying to flip the raft. If nails had been used nails to secure the deck boards close together, the wave force would have thrown them over like a kite in the wind.
Their arms ached. Their hands cramped and became deformed. Rain washed salt from sweaty bodies. Their mouths opened to catch rainwater. Stomachs heaved to emptiness, and then continued to dry heave, straining muscles. They desperately held on for liberty far away from Cuba.
“Please Cachita, take the storm away,” begged Juan repeatedly.
“I think she’s mad at us for taking her from Cuba,” Jose screamed over the roar of the storm.
They were trapped on the raft. All they could do was hang on for their lives.
Chapter 15
As darkness descended over a violent ocean, the rain slowed, the wind subsided, and waves flattened. Clouds blocked stars and moon, putting the balseros in absolute blackness. The crew collapsed on the floor in exhaustion.
“Never has my stomach hurt so much,” moaned Jose. “Nothing is left in me at all.”
"My leg hurts bad," Juan shook his head. "At least Cachita didn’t let us sink.”
“Why didn’t she keep the storm away?” Hector asked. “My hands are so cramped they won’t open.”
“I didn’t get sick,” Carlos replied. “You’re just weak girls. Put your hands in the water and they will cool. Juan, retie your bandage. Jose, pass water and food around. We need to be strong to do it again tomorrow.”
“I can’t eat. I’ll get sick,” Jose whined.
“At least drink water. I’ll take the first watch.”
Carlos sat with his back to the mast while the others drank from a bottle and fell into wearied sleep. He peered into the darkness in vain. He couldn’t tell which direction the wind blew from. Mother Ocean would take them on her own course. He felt suspended in a world painted black. He didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. His chin dropped. He jerked up and smacked the mast with the back of his head.
“Ow.” He rubbed his head just to move his weary arms.
Splash! To his right. He spun around to look for the noise. Splash, behind him. Splash, in front of him. What was it? Smack! Something soft hit him in the head.
“Ahhh,” he yelled in fear. The object fell beside him and flipped on the floor. A fish. He blindly reached toward the noise. His fingers closed on slimy skin. Flexible wings beat his hand. A flying fish! He put the squirming gift under his leg until it stopped struggling. More splashes. Another flying fish landed on the raft. He grabbed it also. The school passed, leaving him in silence once again.
When he could stay awake no more, he grabbed Hector and said, “Wake up. It’s your turn.”
“Get someone else.”
“Come on, get up. I caught flying fish. We’ll have food and bait tomorrow. Watch out. They'll hit you as they fly around."
"How can I watch out? I can't see a thing?" Hector stiffly stood up and balanced against the mast.
“Just listen.” Carlos said. He lay down and immediately passed out from deep fatigue.
Hector watched in all directions. Enveloped in darkness, he rode for hours, listening to the invisible sail flapping in a light breeze and the snores of his crewmen in weary sleep. He loved the sea and would always live close to the ocean’s salty air.
To stay awake, he thought about his parents in Miami. They would have a house for Juan and him. With $15,000, he could afford glasses and see for the first time. And a car. He would be a taxi driver. Free to go anywhere he wanted without a block captain watching or a curfew to keep him home at night. He would drive his car all night long if he wanted. And find a good Cuban-American wife. What more could a man want?
In the distance, a light flickered, shaking him from his fantasy. Again, for a little longer. The light turned into a gleaming line that grew longer and wider. Another weed line. Fully awake now, he watched the sea’s mysterious luminescence approach and envelope Yemaya with a glowing carpet as far as he could see, except for a black hole around Cachita’s tube. The Lady of Charity rode on her throne.
A faint sound. He couldn’t tell the direction. It grew to a constant, high-pitched whine. Louder. A boat. Going fast by the sound of the motor.
Hector shook Carlos. “Wake up.”
“What? What is it?” Carlos moaned. “I was dreaming about big breasted American girls.”
“Listen.”
“It’s a boat. Coming closer. But I can’t see it.”
"It has no lights. It must be a drug boat or a pirate."
“Wake up,” Carlos yelled.
“What’s wrong?” Jose asked in a daze.
“A boat’s coming without lights.”
Louder and closer came the roaring engine. Suddenly, the weed’s phosphorescent light split a hundred yards from them. It unzipped on a course straight at Yemaya. The crew yelled and waved their arms to no avail. The driver couldn’t hear or see them in the darkness. Closer. Bearing down on them. The crew cringed, hung on, and waited for impact.
The boat driver must have seen Yemaya’s shadow in the weed's lights, because he swerved hard at the last second and sent a high wave that almost flipped the raft. The sail jerked hard and broke its tie-down rope. The boom swung around, smashing Hector in the stomach. He flew overboard into glowing seaweed. The blow knocked the wind completely out of his lungs, stunning him like being hit by a bull. The rest of the crew desperately hung on to the bouncing raft's ropes as the boat screamed by and disappeared on its covert mission.
Stunned and paralyzed, Hector sank. Cool water brought him to his senses, but there was no air was in his lungs. He rapidly dropped into a black abyss. Above him, a blanket of light moved further away. With excruciating pain in his stomach, he struggled to flail his arms and legs toward the light. He broke the water's surface, though his paralyzed lungs couldn’t inhale life-saving air that would let him yell. Hector frantically beat the water with his hands and feet. He drew in a little air and squawked weakly.
They crew cursed as they struggled to catch the boom in the dark and tie it back down.
When they finished, Carlos asked, “Is everyone okay?” They could only see shadows outlined against the glowing seaweed.
“Yes,” replied Juan and Jose. No Hector.
“Hector,” said Juan. “Hector. Where are you?”
No response.
“He’s overboard,” Carlos said. “Shh. Listen for him.”
“I hear splashing,” Jose responded.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell.”
“I hear him,” Carlos said. “Can anybody see him?”
Jose replied desperately, “The boat waves broke up the glowing weeds into many patches. I can’t see him.
“Hector! Hector!” Juan screamed in despair.
But Hector didn’t have enough air to call out. He splashed again. His tortured lungs came back to life and inhaled water in their last gasp. He sank beneath the surface as his hands reaching upward to Yemaya.
The crew rowed in circles for a few more minutes.
“Hector, where are you? Hector?” Juan yelled over and over.
“We can’t see him,” Jose moaned. “It’s a terrible thing, but what can we do?”
Finally, Carlos said, "He's gone."
“No,” Juan sobbed. “You can’t mean dead. He was just here, and now he isn’t. How will I tell Maria? What will I tell our parents?
“He wanted to go to Miami so badly,” Carlos said, patting Juan on the shoulder.
The crew consoled Juan for a while, then soon fell asleep as Juan cried himself out.
He stayed awake the rest of the night on a vigil for his brother. Though thousands of bright stars twinkled close enough to touch, he couldn’t see his feet. One of the stars flashed red and white as it slowly moved across the sky. It was a plane, leading them on a flight to freedom without his brother.
Chapter 16
Clouds, forever coming and going, cleared in the night. Calm seas slept in exhaustion. A glow on the horizon announced the start of a new day. A horizontal rainbow of colors built over the glow, adding white on top of yellow on top of blue as a red-rimmed white orb rose from Mother Ocean and broke loose into the sky.
Juan looked back at the tube; relieved to see Cachita was still with them. Already feeling homesick, he leaned on the mast and thought about Cuban mountains and Maria.
Jose and Carlos woke up and stretched tired and battered muscles. They cooled their blistered hands in the sea and shared water from a bottle.
"At least we have fresh fish for breakfast," Carlos said, holding up a flying fish. "Hector caught them." They paused for a moment of silence and remembered the previous night's horrible events.
“I hope sharks didn’t eat him,” Juan said.
“At least he didn’t die in Cuba,” Carlos replied. “He died a free man.”
"My stomach is so sore that I don't know if I can eat," Jose complained.
"You need to eat," Carlos responded. "We need strength to row to Miami." He held up a flying fish and gingerly took a bite of flesh and chewed. "Better than a blue runner." He passed it to Jose. "Go on. Try it."
Jose grimaced and took a bite. “It is better than a blue runner.” He took another bite and passed it to Juan, who sucked off the last bit of meat and spit the skin into the water below. Ravenous pilot fish rushed out to fight over the morsel.
“My first flying fish,” Juan said. “I like it. Here’s another one. Let’s eat more.”
“Leave some of it for bait,” Jose said.
“Yes,” agreed Carlos. “We’ll take turns rowing. From now on, we’ll tie a rope on each of us at night so we don’t get swept away.”
“My hands and leg hurt too much to row,” Juan complained.
“All of our hands hurt,” Carlos yelled. “We have to be strong and keep rowing if we want to survive. Put your scrawny fingers in the water to make them feel better.”
“I didn’t think freedom would be so hard to find,” Jose replied meekly.
“You have your freedom now. Today. On this raft. You are free. It is up to you to decide what you want to do with your freedom. You can do nothing and die, or row hard and maybe reach Florida. You are free to die here in the ocean or die in Miami.”
Juan slowly picked up his oar, wrapped rags around his hands, and rowed in time with Jose.
Looking behind the raft, Juan said, "There're more sharks."
Three menacing fins rose and fell silently, inspecting the tube and the barrels as tails occasionally twitched to keep pace with the raft’s placid advance. A pilot fish left one of the blue-grey beasts and swam to the raft to look for breakfast underneath.
“Don’t look,” Carlos ordered. “Watch the sky.”
Onward they rowed and rowed and rowed toward liberty. Jose still wore the rag on his head, but the others had lost their hats in the storm, leaving their heads to sweat and burn under the tropical sun. The blazing eastern sun blinded Juan, so he squinted and looked down at Cachita. The ocean rested dead flat, smooth as ice, reflecting a blue sky. The solitary raft with its limp sail was all that existed on a canvass of shimmering water.
Juan thought it was no wonder that ancient sailors perceived the world was flat. They didn’t feel the vast distances as the horizon glided along with them unnoticed as their own floating world appeared unchanged. They moved in a circle thrown up to the dome of the sky centered on their boat that appeared stationary while the same stars rolled over them night after night.
The crew stopped rowing at midday to rest and eat meager rations of a few crackers and water. An enormous school of porpoises appeared ahead of them, jumping high in mating dances as they twirled, and dropping gracefully with little splash back into the sea. The porpoises enveloped Yemaya, spreading around her for miles in numbers so numerous that they became the ocean's waves. They rolled beside the raft to greeted fellow travelers with large black eyes, endless smiles, and broad tails that flapped goodbye.
“Look how happy they are,” Carlos said. “Free in the ocean just as we are.”
“But they swim faster,” Juan grumbled.
“At least they chased the sharks away,” responded Jose.
The crew watched in awe as rolling porpoises came on and on. The carpet of splashing gray happiness swept by Yemaya and slowly left her behind.
“They have the freedom to go wherever they want,” Carlos said. “We have that same freedom.”
“Yes,” the others murmured.
“Uh, with Hector gone, how much money will we get now?” Jose cautiously asked.
“How can you think of Hector’s money? He’s barely gone.” countered Juan.
“Just asking.”
Carlos thought for a second, and said, “$20,000 each.”
Silence.
“Do things cost more in Miami?” Jose asked.
“Yes,” Carlos replied.
“How much more?”
“Hmm. I think twice as much.”
They contemplated $20,000.
“My uncle has an Edsel,” said Jose. “I’ll buy a new red Ford Edsel and send him a picture. He’ll be so happy for me.” Juan and Carlos nodded in agreement, thinking of newfound riches.
“I want a new refrigerator in my house,” said Juan. “We never had one of our own. We had to use our neighbors’.”
“A color TV,” Carlos sighed. “I’ve heard of such a thing.”
“We’ll buy new things in Miami, but right now I wish I had my hat,” Juan complained. “This sun is wicked.”
"You're always whining," Carlos scorned. "You're just a weakling."
Jose thought about a new car in Miami. He squinted into the sun. A black spot to the left grew larger as they drifted closer. A bird!
In excitement, he let go of his oar, which splashed and caught in the oarlock.
He pointed, “Look at that.”
A large bird appeared, with long, black wings, red throat, and deeply forked tail. It flew ahead of them in long, lazy circles.
“It’s a Man-of-War bird that circles over big marlins,” Carlos said. “They drift for days on air currents.”
“Birds always follow you,” Jose replied.
They watched it glided gracefully in circles.
Carlos finally said, “We need to keep rowing. Jose, you help me. Juan, see if you can catch more fish.”
They rowed westward toward the bird as it soared with motionless wings, higher and higher, then suddenly dropped toward a school of flying fish that spurted desperately from the water. The Man-of-War splashed as it grabbed a fish with its hooked beak and then flapped narrow, pointed three-foot wings to rise back to the sky and circle over the school again.
Juan baited his hook, pulled a surplus of line off the sugar cane stick, and wrapped rags around his hands. He dropped the bait into the water and put the stick under his leg. He wondered if flying fish stopped long enough to eat, or if they just swam and flew eternally. Maybe he could catch one. He looked over the side. Gold flashed in the water. A school of dolphin circled below. He loved to eat dolphin. When he lowered the line deeper, dolphins rose through clear water and circled the entrails. The school sniffed and swirled beneath the raft. A three-footer grabbed the bait. When Juan jerked the line to set the hook, the angry fish dashed under a barrel and tightened the line around Juan’s hand, almost pulling him overboard. He howled in anguish as he twisted his hand free of the line. More line rushed out before he grabbed the spinning stick and stopped the run.
“Hang onto him. He’s a good one,” Jose yelled.
The angry yellow and green fish with blue spots raced out from underneath the raft and jumped high above the water. It twisted and back flipped, tumbling down with a splash that soaked the men.
“Don’t lose him,” Carlos shouted. “Pull him in.”
"I'm trying, but he's hurting my hands," Juan said desperately as he followed the fish that now circled the raft with hard dashes and explosive leaps into the air, over and over. Hand over hand Juan struggled to pull in the line that built into a tangled nest at his feet. The weary fish swam in slow circles under the boat, trailed by a curious pilot fish.
“Help me,” Juan pleaded.
A huge fin broke the surface in front of the boat, pushing water toward the dolphin like a torpedo.
“Hurry up,” Carlos screamed. “The shark’s back.”
Jose stepped next to Juan and helped pull in the line. Up came the defeated dolphin. As the fish neared the surface, a shadow rose swiftly from below and jolted the raft as it grabbed the dolphin on its rising flight. A pointed spear long as a baseball bat broke the surface smoothly. Upward came a marlin in slow motion, unendingly, water pouring from its sides. Its black eye, the size of an orange, looked at Jose with impunity as it rose above the boat, high as the mast, bright against the sun. Its head and back were dark purple with wide lavender stripes along its side. Now completely out of the ocean, it turned and entered smoothly back into the water like an arrow. Jose shrieked in fright and tripped backward into the bird nest of line piled around the mast. Out sped the line, tightening on his leg. Jose screamed in anguish as the line deeply cut his flesh above the ankle and then pulled him overboard in an instant. Down he descended behind the diving marlin, disappearing in a trail of blood. The line pulled taut as the end of it reached the stick tangled in the mast. Snap went the line, and Jose spiraled into the deep.
Juan and Carlos screamed in incredulous shock. They couldn’t believe what had happened in an instant.
Underwater, Jose's leg writhed in agony where the line cut unmercifully through muscle, all the way to hard bone. The marlin's dive took him deep into purple water as his arms and leg floundered. He struggled to reach his waist and pull out his knife. With all his strength, he slowly reached down, brought the knife to the tight line, and sliced it.
He felt instant relief from searing pain in his leg, though he still hurt and bled freely. He kicked toward the light above. Pulling water down, pushing his body up. Stroke after stroke. He broke the surface and gasped for air. He floundered and weakly swam toward the raft fifty yards away. Juan and Carlos jumped up and down, shouting at him.
“Help me,” he feebly called out.
They continued to yell frantically. Jose sank under water and rose back to the surface. More yelling. He wondered why they didn’t row to him. He felt a bewildering blow to his bloody leg as the enormous bull shark grabbed it and pulled him down. He kicked with the last of his strength and broke free. He struggled back to the surface. More blood poured from his leg. He frantically paddled weak arms toward the raft. More screaming from the men on the raft. A terrible vice closed on his stomach and back, squeezing air from his lungs and life from his tattered body. He feebly reached toward a receding light. Darkness enveloped him.
Chapter 17
Juan and Carlos stared in disbelief at what had transpired in less than a minute. Merciless Mother Ocean had taken another one of their compadres.
“Why did this happen?” Juan cried.
“No, no,” wailed Carlos.
“Cachita is supposed to protect us. Instead, she's letting us die."
“She’s mad, and it’s all your fault! Why did you have to bring her on my raft?”
“I didn’t know,” Juan moaned. “I thought she would be happy to get away from the Beard.”
“El Cobre is her home and she doesn’t want to leave.”
“Once she is with Cubans in Miami, she’ll be happy again.”
They crossed themselves in shock, watching the now calm ocean in silence for a few moments. Carlos started a prayer.
“Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
The men drank water and returned wearily to their stations at the stern to row westward into calm winds.
An hour later, Juan leaned forward. “Let’s rest. My hands hurt.” He unwrapped rags from his hands and held up blistered and bloody fingers.
Carlos raised his cramped shut palms. "Put them in the water."
“Nooo.”
“The salt will heal them. Just watch out for sharks.” They trailed their hands in the ocean until two fins appeared behind Yemaya. They jerked back from the water and sat up straight.
“How’s your leg?” asked Carlos.
Juan looked at it and replied, “No more blood.”
“Good. You’re almost healed.”
“Time to eat,” Carlos said. “We need our strength.”
They shared flying fish and crackers and watched blue runners quickly snatch crumbs that fell through the floor cracks.
"The fish is still sweet," Juan said. "I hope more come aboard tonight."
“Feed the bones to that fish under Cachita. He’s escorting her.”
Juan tossed the remains toward the tube. A pilot fish and two dolphins rushed out, making short work of the carcass. After consuming the last flickering morsel, they resumed guard under Cachita. The men wrapped their hands with cloth again and continued rowing, though not as fast as the previous day. Fatigue was setting in. To the rear, patient sharks stalked the beleaguered raft in hopes of another meal.
Juan noticed a small bird approach Yemaya from the west. It was a tired warbler flying low over the waves. It landed weakly on the sail’s line to rest for a moment, then circled the raft and landed on the tube.
“Cachita has another friend,” he said. “Birds always find her.”
The weary bird teetered on the tube, its tiny feet holding onto a line.
“That’s not an ocean bird,” Carlos said. “It shouldn’t be this far out. A storm must have carried it away from land.”
Juan told the bird, “Stay here and rest as long as you want. Cachita will take care of you.”
“Like she did Hector and Jose?”
“Shut up.”
Juan continued to talk to the tired little bird and fish below the barrels. Onward they rowed.
Several exhausting hours later, Carlos’ contemplated his lost amigos. He was tired of Juan’s chatter. Pain shot from his hands, up his arms. He had felt pain before in labor camps.
“This is bad, but not as dreadful as the Unidades Militares de Ayuda a la Producción (UMAPs) labor camp.”
“Nothing could be as terrible as that. Those were the worst two months of my life.”
UMAP camps were concentration camps where ‘social misfits,’ Jehovah Witnesses, and Roman Catholics were rounded up and sent to work on agricultural farms and undergo ‘ideological re-education’ under harsh conditions.
Carlos recalled, “Thousands of us stayed in a camp near El Dos de Cespedes. We worked from sunup to sundown every day. They fed us terrible food. We worked on a farm that grew the biggest, most beautiful tomatoes you've ever seen."
“You’re making me hungry.”
“They were for export, not for Cubanos. The fields had long rows that extended for two miles. All day long we bent over and hurt our backs to pick tomatoes. For two hours each night they indoctrinated us with communist propaganda. The Brainwashed running the camps treated us like animals, keeping boys and girls together in windowless concrete buildings. They raped many of the girls and beat gay men mercilessly. I endured unspeakable things in that camp that still give me nightmares. Only the stupid ones fell for the Communist propaganda and turned into The Brainwashed. I didn’t believe a word they told us. I stayed a gusano.”
Juan responded, “They took me to a sugar cane farm, and I chopped cane all day. We were just free labor for the CDR. My hands hurt then like they do now.”
Carlos laughed. “One day I was in a tomato field and a stupid Brainwashed called me a name. I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled a big tomato off a vine and threw it at him--splat--on the side of his head. He threw one back. A tomato war erupted and hundreds of us threw red bombs at each other. We started out mad and ended up laughing and laughing as we ran and hit each other with tomatoes. The guards eventually broke us up, but by then we had ruined thousands of red tomatoes. As punishment, they made us clean latrines for a week."
“You too? Oh, I hated that.”
“One night a Brainwashed went to an outside latrine. We were waiting for him. When we tipped the latrine over, he almost drowned. He emerged furious but didn’t know who to punish. We laughed for days. They couldn’t conquer the gusanos; we were too smart.”
“That must have been great,” Juan howled with glee. “To get revenge on a Brainwashed one.”
“It was worth the punishment.”
Juan suddenly straightened up and pointed. “Look.”
A large boat appeared on the horizon.
“Take down the sail,” Carlos said.
“Why?”
"If the Americans catch us, we'll be taken to Guantanamo Bay and kept many months while they decide what to do with us. If we make it to land in Florida, we get to stay in the United States. They can't take us back."
“That might be better than staying on this damn raft,” moaned Jose.
“No way,” Carlos replied. “I’m not going back to Cuba. Be tough and we’ll soon be free.”
They lay down, trapped with no place to hide as the raft swayed on the waves. The boat came closer. A tanker. They didn’t move a muscle, hoping their thin mast would escape detection. After thirty minutes of nerve-wracking fear, the ship slowly moved away on a southward course. After it had sailed into dark clouds on the horizon, they breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos raised the sail and trimmed it to catch the southern breeze.
“Miami can’t be too far away if we’re in a shipping lane,” Juan said hopefully.
“Yes, but storm clouds are building in the south.”
“No, not again,” moaned Juan.
“Maybe they won’t come this way. We must get across this damn Gulf Stream. Time to row again.”
They settled into a rowing trance as the wind increased and waves gradually built to gentle five-foot rollers. Bend forward, pull back. Bend forward, pull back. Their stomachs and arms screamed in protest, but onward they went. Fortunately, the clouds floated away from them.
Juan looked back to the tube where the tired bird still hung onto its bobbing island, happy for the ride; or maybe it was happy to be with Cachita.
He said, “Our little friend hasn’t left us. That’s a good sign.”
"Yes, it is."
They rowed to the northwest, struggling not to turn sideways to the waves. On and on they rowed.
More dorsal fins appeared behind Cachita.
“The sharks are still back there,” bemoaned Juan.
Fins rose and fell with the waves, always the same height as they gave leisurely wags of their tails to keep pace with the raft. Slowly they circled and occasionally nosed the raft in search of food. Sunlight caused their blue-grey skin to look brown under the water. Three dolphins that had been following between barrels dashed away from the predators and vanished into deep water. When a big wave rose, it lifted a shark higher than Juan's head, giving him a direct side view of the predator. Like being in an aquarium, the shark swam alongside the raft with a smile full of wicked teeth and remoras attached to its back. Juan yelled in fear, thinking the shark would swim aboard. Then the raft leaned and rose gracefully on a ridge of the wave, passed over the shark, and descended on the other side. A pilot fish, once loyal to Yemaya, darted out and swam away with its newfound ride.
“I think I’ll tie myself to the boat now,” Carlos said, reaching for a rope.
“Me too,” Juan replied.
They took a break to drink water and eat as they watched the sharks.
At the tube, the little bird also watched the sharks and decided to leave, flying away westward.
With the sun low on the horizon, Carlos said, “We’ll row one more time before dark.”
"My hands are killing me." Juan held up bloody hands with fingers swollen together.
“If we don’t row, we don’t get to Miami. Then we die. Do you want to die on this boat?” Carlos snarled. “We can sleep tonight.”
"Okay, okay," Juan snapped. He picked up his oar and began the wearisome rowing routine once again. The waves increased in tempo, running at five-second intervals with white froth breaking at the tops to fall onto Yemaya before she rose with the waves. While the trailing tube still climbed the steep face, the raft passed a crest and dropped down the backside, violently jerking the tube across the top to fly into the air, landing close to the raft. Over and over.
“I’m sick and can’t row anymore,” Juan cried out over the roar of the waves.
“I’m sick too, but we have to keep rowing.”
“No more.”
Juan tied down his oar and curled up around the mast as his stomach rebelled in pain. Carlos lay down with him and held onto a line.
Carlos said, “Think of the good side. We’ll be across the Gulf Stream and see Florida tomorrow.”
Juan crawled to the rear and held onto his rope as he retched.
“I’ve never seen such waves. Cachita, please make the waves go away.”
The waves rolled endlessly. On and on as the sun set, in what would have been a spectacular view from land. However, on board the raft, Juan and Carlos clung for their lives as they rose up high and raced down the waves. They shivered violently with cold and held on to their lines as Mother Ocean's washing machine relentlessly tossed the raft. Juan heaved for hours. Finally, even Carlos succumbed to seasickness. With nothing left in his stomach, Juan continued to dry heave, praying for the night to end. He tried not to think, only endure. In the darkness, he heard roaring waves approach, but couldn’t see them. He only felt the raft rise and waited in terror to reach the top to have the bottom drop out on the other side with a soaking splash, like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. Hour after hour the wind roared, and the waves crashed relentlessly. Through an endless night, Juan trembled violently and wondered why he ever left Cuba. Nothing could be worse than this. Maybe Cachita was mad at them. Maybe she did want to go home, but they couldn’t go back now. Whatever Mother Ocean had in store for them, he and Carlos had to wait. And wait. And wait.
Chapter 18
A faint light in the east signaled a new sunrise over waves that flattened to long slow rollers. Exhausted from the horrible night, Juan watched the sun pull free from the ocean as he quivered in a stupor. Yemaya was still intact, with Cachita following behind her. With hands clenched like claws, they couldn’t let go of the mast. He pulled hard and cried out in pain as fingers straightened out briefly to break free, and then snapped back into miserable curled fists.
Carlos shuddered in pain as he struggled to let go of his line and sit up on Yemaya’s deck.
“My stomach and chest hurt so bad,” he moaned. “I think something’s broken.”
“Me too,” Juan whimpered. “I have nothing left in me. Even you were sick this time.”
“We must drink water.”
“I can’t untie the bottle.”
Carlos moved his fingers back and forth to straighten them. He crawled to the last water bottle tied to the raft and hunched over in pain as swollen fingers picked at the knot until it came loose. Lifting the bottle with both hands, he used his teeth to open the cap. The round top fell from his swollen mouth and bounced across the deck. Juan yelled and reached awkwardly as it fell over the edge of the raft and slowly spun into bottomless depths. A dolphin dashed out to inspect the plastic debris, and then returned under a barrel in disappointment.
“No!” Carlos screamed.
Juan collapsed to the deck and cried.
“Damn this water,” Carlos yelled hoarsely. “Damn the wind. Damn the Beard. Damn Cachita.”
“Stop,” shouted Juan. “Don’t say that to Cachita. You’re the one who dropped the cap.”
“It’s her fault. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have stolen her. Now she’s mad and punishing us.”
“I just wanted to give her a better home.”
“Cuba is her home! She didn’t want to leave,” Carlos answered
“You wait and see. She’ll protect us all the way to Florida.”
Carlos drank from the bottle and moaned, "The water hurts my stomach." He passed it to Juan, who also took a sip of liquid and whimpered, holding his stomach.
“Careful,” Carlos said. “Drink slow. We must make it last. Is there any food left?”
Juan unwrapped their last pieces of fish and soggy crackers and split them with Carlos. They had one can of milk left, but without Jose’s knife, they couldn’t open it. Their stomachs protested, but they knew they needed strength to row. Juan carefully tied the water bottle to the mast with a rope. They slowly stood up and massaged aching fingers and backs in the morning sun's warmth.
Carlos trimmed the sail and said, “The wind has changed. Now we’re headed west toward Florida.”
“Thank God,” said Juan, trying to build strength and enthusiasm for another bleak day of rowing.
Carlos untied his oar and took his seat, bracing his feet on the deck. Juan just looked at him.
“Come on,” Carlos ordered.
“Can’t we just let the wind blow us west?”
“Estupido. It won’t be enough. We have to row. Sit down.”
Juan untied his oar and sat across from Carlos. He squinted against the bright morning sun and flexed his raw fingers. He wrapped his hands with rags, grabbed the wooden handle, and bent forward against protesting stomach muscles. When he dropped the blade into clear water and pulled.
“Oh, that hurts,” he said, rubbing his back.
“We’ll start slow.”
They began their rowing ordeal. Bend forward. Pull back. Bend forward. Pull back.
“Think about Miami,” Carlos said. “What is the first thing you’ll do?”
“I’ll drink five cups of Cuban coffee.”
“What about you?”
“Yes. Black coffee that roars down my throat and kicks my whole body awake. Not that watered down American excuse for coffee.” Row and row.
“Then I’ll eat ropa vieja,” Carlos dreamed. “Real roast beef. Pollo (chicken) is all I’ve had for years.
“I‘ll have picadillo (ground beef with raisins and spices.) My grandmother used to make delicious feasts with that."
“And a long, slow, hot bath. No more bathing in the ocean.”
“I’ll never get on a boat again,” Juan said. “I’ll work and buy a red car. I never had a car.”
“You, work? You’re just a thief. What work will you do?”
“Everyone in America has a car. I’ll wash their cars with plenty of water. Not orange water that comes from the pipes in Cuba. Water that’s clean enough to drink all the time.”
“Yes, lots of water. And I’ll buy shoes. Maybe even two pairs. One for work and one to dress up in when I go dancing with American girls." They grinned at the thought of American girls and rowed faster.
Juan was thinking about Miami when he noticed golden flashes under the tube. Four dolphins now accompanied Cachita on her journey. They swirled under the tube and then darted over to look under Yemaya for food. Finding nothing to eat, their curiosity led them to splashing oars. Each time a blade dropped into the water, a fish rushed out and followed the oar until it rose from the water. When the oar splashed back down, a playful fish scurried back to the oar and followed it again. The dolphins played the game until they tired of it and settled into the shade under the raft.
“I sure would like to eat one of those again,” Carlos said.
“Me too.”
“Let’s take a break.”
“Okay.”
They watched dolphins and wondered how to catch one when Juan looked up and pointed. “What’s that?”
The sea boiled to the south.
“I don’t know. It’s getting bigger.” His voice rose. “Get ready.”
They held tight to lines and watched roiling water come closer. An immense school of yellow dolphins bounded out of the sea like torpedoes, racing toward Yemaya frantically instead of with their casual, lazy jumps used when hunting flying fish. They bounded continuously like fugitives, whipping the sea into white foam. Behind them, a large, black fin sped along on a zigzag course, like a cowboy herding cows.
“Look how big that shark is,” Carlos said with fear.
Some of the desperate fish took refuge under the raft, circling into a tight, golden shoal underneath that shimmered and danced. Others continued to flee and splashed away in a glittering mass of colors. The gleaming back of a twenty foot blue shark dove and circled the fish under the raft, then sped westward after the fleeing shoal. The dolphins under Yemaya rose as one, colorful backs rising above the surface, and swam eastward with a burst of speed. The sea calmed again.
The Cubans looked at each other in stunned silence. Once again Mother Ocean had shown her magic.
Chapter 19
Juan and Carlos drank more water and picked up their oars. The overhead sun now burned their heads instead of their faces. They paced themselves with steady, slow strokes, hands on fire with blood dripping from the rags. Every few minutes Carlos looked over his shoulder to check for boats or, even better, land. They were still in dark blue water of the Gulf Stream, at its fastest now in the Straits between Cuba and Florida. Row for an hour and rest. Row for another hour and rest. They were exhausted and hungry, too drained to talk. More sharks returned, with fins patrolling steadily behind Yemaya as they followed the blood trail and occasionally circled the raft with ominous black eyes watching from below. A few pilot fish from the sharks left to find a new home under the raft. An afternoon wind swung back to the south, piling up two-foot waves for them to quarter the raft through. They rocked up and down, but nothing compared to the dreadful waves of the previous night. When they stopped to rest, Juan looked around the never-ending horizon.
He pointed. “Look over there. A boat.”
A cruise ship appeared on the horizon, sailing south with American tourists. They watched until it vanished and wondered what life would be like on a big party boat. All the food they could eat. Music. Dancing. Coffee.
Swirling white seagulls appeared from the west to inspected Yemaya as they searched for food. Soon they departed over the horizon on their endless quest.
“We must be getting closer,” Carlos said optimistically. “Ships and birds are good signs.”
“I wish we would hurry up and get there. I don’t think I can last much longer.”
“Sure you can. Just thing about American women.”
“You can have the women. I just want dry land and coffee.”
“With $30,000, you’ll drink coffee day and night for the rest of your life.”
“Yea, lots of coffee. And new clothes. I’ll buy seven new suits, one for each day of the week. White and silver and black. I’ve never had a suit. I also want black shoes and a white Panama hat. People will see me coming and say, ‘There’s Juan La Hoya.’ I’ll have a beautiful American girlfriend and buy her pretty dresses. Maybe I can find a doctor to straighten my nose.” He smiled and wiggled his nose, dreaming of riches and respect.
“I can see you strutting down the road.” Carlos laughed.
“What will you do with your money?” Juan asked.
“I’ll buy a new Chevy and a real boat. I’m a good mechanic, so I can fix up an old boat and catch lots of fish. And I want a house.”
“Do you think $30,000 is enough for a house?”
“Of course. That’s enough for two houses.”
Juan noticed a white line on the southern horizon and said, “That looks like waves on a reef.”
“There’s no reef to the south.”
They watched the ominous line grow into a wall that rose higher and higher.
“It’s a wave,” Carlos cried. “A giant one. Turn the raft and get ready.”
“How can it be so big?” Juan asked in terror.
“It’s a rogue wave! They appear out of nowhere.”
They desperately turned Yemaya northward and secured the oars. Carlos tied himself with a three-foot line and Juan used a six foot line.
“What are we going to do?” Juan asked.
“We’ll ride it like a surfboard.”
“I don’t know how to surf.”
“Just hang on.”
Juan heard it now, an angry roar, growing louder and louder like a waterfall. The enormous wave raced impossibly fast toward them.
Yemaya rose on the front of the swell, climbing high toward the towering crest as it began to break. Juan screamed in terror as the stern rose to vertical near the top of crashing doom. The raft paused, and slowly flipped over, catapulting the men backward. Juan's body jerked to a viscous stop at the end of his rope as he plunged through the air alongside Carlos, the raft, and Cachita’s tube. They tumbled down the face of the enormous wave and crashed into thunderous oblivion. Carlos' short rope kept him under the raft when it hit, crushing his body limp like a rag. Juan's longer line allowed him to fall away from the raft. He tucked into a ball and landed on his back in a stunning blow. Thunderous whirlpools of foam smothered and pounded him. He spun underwater until his face crashed into the raft. When he shrieked in pain, saltwater poured into his lungs. The raft tumbled underwater, dragging Juan helplessly by the rope around his waist until the wave passed.
Yemaya and Cachita popped to the surface like a cork, pulling Juan to life-saving air. He gasped and floundered as water spewing from his lungs and blood poured from his nose. Where was Carlos? He dove and frantically swam in angry water under the raft to find Carlos struggling with his short rope; his eyes wide open in terror. Carlos stretched his hand out for help. Juan grabbed it and pulled, but the short rope held him tight. Bubbles escaped from Carlos' mouth. His hand slowly relaxed. His eyes closed. Juan screamed underwater in anguish. He pushed away from the raft and popped up, spewing water and screaming in distress. That’s when he heard another roar like a freight train. A second wave rose high, building from stripes of foam into a glittering wall.
He coughed up more water, took a deep breath, and pushed himself away from Yemaya as she rose toward the breaking peak and plunged down the boiling face. Peals of thunder crashed on him. He tumbled helplessly until the raft pulled him back to the surface. Yemaya’s broken sail now pointed skyward. Carlos’ lifeless body lay on the deck. Juan rolled over to his back, floating in defeat. He watched a third wave rise from the trough. No, not again. He held onto the raft as the swell rose high, but it didn’t break. In a second, he and Yemaya and Cachita glided quietly down the backside of the gentle wave. The three rogue waves raced northward on a quest to pummel other hapless boats.
Juan floated in the water, gasping for air, totally spent. He felt his mouth. A tooth was gone. He touched his nose and jerked back in pain; his hand covered with blood. Broken again. He reached down and probed his tender leg wound and winced. His hand came back with more blood on it. Sharks could be anywhere. With the last of his strength, he grabbed the handhold on the back of the raft and pulled himself aboard, where he collapsed beside Carlos’ battered body and passed out.
Chapter 20
Juan awoke face down. His eyes were out of focus. Where was he? A bird chirped in front of him. He laid on a wooden floor that gently rocked and his brown back sweated under a late afternoon sun. Every muscle in his body ached, especially his stomach where the line had towed him through the manic sea. He blinked until his eyes focused on a small bird singing to him while it balanced on the safety line above the deck. The same warbler from yesterday. Singing ‘wake up, wake up.’ Memories floated through his foggy brain. A raft. Yemaya. Leaving Cuba. Cachita in the tube. Storms. Waves. Giant waves!
He raised his head and pushed his body up. Agonizing pain in his hands. He fell back to the deck and curled up in a ball. His eyes jerked wide open at the sight of Carlos lying on his back, dead eyes staring into the sun. His neck and legs tangled in a line at grotesque angles.
“Carlos. Carlos,” he sobbed until he passed out again.
***
“Wake up. Wake up,” the bird sang.
Juan stirred and opened his eyes. He jolted again at the sight of Carlos’ grotesque body. His tortured hands pushed him up in agony. He turned his head away from Carlos to look at the little bird that twisted its head sideways as if to say, ‘Why did you sleep so long?’
“Why is this happening to me?” he moaned to the bird.
“Tweet.” The bird flew to the tube and stopped, looking at the suitcase. “Tweet.”
“Is Cachita mad at me?”
“Chirp.”
“She can’t be.”
“Tweet, tweet.”
“Oh Cachita, I’m so sorry.” Juan lowered his head and sobbed, but had no water left for tears.
“Just wait a little longer,” he pleaded. “You’ll like your new home in Miami where many Cubans will love you.”
He looked at Carlos, who had struggled so hard to leave Cuba for independence. He gently untied the rope from the mast, trying not to touch Carlos as he unwound it from contorted limbs. When the last bit of rope slipped free, Juan quickly turned away. He didn’t notice when one foot dropped over the safety line and splashed into the water.
“I should have died, not you. If I had grabbed the short rope, you would be alive, and I would be dead.” He thought for a moment and looked down at Carlos. “At least you died free. I’ll take you to Miami and you’ll be buried in a grave of freedom.”
Juan looked around his battered raft. The food and water had washed away. A broken mast, one oar, and Carlos’ suitcase were all that remained on board. That Yemaya still floated in one piece showed Carlo’s skill in building her with ropes, barrels, and lumber. Through gaps in the deck, he saw the center tube was deflated. The raft tilted to one corner due to a leaking barrel. His tattered shirt hung onto him by a thread. He lifted shredded and swollen hands to touch his severely broken and swollen nose, moaning at the familiar pain. His mouth hurt where the tooth was missing. Behind the raft, Cachita’s tube still followed. Juan rolled to his side, pulled his knees to his chest, his back to Carlos, and waited for whatever would happen next.
The sunset left him in blackness again. He had never been so completely alone. Just Cachita and him on an empty ocean.
“Tweet.”
“Yes, I still have you little bird. We’ll go to Florida together.”
Juan crawled away from Carlos' body and lay over the edge of the raft. He dropped raw hands into the saltwater. The fingers gradually loosened up. No need to keep watch tonight. He had no sail, no oars, no light. He tied the line to Cachita’s tube and lay down to fall into deep slumber.
Chapter 21
A bump against a barrel awoke Juan later in the night. Stars surrounded a sliver of moon that shone light onto a sea of diamonds rippling in the breeze. Yemaya rocked in gentle waves. He looked around and noticed light on the horizon, like after the sun had set. He jumped up and looked harder. Yes. Lights. It had to be Miami. He must be almost there. Excitement swelled up in his heart, giving him hope.
“Cachita, do you see that? We’ll be there tomorrow. A new home and freedom.”
Bump. Bump again, harder.
He frantically looked into shadowed water around the raft.
Bump and splash.
Carlos jerked!
I thought he was dead!
Fins rose in the moonlight.
“No!”
He grabbed the oar and swung at the closest shark. The blow landed solid. Splash, and the fish rolled away. Excruciating pain ripped through his battered hands.
Carlos shuddered again. Another shark. Juan screamed and swung at the second shark pulling on Carlos' leg. In the dark, he missed the fish and broke the oar against a barrel. His hands felt like fire, causing him to drop the wooden handle and fall to the deck with hands clenched to his stomach. Carlos still shuddered as the shark whipped his leg back and forth. Juan gritted his teeth, rose to his feet, and picked up the broken handle that now had a speared point. He drew back the oar over his head. Down he stabbed at the beast with all his strength. The point bounced off tough hide and his mutilated hands opened in agony. The oar handle dropped into the sea.
“Nooo!”
One shark still pulled on Carlos’ leg. Another circled the raft. Another smashed into the backside of the raft, knocking Juan to his knees. As Carlos’ body inched off the raft, his other stiff leg slid out over the water. The body lurched and shuddered. Juan staggered to his knees and grabbed one of Carlos’ hands and pulled. He couldn’t let them take Carlos. The stiff bent arm reluctantly straightened. Despite his tortured hands, he pulled harder. The shark pulled back. Its head thrashed, flinging water and shreds of meat onto the raft. Back and forth they tugged. Juan's feet slipped on the wet deck. Down he crashed. A second shark rose from black water and grabbed Carlos' other leg. Bone crunched. The body jerked under the safety line, close to the raft's edge. On his knees, Juan yanked back. He grabbed Carlos other stiff arm and straightened it over the rope in desperate hope that it would hold on. The first shark bit completely through Carlos' leg at the knee and withdrew to swallow. Another shark rose and seized the remains of the leg and thrashed in a wild frenzy. Juan couldn’t fight them both. They pulled and heaved. His weak hands gripped Carlos’ stiff arm. Slipping, slipping. Gone. With a splash, Carlos dropped into darkness.
Juan raised his head to the moon and howled in horror.
“Nooo. Cachita. Why are you doing this to me? Why did you let my hands fail?” He dropped to his knees and wept uncontrollably until he collapsed and passed out.
Chapter 22
“Tweet, tweet.”
Juan's swollen eyes fluttered, then closed against an overhead sun. His nose was swollen shut, and his hands looked like hamburger meat. Thirst raged in his mouth, dry as a desert.
“Chirp.”
“Go away.” Juan turned his head sideways and slowly focused on the little bird on the perimeter rope. “Why are you back?” he mumbled through cracked lips. “I can’t help you.”
The bird flew back and landed on the tube where it continued to sing.
When Juan rolled over to his stomach, every muscle in his body protested in excruciating pain, especially his swollen and cracked hands clinched in fists. He moaned as he used his elbows to push up to his knees. Small waves rocked the boat gently. Two flying fish lay on the deck, a gift from the Mother Ocean during the night.
“Tweet, tweet.” The bird hopped around on the tube, then flew back to the raft’s perimeter line.
“What do you want?” He scanned the ocean and noticed clouds in the west. He blinked several times to clear his eyes and squinted. On the horizon, scattered black objects reached upward, too tall and thin to be boats. Buildings!
“Yes,” he yelled hoarsely. “Cachita, look. We’re almost there.” Mesmerized, he watched a sliver of land float on the water.
“We really made it. Only a few more miles to hot coffee and my family.”
He lay on his stomach and dropped raw hands into cool water while watching mystical buildings rise and fall in synchronization with the waves. His fingers slowly uncurled. He flexed aching muscles and tendons to bring them to life. The bird was no longer with him.
Juan crawled to the back of the raft and pulled the rope to bring in the tube. Three dolphins followed, watching in curiosity. He struggled with sore muscles to lift the tube onto the raft. He untied the suitcase and gently removed Our Lady of Charity del Cobre. He placed the dry, sparkling statue between his legs.
“Cachita, do you see that?” He pointed toward land. “There’s our new home. People will praise you in Miami. Hector and Jose and Carlos didn’t believe you would take care of them. They just wanted you to bring them money. But I always knew you would save me and be thankful for a new place to live.”
He gazed at the horizon, wondering what freedom would be like. He could go wherever he wanted. Say anything without covering his mouth or worrying about block captains. No one would call him a Worm. He would find a good job and all the clean water and food he wanted.
The thought of food awoke his stomach.
“Thank you Cachita for these fish. You are bountiful. I will enjoy them with you.”
Juan crossed himself and reached for a flying fish on the deck, bringing it to his mouth with a smile. He wished he could smell the fish through his shattered nose. He took a bite of flesh, flinched when it touched his broken tooth, and rolled it around his tongue to savor the taste.
“Thank you too, Mother Ocean.”
Juan savored the sweet meat, gradually sucking flesh and liquid from the bones. He finished the first fish and picked up the second one. What a feast. When he threw the carcasses overboard, dolphins rushed out and devoured an easy meal. He looked at Cachita’s dazzling jewels and wondered where her new shrine would be.
“Cachita, I already feel stronger. I am in your hands now.” After securing her in the suitcase, he tied it to the tube. Juan gently pushed the tube back into the water where she would continue to oversee his safety.
***
A light easterly wind rose and pushed the raft toward land and freedom. Dark clouds slowly built where ocean breezes met warm air over Florida. Juan held onto the short piece of remaining mast as waves built. The blue ocean turned aqua. More buildings rose from the water. Excitement grew in his heart; he would soon be in Florida with his parents. Just a little further.
The noise of an engine broke his daydream. A small boat appeared in the south. He dropped flat on the raft. If the Coast Guard rescued them from the raft, he and Cachita would be taken back to Guantanamo Bay. He had to float all the way to shore. The fishing boat with two men aboard turned toward the raft. No. What should he do?
Juan looked in the water around the raft. No shark fins. He slipped overboard and dove underneath, rising between barrels. A pilot fish looked at him scornfully for invading his spot and moved to the other side of the raft. Flashes of golden dolphin receded into deeper water. He painfully held onto a rocking barrel as he desperately waited. The engine sound came closer.
“Hello. Anybody there?”
The boat circled Yemaya twice. Juan hid motionless under the rocking raft; grateful his brown skin matched the color of wood. Voices again. The motor sound gradually faded as the boat left. He swam to the back of the raft where he grabbed a handle with battered hands and excruciatingly pulled himself back onto the deck before sharks showed up. He rolled over on his side and watched the boat disappear.
Chapter 23
The Miami skyline danced on the horizon. Buildings taller than any in Havana mesmerized him. Suddenly, a noise as loud as a gunshot erupted behind the raft. He jumped and yelled, turning toward the sound. A wave of water washed over him.
“What the hell?”
A hole in the water boiled up, larger than any fish would make. Even bigger than his raft. An enormous black shadow passed beneath Yemaya, shaped like a kite with a long, thin tail like a spear as long as the rest of the body. At the base of the tail, a pair of small fins hung downward. Two large, brown fish that looked like sharks trailed behind the creature. The beast swam to the surface with undulating thin wings beating like a bird. The wingtips broke the water surface, slicing the sea gracefully. He recognized the manta ray, at least fifteen feet wide. Another black shadow passed just below the surface. Narrow black-and-white appendages protruded two feet in front of the head and flapped to a rhythm different than the wings. A wide oval mouth gaped at the base of the U. Large eyes watched him from the outer bases of the front flippers.
Another crashing at the other side of the raft drenched him again. He was trapped in the midst of a school of these mysterious denizens. Yet another manta ray propelled itself out of the water, higher than Juan's head, wings spread wide, and paused at the top of its flight, glistening water dripping from its wings. Underneath were lines of gills on a white stomach. It landed flat with a loud eruption of water. He watched in awe as the magnificent creatures lazily swam past him through the water and disappeared. He never knew Mother Ocean had such multitudes of life in her belly.
He lay back down on the deck and watched Miami to the west.
***
Boom. Startled from sleep, he awakened. Lightning crashed across clouds ahead. Waves picked up as a storm moved closer. Maybe it would miss him.
Up and down. Up and down the raft rocked on faster waves. Closer rolled the clouds. Crack! A white bolt raced down a white jagged path from a cloud, close enough for him to see water splash and steam. He hated lightening most of all. Helpless, he lay flat in terror. He wouldn’t even see a bolt coming if a cloud reached out to him with blinding speed. Surely Cachita would not allow that to happen.
He closed his eyes but couldn’t close out the sound of thunder, whistling wind, smashing waves, and rain splattering on the deck. He curled around the short mast and held on as he turned his dry mouth upward to catch water. His stomach felt sick again. Waves crashed against the boat, but not as bad as previous storms. Juan held on and said a Hail Mary.
Gradually the lightning moved away, and the wind lay down. The waves resided to their normal tempo.
Juan relaxed his grip on the mast. His eyes opened to an incredible sight. Miami’s buildings were closer now. A rainbow arched over them, rising from the shore to reveal bright colors across the top of the skyline and falling back to the shore again. Sunshine from above warmed his skin.
A sign! He was going to make it.
Closer Yemaya floated. Then the east wind faded, and waves flattened.
"No," Juan screamed. "Just a little bit closer." The Gulf Stream had carried him within a mile of shore. Normally he could swim that distance, but he had no strength left.
“Please, dear God. Bring back the wind. I swear I’ll never steal anything again. I‘ll go to Mass every day. Just take me a little further.”
Ripples built, then small waves pushed him eastward.
“Nooo.” So close, but so helpless.
Angry waves rose again. He wished Carlos were here to tell him what to do. Sunshine disappeared. He looked over his shoulder to the east. A black cloud now covered the sun. More black clouds raced in from the south, howling with angry winds. Juan lay down again, grabbing the mast with dread. Waves crashed over Yemaya.
Juan looked up in disbelief as a black cloud sent a twisting finger down toward him. The waterspout reached lower, centering directly over the raft. Violent wind rocked Juan. His bloody hands gripped the mast with the last of his energy. One finger slipped. Another. The left hand flew away. The sea whipped into froth and rose to meet the waterspout that enveloped the raft.
His right hand ripped loose. Juan flew away, screaming "Cachita.”
Chapter 24
A bikini clad girl dozed in a secluded area of Miami’s beach. She awoke and pushed on her flesh. Another hour should be about right. She reached for a bottle of water from her ice chest and drank cool liquid. She looked at her friends frolicking in the distance and then decided to take a swim to cool off. When she turned to walk to the sea, she noticed the brown body of a man at the edge of the water. Probably some drunk had passed out again. She carefully approached, wondering if she knew him. She drew near and saw he was battered, curled up in a ball, and bruised with blood spread over his body. He must have been fighting. She poked him with her foot. Again.
Juan groaned and slowly pushed over to his stomach. He opened his eyes and slowly focused on sand.
He heard a voice. “Are you okay?”
Juan rolled over to his back and looked up at a beautiful white girl. An angel. No, she was in a bikini. He was in Miami!
He laughed through parched lips and said, “Thank you Cachita.”
Chapter 25
One September morning in 1994, Ron Sparks left Port Canaveral on Perseverance, his 36-foot Sport Fisherman, and took a due east bearing into a golden sunrise. Gordon and Annie England and Doug Thompson were today’s crew, all experienced saltwater anglers.
While Doug rigged lures with fresh ballyhoo, Gordon joined Ron at the helm and asked, “What’s the plan?”
“It’s been storming for a couple of days, so it’ll be a little choppy. I heard there’s been a lot of fish caught around those Cuban rafts. After drifting for so long, dolphin, wahoo, and other fish have congregated under those floating islands just like they do with weed lines. We’ll scout the edge of the Gulf Stream and look for rafts. Once we find one, we’ll troll baits around it to see what we pick up.”
“Sounds great. I‘ve seen some of the rafts that floated to shore. It’s unbelievable that people sailed on those raggedy things. Some of them have orange paint. What's with that?"
“The Coast Guard intercepts most of the rafts down around Miami. When they remove Cubans from a raft, they spray it orange so other boaters will recognize a successful rescue. Sometimes they try to sink a raft by shooting it, though most stay afloat. If we see a raft with no paint, then the Coasties missed it."
“Oh,” Gordon replied. “This is going to be interesting.”
Ron continued eastward for an hour until he encountered a north-south rip where water changed from calm green to deep blue. Two-foot waves marked a velocity change from the eddy.
"Here's the Gulf Stream," he announced. "We'll work this edge until we find a raft. Keep your eyes peeled."
He turned southward into the current and zigzagged to cover more area as his crew prepared for action.
A few minutes later Gordon pointed. “There’s a big weed line up ahead.”
"That'll work," Ron responded and steered toward the thick yellow stripe across blue water. "Drop the baits."
He skillfully brought four skirted ballyhoos close to the thick sargassum. His crew waited anxiously as flat-nosed lures created bubbly trails skipping along the water's surface.
A bait close to the weeds exploded when a flashing dolphin attacked from below and leaped in a high, thrashing arch with a lure in its mouth. It crashed into the sea and a rod bent double as line stripped from the reel in an adrenaline pumping scream.
“Fish on,” Gordon yelled.
He grabbed the thick rod and reared back hard to set the hook firmly, causing the angry fish to surge away on a furious run. Annie and Doug rapidly reeled in the other lines to prevent tangles in the ensuing battle. When the dolphin slowed, Gordon skillfully pumped and reeled to lead an angry dolphin close to the boat in short order. Doug swung the gaff, bringing in a thrashing 15-pounder.
High fives and whoops followed in a brief celebration cut short by Ron yelling, “I see a raft.”
Eyes turned toward a small object bobbing in the distance. The crew re-rigged the lure, prepared rods, and wondered what the raft looked like.
As they approached, Gordon asked Doug, “What in the world is that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a wooden frame, but I don’t know what it’s floating on.”
Ron steered close to the bizarre excuse for a boat as the crew stared in disbelief. Five twelve-inch aluminum pipes, 20-feet long, lay stacked on another row of five twelve-inch pipes tied in place with multiple ropes. The pipe's ends were squeezed shut as though a giant pair of pliers had sealed them airtight. The bottom row of pipes was submerged. On top of the pipes lay on a plywood platform lashed to a wooden framework of two-inch sticks that also held several strips of thin cloth serving as sun protection. The platform floated only a foot above the water. On the back of the raft, a large, deflated inner tube hung partway into the water. With no rudder or sail, the eerie raft of doom floated sideways to waves that swept over it.
Annie asked Gordon, "How did it keep from capsizing in storms?"
“Maybe it was too heavy.”
“How many Cubans do you think were on it?”
“Couldn’t have been more than five or six.”
Ron circled to the other side where orange paint glowed on the silver pipes.
The crew sighed in relief, realizing the Coast Guard had rescued balseros from this raft.
“I’m glad they made it,” Ron said. “I see baitfish under the raft. May we’ll find bigger ones below.”
He drove away in a large circle, giving his crew time to position baits. Gordon and Doug donned fish belts in preparation for an exciting battle. Two fish rose from underneath and attacked the lures passing the raft, outrigger lines snapped and line screamed from the reels.
"Fish on," Doug yelled as he grabbed a rod. Chaos ensued.
A twenty-five-pound dolphin skyrocketed from the sea and tail-walked across the other lines as its head thrashed violently to disgorge the wicked hook embedded in its mouth. Gordon picked up the other throbbing rod and reared back. His fish took of on a ferocious run, slamming Gordon hard against the transom as line streamed from his reel. He staggered to regain his balance and braced his knees against transom cushions. Ron put the boat in neutral and descended to the cockpit to help Annie bring in the remaining lines. Doug's fish swam in a large circle around the boat. Typically, Ron steered away from a dolphin's circle; but such a move today with Gordon's fish still running straight away would probably lose at least one of the prized fish. Doug followed his dolphin to the bow as it jumped furiously and then sounded. A few minutes later, it skyrocketed in another aerial display of thrashing gold acrobatics of fear before it splashed back into the sea. Yells and cheers erupted from the astounded crew.
Back at the stern, Gordon’s fish finally stopped its long run. He tightened the drag and started a brutal tug of war measured in inches.
Gordon felt a rhythmic pulsation in the line and declared, "It's a wahoo. A good size one too."
“Let it stay deep until we get Doug’s fish in,” Ron commanded.
Doug gradually horsed the dolphin to Ron's gaff. Into the boat it came.
Gordon resumed his fight with the wahoo.
When it rose close enough, Ron announced, “I see color.”
The fish torpedoed out on another furious run. Minutes later, the wahoo joined the dolphin in the fish box.
Ron resumed the search for another raft. He patrolled the edge of the Gulf Stream several more hours, catching more dolphins along weed lines. They were about ready to call it a day when Doug spotted another raft. As Ron cruised toward another mystery, the crew watched with curiosity. He stopped Perseverance next to the raft so the lures would drop deep. Gordon looked silently at the empty raft made of barrels and wood. A broken mast stood in the center. One of the barrels was full of water, dropping the deck to one corner. A waterlogged suitcase lay on the high corner.
Ron circled and said, “No orange paint on this one.”
“Get closer, Ron,” Doug said. “I want to see what’s in the suitcase.”
“No way. That’s a dead man’s raft. Whatever’s in there is haunted by bad mojo.”
“Come on. There’s probably good souvenirs in the suitcase.”
Ron responded by gunning the boat and steered in a circle. As the lures rose, a rod bent nearly to the water and the reel sang.
“Your turn, Annie,” Gordon said.
She picked up the rod and struggled to turn the handle. Ron stopped the boat so she could more easily wind in the line.
"This is a weird fish," Doug said. "It's not running or fighting."
Annie pumped and reeled, slowly gaining line.
“It just feels like a rock,” she said.
“The raft’s getting closer,” Ron called out. “I think you hooked something underneath it.”
Sure enough, the more line Annie brought in, the closer the raft drifted to the boat.
When the raft was next to Perseverance, Doug announced, “Here it comes,” and swung the gaff. He lifted a deflated inner tube out of the water.
Gordon pointed. "Let's see what's on that rope," He pulled on a rope tied to the tube and lifted a large, battered suitcase to the surface.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Annie asked.
Gordon pulled on the rope tied to the handle but couldn’t lift it.
“Doug, help me. It’s full of water.”
Together they strained to lift the suitcase higher. It was almost to the transom as water poured out of holes when the handle broke. Splash. It slowly sank into the depths.
“Too bad we couldn’t save it,” said Doug. “There was probably cool stuff in it.”
"I didn't want haunted Cuban junk on my boat," said Ron. "That's enough for today. Let's pack ‘em up and go home."
Epilogue
Maria walked along Cojimar beach, as she did every morning since her brothers left. Ten days had passed with no word from them. If they had reached Florida, surely, they would have contacted her by now. She hoped they were in Guantanamo and would eventually be taken to Miami. She picked up pebbles and threw them into the water where seagulls swirled, feeding on fish. If she could just fly away like a bird and never come back to Cuba.
She looked down the beach where a glittering object bobbed near the shore. She walked toward it, wondering what Mother Ocean had washed in.
She entered the water and saw Cachita, completely dry, floating on a piece of wood.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Cachita had come home again. She fell to her knees, turned her tear-stained face to heaven, and cried out in despair. She crossed herself and trembled, praying for her brothers.
References
Our Lady of Charity, also known as Our Lady of El Cobre or Nuestra Senora de la Virgen de la Caridad, is a popular Marian title of the Blessed Virgin Mary known in many Catholic countries. Several known Marian images with the same title exist around the world while a particular Hispanic image is pontifically designated by Pope Benedict XV as the Patroness of Cuba. The present image is enshrined in National Shrine Basilica of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was built in 1926 is situated in village El Cobre, near Santiago de Cuba. Pope Pius XI granted a Canonical Coronation towards the image on 20 December 1936. The feast day of Our Lady of Charity is September 8; the solemn Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Various similar Marian images predating the Cuban image bear a similar title with their respective canonical coronation are found in the Spanish cities of Cartagena, Villarrobledo, Illescas, Loja, La Garrovilla, and Toledo, Spain along with its replicated copies in Basilica Minore of Our Lady of Charity in Agoo, and Ilocos Sur, Philippines.
History
The history of the La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre began around 1612. The image is thought to have been brought by Spaniard colonists from the town of Illescas, a province in Toledo, Spain where a similar posture of the Virgin Mary of Charity is already well venerated. Local legend recalls the Spanish captains who bring with them religious Marian images to guide and protect them from English pirates at sea. Two Native American or Indian brothers, Rodrigo and Juan de Hoyos, and an African slave child, Juan Moreno, set out to the Bay of Nipe for salt. They are traditionally given the moniker the "three Juans". They needed the salt for the preservation the meat at the Barajagua slaughterhouse, which supplied the workers and inhabitants of Santiago del Prado, now known as El Cobre. While out in the bay, a storm arose, rocking their tiny boat violently with ongoing waves. Juan, the slave, was wearing a medal with the image of the Virgin Mary. The three men began to pray for her protection. Suddenly, the skies cleared, and the storm was gone. In the distance, they saw a strange object floating in the water. They rowed towards it as the waves brought it towards them. At first they mistook it for a bird, but quickly saw that it was what seemed to be a statue of a girl. At last they were able to determine that it was a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the child Jesus on her left arm and holding a gold cross in her right hand. The statue was fastened to a board with an inscription saying "Yo Soy la Virgen de la Caridad" or "I am the Virgin of Charity." Much to their surprise, the statue remained completely dry while afloat in the water.
Preserved in the General Archive of the Indies of Seville, a written testimony of Juan Moreno recalls the following:
"Having camped in the French Key, which is in the middle of the Bay of Nipe, waiting for a good time to leave for the Wabba mines, being a morning of calm seas, they left the French Keys, before daybreak. The aforementioned Juan y Rodrigo de Hoyos and myself, embarked in a canoe, headed for the Wabba mines, and far from the French Key we saw something white above the foam of the water, which we couldn’t distinguish. As we got closer, birds and dry branches appeared. The aforementioned Indians said, 'It looks like a girl.' While they were discussing, they saw an image of Our Lady, the Holy Virgin, on top of a small wooden plank, holding the baby Jesus in her arms. On this small tablet, was written in large letters, which read, 'I am the Virgin of Charity.' Looking at her clothes, they realized that they were not wet."
Overjoyed by what they had discovered, they hurried back to Barajagua. They showed the statue to a government official, Don Francisco Sánchez de Moya, who then ordered a small chapel to be built in her honor. One night, Rodrigo went to visit they statue, but discovered that the image was gone. He organized a search party, but had no success in finding Our Lady of Charity. Then, the next morning, she was back on the altar, as if nothing had happened. This was inconceivable, as the chapel had been locked. This event happened three times. The people of Barajagua came to the conclusion that she wanted to be in a different spot, so they took her to El Cobre. She was received with much joy in El Cobre, and the church there had its bells ring on her arrival. It was at this point that she became known as "Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre" or "Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre." Much to the dismay of people in El Cobre, the disappearance of the statue continued to happen. One day, a young girl named Jabba was playing outside, pursuing butterflies, and picking flowers. She went towards the mountains of the Sierra Maestra, where she came across the statue on top of a small hill. There were those who did and those who did not believe the little girl's testimony, but in the end, the Virgin was taken to the spot of her discovery, where a church was erected for her.
Before the famous image on 19 May 1801, a royal edict from king Charles IV of Spain decreed that Cuban slaves were to be freed from the copper mines of El Cobre. The story circulated around the island quickly. Many felt that the Virgin purposely chose to have her sanctuary in El Cobre because it is located in Oriente Province. Later folk legends associated the taking of copper materials to their homes after having it blessed near the Virgin's sanctified image as a form of souvenir and miraculous healing.
The Cuban statue venerated measures about 16 inches tall; the head is made of baked clay covered with a polished coat of fine white powder. Her feet rest on a brilliant moon, while angels spread their golden wings on a silver cloud. The child Jesus raises his right hand as in a blessing, and in his left hand he holds a golden globe. A popular image of Our Lady of Charity includes a banner above her head with the Latin phrase “Mater Caritatis Fluctibus Maris Ambulavit” (Mother of Charity who walked on the road of stormy seas). Among Cuban religious devotees, the image is given the reverential title of La Cachita or La Virgen Mambisa.
Pontifical Recognitions
Cuban revolutionary leader Carlos Manuel de Céspedes presented the Cuban banner to the image along with his soldiers who wore a similar medal while Cuban general Calixto Garcia bowed at the image during a Holy Mass in honor of Mambises resistance. On 24 September 1915 the Cuban revolutionaries wrote a letter petitioning the Pope Benedict XV to honor her as Patroness of their country.
• Pope Benedict XV declared the image and Marian title as Patroness of Cuba on 10 May 1916 at the written request of the soldier veterans of the Cuban War of Independence.
• Pope Pius XI granted a Canonical Coronation towards the image for the first time during the Eucharistic Congress at Santiago de Cuba on 20 December 1936 by Monsignor Valentin Zubizarreta y Unamunsaga.
• Pope Paul VI, in his Papal bull Quanto Christifideles then raised her sanctuary to the category of Minor Basilica in 22 December 1977 through the appointed Papal legate Cardinal Bernardin Gantin
• Pope John Paul II solemnly crowned her again during his apostolic visit in 24 January 1998.
• Pope Benedict XVI awarded a Golden Rose in honor of the image and her shrine on 27 March 2012.
• Pope Francis enshrined a brass statue given to Pope Benedict XVI by Cuban bishops (in May 2008) within the Gardens of Vatican City on August 2014.
Veneration
A chapel of Our Lady of Charity exists within the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C.
In 1954, American author Ernest Hemingway donated his Nobel Prize in Literature medal for The Old Man and the Sea in thanksgiving to the image of the Virgin Mary at the shrine of Caridad del Cobre in Cuba. The medal was stolen in 1986, but was recovered days later upon the threat of Raul Castro, after which it was hidden from view. The medal is very rarely present in the image and only worn during solemn and Papal occasions.
From: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Charity
September 8: Ochún's Feast Day in Cuba
Ochun is syncretized with la Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, who is the Patroness of Cuba. On September 8, Cubans show their devotion to Ochún by dressing in yellow, putting sunflowers and special treats like honey and pumpkins on her altar, lighting candles and, if possible, holding a tambor (drumming ceremony) or violín (classical music played by a solo violin or a small string orchestra) in her honor. One reason Ochun and La Caridad del Cobre were syncretized in Cuba is that both are traditionally represented as women of mixed race, thereby thought to symbolize the Cuban people.
The History of La Virgen de la Caridad de Cobre At the beginning of the 16th century, Spanish missionaries went to Cuba to evangelize the indigenous people and convert them to Catholicism. Cuba had very little gold and silver compared to places like Mexico and Peru, but it was nonetheless a valuable colony of Spain because of its strategic location as a stopping off point for vessels sailing between Spain and the new world. Cuba also had rich fertile land that lent itself to cattle grazing and agriculture. These were lucrative businesses because they supplied the sailors with food for the long ocean voyage.
In the eastern part of the island, the Nipe Bay was an important source of salt used in the curing of meat. Around the year 1612, three boys were there gathering salt, and the Virgin appeared to them in a vision. By tradition, they're called the "Three Johns" (los tres Juanes), although records show one of them was actually named Rodrigo. Two were brothers (Juan and Rodrigo de Hoyos) of indigenous descent, and one (Juan Moreno) was Afro-Cuban. They were probably about 10 years old at the time. As an old man, Juan Moreno gave an account of what happened. According to him, they were in a small boat and they saw something white appear over the top of the waves. As they got closer to it, they saw it was the figure of the Virgin Mary, carrying the Baby Jesus in her arms. They noticed that her clothes weren't wet, and she was standing on a wooden plaque that said "I am the Virgin of Charity." The boys went back to the shore and reported what they saw to the overseer of the copper mines in that area. Upon investigation, they discovered that the boys had seen a statue of the Virgin; the administrator of the mines asked that a shrine be built in her honor, and she was installed there. But, according to the story, the statue of the Virgin kept disappearing and reappearing at that site, even though the doors were locked.
The people living nearby decided that the Virgin wanted to be moved to another spot, so they put her in the Templo Parroquial del Cobre near Santiago de Cuba. From that time forward, she became known as La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. But, she wasn't happy there, either. She kept disappearing and appearing, so the people decided she wanted to be in the Sierra Maestra
mountains. This coincided with another vision of the Virgin, which took place on the mountainside near the copper mines. A young girl named Apolonia claimed she saw the Virgin there while she was picking flowers.
Although not everyone believed the girl, they decided it would be best to move the Virgin's statue there. This became her final resting place, where her shrine is found today, although over time, the shrine has been expanded to accommodate more people. She was moved to the larger sanctuary on September 8, 1927. About ten years earlier, veterans of the Cuban war of independence had asked the Pope to name the Virgin of Caridad del Cobre as the Patroness of Cuba. He signed the documents in 1916, and September 8 was recognized as her official feast day. In 1977 her sanctuary was elevated to the rank of Basilica by Pope Paul VI.
La Caridad del Cobre: Patroness of Cuba
History and legend have mixed together in the story of the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. For example, some people say that the Tres Juanes were fishermen, and the Virgin appeared to save them from a terrible storm at sea. According to official records, the statue of the Virgin of Charity was carved in Toledo, Spain, at the orders of a captain who wanted to create a shrine where his soldiers could pray for the Virgin’s protection against English pirate attacks on the coast of Cuba. Some people say the ship carrying the statue was wrecked on a coral reef in the Caribbean and the statue floated to Cuba. They claim that several times the church officials tried to return the statue to Spain, but each time something unexpected happened and the statue returned to Cuba. They took this as a sign that she wanted to stay in Cuba, which explains why the Cubans feel a special attachment to her. Cubans refer to her lovingly as “Cachita.” When Ernest Hemingway won the Nobel Prize for literature, he gave the metal to her to show his love for Cuba.
From: https://www.aboutsanteria.com/la-virgen-de-la-caridad-de-cobre.html
Cuban Raft Voyage(Gordon England)
CUBAN RAFT VOYAGE
INSPIRED BY THE 1994 CUBAN MIGRANT CRISIS
Dedicated to the brave balseros lost to Mother Ocean
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks to Luis Alvarez for the extensive material he provided about Cuban life and his proud heritage. Thanks also to Dwight Ramirez, Alfredo Matos, and Carolina Alvarez for refining my Latino knowledge, and to Ron Sparks for his fishing voyage on the Perseverance, which inspired this story.
As always, this book matured with guidance from Mary May Burruss and her Cocoa Beach Writers Workshop.
Introduction
In the summer of 1994, I encountered several empty Cuban rafts afloat in the Gulf Stream off Cape Canaveral while I was fishing on the 36-foot sportfishing boat Perseverance, owned and captained by Ron Sparks. After discovering these eerie platforms of ill-fated tragedy, I often wondered what arduous stories could be told of the brave people who left families and homeland, only to perish after horrific journeys of misery on makeshift rafts.
In Cuba, this was a time of great unrest that peaked when Castro opened his borders and allowed a wave of “balseros” (rafters) to migrate from his country on boats or improvised rafts launched in hopes of finding freedom from tyranny. Tens of thousands of these balseros survived harrowing journeys to South Florida, though many others undertook the seemingly short 90-mile journey only to be swallowed into oblivion by Mother Ocean’s harsh Gulf Stream where only the strong and well prepared survived.
Nearly one million Cubans have fled their country in several waves since Fidel Castro’s takeover in 1959. The first waves of exiles mostly contained Cuba’s middle and upper classes fleeing reprisals from the new Communist government. They left in hopes of someday coming back to their homes after the Castro regime was overthrown.
The next significant flight occurred during Cuba’s infamous Mariel Boatlift in 1980 when Castro allowed 125,000 dissidents to leave Cuba. Many left on private American boats arriving from Key West on rescue missions. Castro also sent several thousand inmates from prisons or mental health institutions, known as Marielitos, in that wave. The movie “Scarface” epitomized the resultant increase in Miami’s crime and drug trafficking after those boatlifts.
In contrast, the next generation of refugees in the balseros exodus did not contain political exiles or criminals. Rather, they were ordinary citizens migrating from deplorable conditions in their poverty-stricken nation that floundered after losing Russian support at the end of the Cold War. Misery bred desperation, and around 35,000 balseros left Cuba on rafts built from wood, barrels, inner tubes, and hope. Of those, the United States Coast Guard picked up some 32,000 rafters and returned them to Guantanamo Bay for processing in an eighteen-month long program to introduce them to American culture. No one knows how many of the remaining migrants survived the trip to Florida undetected, or how many perished at sea.
Based on testimony from successful balseros, I now give you my fictional story of one of those fateful journeys. While the locations and historical events in this story are true, any references to real people or events, organizations, or locations are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity.
Gordon England
Chapter 1
Juan de Hoyas peered through long roots hanging like hair from sacred Kapok trees. White turrets with red tops glistened in moonbeams peaking through clouds above Cuba's Sierra Maestra Mountains. Brown clothes and skin, long black hair, and a thin mustache concealed the slim nineteen-year-old Cuban in the darkness. In torpid September heat, a writhing snake of yellow-clad dancers marched up a torch-lined path pulsating to a beat of metal tambour drums. The trail led to the National Shrine Basilica of Our Lady of Charity in the village of El Cobre near Santiago. Juan joined the rear of the procession as it entered a candle-lit sanctuary. The annual ceremony synchronized Catholicism and Santeria - the unofficial religion of Cuba. Ochun's Feast Day had begun, a tradition dating back to new world Yoruba slave mythology.
Juan lowered his shoulders and stepped to the back row of worshipers as they sang, played classical violin music, and placed treats of honey and pumpkins on altars before a 16-inch tall statue of Our Lady of Charity, lovingly nicknamed “Cachita.” Though normally secured in a locked glass enclosure high on a wall, tonight the venerated Patroness of Cuba stood on an altar for all to see. With his head bowed, Juan dropped a sunflower at her feet and sneaked a furtive look at the beautiful Virgin Mary statue. A polished, fine white powder coated her clay head, jewels encrusted her dress, and she stood atop a brilliant moon with golden-winged cherubs above her on a silver cloud. In her arms, the Christ child’s right hand rose in blessing, and his left held a golden globe.
The sight of Cachita up close took Juan’s breath away. He wheezed through his nose, broken by a policia’s club. He left the altar, walked to the rear of the church, and quietly slid into a dark vestibule. His hands trembled. Sweat poured from his face. Could he go through with his plan? He loved Cachita with all his heart. Surely, she would realize that his need for her protection surpassed the priest’s need for her to watch ceremonies. For hundreds of years the Lady of Charity had protected sailors on dangerous voyages across the sea, and now, she would protect him on his.
He fidgeted as he waited for Mass to end. After the worshippers slowly left, a priest extinguished aisle candles. Juan crawled quietly to the front row of pews and raised his head to look at Cachita’s kind smile.
“May I help you, my son?” asked the priest.
He froze.
“Do you wish to tell me something?”
Juan dashed to the altar and grabbed Cachita.
“No,” shouted the priest as he started toward Juan. “That’s blasphemy.”
Juan dodged to an opposite aisle and raced to the rear of the basilica as the priest yelled in pursuit. He vaulted down steep rock steps and disappeared into thick dark woods. Juan stopped behind a large boulder to admire Cachita’s golden crown glistening in golden moonlight. He wasn’t blasphemous and wouldn’t hurt her; he just needed Cachita’s strength and protection for his dangerous journey. He changed into a farmer’s dirty white clothes, carefully wrapped Cachita in a burlap cane cutter bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Juan descended the mountain on a rocky switchback trail illuminated by flickering moonlight.
Chapter 2
As the sun rose over green mountains, Juan shuffled through the sleepy city of Santiago and made his way to the Ferricarriles de Cuba railroad station. He crept through the dirty rail yard to avoid watchful guards and crawled into a rail car full of sugar cane held in place by oval shaped iron bars bowed out like a whale's rib cage. Juan buried himself and his cane cutter bag under a pile of cane stalks and waited for the start of the eighteen hour ride over 543 miles of tracks back to Havana. He would guard Cachita on this journey to her new home and protect her with his life.
Coming to life, the locomotive spewed black diesel smoke as it gathered speed on a track that wound westward through a patchwork of tobacco fields, green fields of sugar cane higher than his head, and villages with thatched roofs, dull women, and banana trees. Juan chewed on a sugar cane stalk, ate potatoes stolen from a farmer’s field, and watched the beauty of Cuba’s fields and mountains, soft and warm in the glow of late afternoon.
Reality broke the aura of tranquility whenever the train approached highways. Peasants and farmers were streaming in anger from the countryside toward Havana to protest their dismal living conditions. Cuba was undergoing a ‘special period' after Russia collapsed and cut off their Cold War subsidies. The economy had crashed, and people were starving. Riots had broken out over food shortages in Maleconazo last week. Outnumbered police stood back, reluctant to crack down on protesters.
For a few hours, Juan relished freedom from watchful eyes of Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, (CDR) Block Captains, who watched every person entering homes or buildings on each city block to determine if they incited revolutionary activities against the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC). The PCC used CDRs to control the totalitarian society. Trouble-makers identified by Block Captains were known as gusanos, Worms, and their identification cards, to be carried at all times, branded them as such. They were at the bottom of Cuba’s three-caste system. The government denied gusanos almost all rations of food, medicine, and necessities of life, forcing them to turn to a vital black market for survival.
Block Captains and CDR members made up the second caste of society. They were the poorest and uneducated, often joining the military or police for government jobs. The Worms called them “The Brainwashed.” They received libreta cards (ration cards) that barely provided enough food to eat. The PCC paid them rewards of TVs, washing machines, refrigerators, cars, and positions of power for reporting Worm activities. The Brainwashed could not participate in black market activities to obtain goods or they themselves would become Worms. Therefore, Block Captains often entered a Worm's house and took his possessions with no reprisal.
At the top of the caste system stood light-skinned PCC leaders who stole the best of everything. Communist leaders made up about 10% of the population.
That evening, Juan awoke from fitful sleep when the train stopped at the end of the track in Havana. Luckily for him, this part of Havana was dark due to the normal nightly apagon (power outage). Soldiers checked papers of passengers in every railcar. Security was tight tonight; word had spread fast about the basilica theft. He crawled undetected from the cane car with his bag and slipped into darkness.
Chapter 3
Juan nonchalantly walked along the hot, grimy streets of Havana with his head down under a straw hat. Once glorious buildings now stood drab with worn concrete and rock, unpainted inside or out because all properties belonged to the PPC that spent no money on paint except for a few colorful government buildings and tourist areas. Many houses had collapsed roofs and crumbling balconies that occasionally fell on passersby. Years of black diesel fumes from buses had coated buildings with depressing gray soot. Humid ocean breezes constantly spread mold throughout the structures. The PPC owned all homes so the people had little incentive to maintain them.
For the last few weeks, shelves of the government's dark grocery stores had been empty, leaving citizens desperate and hungry. If people had gathered in groups in the past, Block Captains would have reported these troublemakers to the police, and food cards would be withheld or jobs lost. In this ‘special period,' Worms became brave from hunger and desperation, no longer afraid to protest against the Beard, though no one yet dared to say Fidel's name. Small groups of protestors merged into larger groups. Mob mentality took over and challenged other gangs of The Brainwashed who gathered in support of the Beard. The streets grew tumultuous and curfews ignored as enforcement waned.
Making his way five miles to his hometown of Cojimar, a seaside suburb of Havana, Juan crept from crowd to crowd. Originally a center of astonishing grandeur and wealth, the town had deteriorated into a third world slum. He avoided the house of Franco, his CDR Block Captain, and crept through yards and alleys to a three-room house where he lived with his twenty two-year-old brother, Hector, and seventeen-year-old sister, Maria. He hid Cachita in a cupboard, rolled up his pants for a pillow, and succumbing to exhausting, collapsed on a straw mattress.
Juan’s parents had fled to Florida during the Marielito Boat Lift in 1980. They left their children to fend for themselves on the government’s $20 per month allowance and an occasional remittance payment they sent from Miami. The children suffered reprisals of limited libreta cards, which, in the long run, resulted in stunted growth. Hector, like many Cubans, suffered from poor eyesight due to childhood malnourishment. Juan was unable to perform real work; he survived by thievery and black market friends. The police knew him well. The last time he was caught, they sent him to a dark prison in an ancient Spanish castle. That terrifying experience had convinced him he had to leave this dreadful island.
Later that night, Hector shook him awake.
“Where have you been?” Hector wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “You’re filthy. You were gone for three days. I thought you were in jail again.”
Juan beamed at his big brother, who had broad shoulders, a scraggly goatee, and strong arms.
“I did it.”
“Did what?”
“You said I needed to prove I was serious about leaving Cuba, so I’ve ensured good luck for our trip.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look.” Juan walked to the other room that revealed walls with peeling paint, a broken TV, and a few cheap gold lamé wall decorations. He looked out the front door for prying eyes, then closed it and carefully removed his cane cutter bag from behind plates in the cupboard.
Hector snarled, “Are you loco? What good is a machete for a boat ride?”
“Look.” Juan took the statue from the bag and held it up to candlelight where it sparkled.
Hector pulled it close to his face.
“Is it real?”
“Yes,” Juan replied with defiance.
“What have you done?” Hector whispered incredulously, brushing his hands through shoulder length hair. Juan replaced the statute into the bag. They moved to the bedroom where no one could hear their muffled conversation.
“Cachita will take us across the sea,” Juan insisted.
“You stole her from El Cobre!”
“The Virgin of Charity has always protected sailors. She will keep us safe also.” Juan whispered indignantly. “I thought you would be happy.”
“No one must know we have Cachita,” Hector replied in desperation. “The police have been looking for a thief with a crooked nose who stole her from the basilica. Keep your face covered or you’re going to bring us big trouble.”
Juan pleaded, “Hector, you have to take me with you.”
"If I leave you here, you'll go to jail and probably be executed." He paused in thought, and then sighed in resignation.
“It was just supposed to be the guys in Carlos’ band on this raft. The bongo player, Javier, was thrown in jail last week, so there’s a spot open. I have to talk to Carlos Alvarez. It’s his boat.” Hector wagged his finger. “Not a word to anyone about Cachita.”
“I knew you would take me,” Juan beamed.
“Stop smiling, or Franco will know you’re up to something. No one’s allowed to be happy in Cuba.”
Juan reverted to his usual dour frown.
“That’s more like it. Now go clean yourself in the ocean. We’ll go to Carlos’ house tomorrow to build a raft.”
Juan returned after a quick dip in the sea and they went to sleep.
Chapter 4
The next morning, the brothers left their house and shuffled through the streets inconspicuously. Dark-skinned Franco with curled greasy hair sat on his porch watching everyone pass along the road. He shamelessly wore new clothes and white shoes and wore a fat mustache. Everyone shunned this miserable informer.
“Who’s there?” Franco stood, squinting against the morning sun.
Juan pulled his hat down as Hector stepped in front of him.
“It’s me, Carlos.”
“I know that. Who’s the other Worm?”
“That’s just my cousin Hernando.”
“Yeah, I remember. The boy who walks like a girl,” Franco sneered. “Where’s your brother? People are looking for him.”
Hector shrugged. “I haven’t seen him all week. He’s probably in jail again. Ask your friends.”
“Where are you boys going?”
Hector raised his head defiantly. “We’re men, and we’re building a raft to leave this miserable island and smelly rats like you.”
He knew Franco would do nothing. Last month the Beard had announced his Coast Guard wouldn’t stop anyone who wanted to leave Cuba by boat. With virtually no food left on the island, allowing dissidents to leave would reduce the number of mouths to feed as well as get rid of trouble makers. Starving people all across Cuba feverishly built makeshift rafts with barrels, boards, inner tubes, and anything else that floated. Rafters left daily with people fleeing to Florida in desperation.
“I hope you can swim.” Franco laughed. “It’s a long way to Miami. We’ll be glad to get rid of two more Worms. Get off my street.”
"Think about us when we're in Miami with big, shiny cars," Carlos retorted.
They continued down the street, with Juan walking behind Hector, and slipped through a maze of simple, box-shaped homes on streets filled with angry peasants gathered in protest around Block Captains' houses. Fists shook in the air and shouts rang out for food. Afraid for the first time, Block Captains cowered in their homes. They were easy targets for a hungry mob wanting to retaliate against the government. Police patrolled the streets but were reluctant to arrest people unless violence erupted. The lack of reprisals by authorities emboldened people unused to protesting freely.
The brothers blended into the crowds and made their way to Carlos’ home. Hector pushed through a crowd gathered outside a small brick-walled backyard filled with an assortment of lumber, barrels, scrap material, and a filthy bird coop. Four barrels converted into aquariums held tropical fish that Carlos sold to make money to buy food for his beloved carrier pigeons.
In the center of the yard, curly-haired Carlos held a 2 x 4 board tight across his knees as 25-year-old, muscle-bound Jose Famosa cut it with an old hand saw. Jose's bald black head sweated profusely into his beard and across his bare chest marked with black moles. He struggled with a dull saw until the board broke. Carlos stood up, his head towered six inches higher than anyone else in the yard.
“Good work,” he said. “Only three more to finish the frame.”
Jose blew sawdust off the board. “I can’t wait to leave this stinking hellhole. The Beard announced a few weeks ago that we could leave Cuba, so I started building a raft to sail to Miami. Last year I left on a raft, but the Cuban Coast Guard caught me. That cost me a month in jail. My father died in a terrible prison for speaking out against the government in 1980. I’m not going to live here and die like him.”
“We’re here to help.” Hector winked.
“I said you could come with me because you have big shoulders for rowing. But I didn’t say anything about your scrawny brother.”
“I can help,” Juan pleaded. “I’ll find anything you need.”
Hector nodded and said, “We haven’t had work for months and are starving. Please let him come with us.”
Carlos looked at Juan for a moment. He shrugged.
“What about Maria? Could she come too?” asked Juan.
Jose scoffed, “No women on our raft. She can take care of herself. She’s a woman, so she’ll always have a job.”
“Right,” agreed Carlos. “The trip is too dangerous.”
Hector and Juan looked at each other and nodded glumly.
Carlos put his hand over his mouth and whispered to Juan, “We need inner tubes. There are buses where I work at the Ministry of Transportation. I need to steal tubes tonight. Will you help me?”
Car tires had long ago worn bare and leaked air like sieves. Most tires had inner tubes to maintain air pressure.
“Of course I can steal tires. I can steal anything,” Juan bragged. “If you can get us through the fence, we’ll liberate your tires. No problemo.”
“Okay,” Carlos replied. “You’re in, but no one else. The raft is full.”
Desperate onlookers hoping for a free ride groaned in disappointment.
Carlos held out his fist. “We will be balseros. Rafters who leave Havana.”
The others put their fists on his.
“Balseros,” they replied in unison. The crowd outside the wall cheered, “Libertad!”
“When do we leave?” Juan asked.
They looked at Carlos, a frustrated mechanic with a job maintaining the government's ancient fleet of buses. With few parts and supplies, he struggled to keep buses jury-rigged. His job paid twenty two dollars a month, more than most Cubans made, but he knew he had no future at the Ministry. Much to the dismay of the government, legalization of the US dollar in 1993 created a middle class like Carlos who thrived on black market goods. In response, the PCC implemented a plan called ‘meceta’ to crack down on people who acquired black market material goods. When the Block Captain confiscated his car and television last year and threatened to have him fired, Carlos decided to leave Cuba. If he could repair buses, he could build a simple raft.
“It’s been a month since the Beard opened the border and lots of people have already left. He’s negotiating with President Clinton to end the migration. An agreement to close the border might happen any day, and hurricane season is here, so we must hurry. I think we can finish the raft in two days. When you go home tonight, start collecting food and water for the trip.”
The balseros nodded as the reality of leaving their homes and families set in. The trip would be exciting but dangerous. Juan and Hector knew there would be reprisals against Maria, just as when their parents had left, but all they could do was send her money after finding jobs in Miami. At least she was grown up this time.
Carlos pointed at his aquarium barrels. “These have been holding water for years, so I know they’re watertight. We’ll use them at each corner of the raft. Someday I’ll tell you a story about those barrels.”
“What about your fish?” asked Hector.
“I already put them in their new home in our washing machine. It’s broken but holds water fine. Turn those barrels over and dump out the water and gravel,” he instructed. “I have lids we can put on them and seal with tar.”
“What are you going to do with your pigeons?” Juan asked.
“My son will take care of them,” he replied with sadness. “I wish he could go, but the trip is too dangerous. We have no other relatives to leave him with, so my wife will stay here to take care of him.
“I know she hates that, but it’s the right thing to do,” Hector said somberly. “Our parents left when I was eight, leaving me in charge. We stayed with different relatives, but it was really hard. I wished they hadn’t left us.”
“Yes,” Juan agreed. “Look how we turned out. Hector’s a blind carpenter who hauls boards all day, Maria is a whore, and I’m a thief.”
Laughter erupted from the onlookers.
Hector picked up a board and shook it at the audience. “Shut up,” he shouted.
The crew solemnly returned to work and prepared four airtight barrels for the raft's flotation.
At the end of the afternoon, Carlos asked Jose, “Do you think you can find more boards? We need oars and a floor for the raft.”
“Yes. I know where there are more park benches downtown and lumber at the building where I work.” As a bricklayer, he had access to boards used to transport bricks. “But I’ll need help.”
Hector lifted his shoulders. “I’ll go with you. Let’s leave now before someone else gets them first.”
They left the crowded yard to start their scavenger hunt.
Carlos placed his hand over his mouth. “Come back in a few hours. We’ll liberate some of the Beard’s tires.”
Juan nodded and left. Hot and tired, he walked four blocks to the beach for his daily ritual of watching the sun drop into a golden ocean of shimmering waves. Clouds above the horizon turned red and orange on a blue canvas sky. Each day's sunset painted a different landscape of colors and clouds. High clouds sketched colorful sunsets while low clouds brushed silver or gray.
Along the roads, numerous signs on houses read ‘Raft for Sale.' These makeshift boats sold as fast as people built them. Each day, balseros brought vehicles to launch rafts and flee repression. Multitudes of unemployed people gathered on the beach to cheer for each raft leaving for freedom.
Juan walked between swaying palm trees and stopped at the water's edge to let his feet sink in Mother Cuba's cool sand. He daydreamed of Miami sand between his toes and a happy song about a job, a car, and a good woman. He entered the clear water, rolled onto his back, and floated, letting Mother Ocean wash away his sweat and revive his soul. He loved his island's beauty but realized the grim reality of greed. What was ravishing would be ravaged. Two more days and he would leave this miserable island for Miami, just ninety miles to where his parents and cousins would find work and a house for the brothers. He had traveled farther than that to liberate Cachita for his voyage. Floating on a raft would be easier than walking.
Juan swam back to the beach before sharks showed up on their nightly patrol. He walked along dark streets strewn with rotten garbage that had not been picked up for weeks. Another apagon darkened the few remaining unbroken streetlights. In the dark gloom he didn’t worry about being identified as Cachita’s thief. Green gutters flowed with backed up sewer water. Diapers and rags hung from balustrades and windows above him. He made his way home through evening shadows, frangipani blossoms, diesel fumes, and the sound of horseshoes on asphalt.
Juan entered his bleak house to find Maria preparing for her night by candlelight. Though only seventeen years old and small, she was fully mature and curved like most Latin women her age. She wore a short red skirt and long dyed blond hair spilled across a silver tank top pulled tight over full bosoms unrestrained by a bra. He watched as she applied thick makeup around her large brown eyes. White rice powder and bright lipstick hid her gaunt, pockmarked face.
“Where have you been? We’ve been looking all over for you,” she asked.
“I’ve been working.”
“Ha. You never work. Where were you?”
Juan gazed at the floor. “Hector and I are building a raft with Carlos Alvarez. We’ll leave in two days.”
She turned from the mirror to look at Juan. Her lips quivered. Tears formed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“My brothers are leaving me all alone again. What will I do? I want to go with you.” Crying, she grabbed him and said, “Please don’t leave me here.”
"Oh Maria. The raft has no more room and the voyage is dangerous. Hector talked Carlos into taking me, but no one else can go. I'll miss you terribly. I promise to send money."
“I don’t want money. I need you and Hector to take care of me. I have no other family.”
She sobbed against his chest for several minutes as he held her tight.
She pushed away and said, “Look what you’ve done. I ruined my makeup.” She wiped her face with a rag and went back to the mirror to reapply her makeup.
“I know, Maria. I wish I could do something. We’ll figure out some way to get you to Miami to be with the rest of the family. In the meantime, maybe you'll find a husband or a job in a band. You're a great dancer."
“I’ll just be another poor Cubano.” She lifted her shoulders and head. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. You go on to Miami with Moma and Papa. Now everyone has abandoned me.”
“Maria.”
Outside the front door, a car’s headlights appeared. The car stopped. Two men laughed in the front seat. One of them honked the horn.
A man called out, "Maria; we’re here for our date."
“I’ll be right there,” she yelled. She told Juan, “I’m going to work. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a rich foreigner tonight. Maybe I’ll see you mañana.”
She ran outside and bent down to the open window as she gave the men an eyeful of ample breasts.
“Are you boys ready for some fun?”
“Oh, yes.”
She opened the squeaky car door of the 1956 Chrysler Windsor, climbed in and she squeezed he soft body between them. The car sped away to a Cuban night of age-old pleasure.
Juan shook his head. Poor Maria. Without Hector and him to watch out for her, she would have a difficult life. He ate cold frijoles and rice and went to sleep.
Chapter 5
Juan awoke with a start. It took him a moment to recognize his dark room. He normally slept next to Hector, who snored like a pig, but Hector had not returned from gathering lumber for the raft. Juan donned dark, nighttime work clothes and left for Carlos' house. He arrived to find Carlos impatiently waiting in a black hat and shirt.
“Where have you been? We don’t have all night.”
“I slept for a while, but I’m okay now. Nighttime is when I work best.”
“Let’s get going.”
“We’ll need a wrench for the wheels.”
“Don’t worry. We have tools at the bus yard. Follow me.”
They walked through empty streets, dark except for occasional flickering lights from cars driven by police or government employee rich enough to obtain rationed gasoline. They reached the fenced bus yard and sneaked to the rear where no one would see them.
“Where’s the guard?” Juan asked.
“He was fired last week.”
They climbed over a chain-link fence and winced as wire bit into their toes. Moonlight guided them to a repair building in the bus storage area.
Carlos pointed. “I left that window open.”
He slid the window up, and they quickly slithered in. He lit a piece of candle to reveal a bus with its hood up. Around the shop lay battered tools used by mechanics.
Carlos grinned. "This bus mysteriously broke down today, so I put it in here for repairs tomorrow."
“Everything we need is here,” Juan replied in approval.
“Bring the jack and tire tool from the corner. Take all the lug nuts off the wheels. I’ll go outside and bring bricks.”
Juan struggled with rusty lug nuts that must have been original parts on the forty-year-old bus. Few, if any, replacement parts existed on the island. He put grease on the threads and strained his small arms and back until the nuts broke loose. The tire tool would not grab some of the stripped lug nuts, so he resorted to a big wrench to loosen them. He pulled so hard on one rusty nut that the screw attached to the spindle broke off. He fell backward onto the bus's rusty bumper and cut his leg. Juan rose from the floor, cursing. He held his leg as Carlos climbed back through the window and dropped bricks to the floor.
“What’s the matter? Did that old bus hurt you?”
"Everything in this damn country is old and broken. But I beat it. I removed all those damn lug nuts."
“Your leg is bloody. Let me see.”
When Juan limped to the flickering candle and pulled his hand away, thick red blood flowed freely from a cut below the back of his right knee.
“Estupido,” Carlos declared. He grabbed a nearby dirty rag and wrapped it tightly around Juan’s leg. “If you’re too hurt, I’ll find a replacement.”
“No!” Juan pleaded. He pulled his shoulders back and shrugged it off. “It’s just a scratch.” He limped across the room, grimaced, and forced a smile. “I’ll be okay. Please don’t replace me.”
“We’ll see. Now jack up the front of the bus and I’ll put bricks under the axle.”
The old car jack barely lifted the heavy bus, so he put a pipe over the jack handle to increase the leverage and pushed on it to raise the bus a little by little. After the front wheels were lifted high enough to insert one last brick, Carlos wiped sweat from his brow and said, “Done with that. Now you take one wheel off and I’ll remove the other. Deflate the tires and roll them to the tire changer.”
“How do you get the tubes out?”
“Don’t you know anything? Watch.”
Carlos lifted a wheel onto the tire changer, a round platform three feet off the ground with a one-foot long, two-inch diameter pole sticking straight up through the center of the platform. The tire slid over the pole. Carlos screwed a bracket onto the metal wheel to hold it in place. He used a soft hammer to hit the tire until its rubber inner circle broke away from the steel rim all around. Then Carlos slid a bead-breaking rod onto the pole and walked it in a circle around the tire until the inner circle of the tire popped above the rim.
“Now reach inside and pull the tube out,” Carlos said. “Be careful not to break the valve stem.”
Juan gently pulled the tube out and held it up with a smile. “You’re a smart guy,” he said.
“Smarter than you. Bring me another tire.”
They removed all four tubes in short order. The men laughed as they carried deflated tubes and a spool of electrical wire out of the compound. The next morning, Carlos would feign outrage when he went to work and found a bus resting on bricks and a trail of blood leaving the building.
When they arrived at Carlos’ house, he said, “You better clean that leg up.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll see in the morning.”
Juan limped home to find Hector asleep. Maria had not returned from work yet. She often didn’t return until sunrise. Like him, she did whatever it took to survive.
He lit a candle and took the bloody rag off his leg. Only a small amount of blood oozed from the wound. He took the cleanest cloth he could find and limped a few blocks to Santa Maria beach. Juan waded knee-deep into the sea and sat down to let saltwater cleanse the cut. He gritted his teeth in pain and pulled the cut open far enough to use his finger to wash out rust from the bumper. He pressed on the injury until bleeding slowed and then left the water before sharks followed the scent of fresh blood to him. He tied the rag tight over the wound again and applied pressure until the bleeding stopped. He hobbled back home and crawled into bed.
Chapter 6
The next morning, Jose returned to Carlos’ house with a load of lumber.
When Carlos showed up at lunchtime after claiming sickness at work, he said, “You should have seen my boss when he found the bus on bricks. He cursed and questioned everybody, but nobody knew nothing. We laughed behind his back. He promised to post guards at the bus yard from now on and he hoped the thief had bled to death."
Jose and Carlos laughed long and hard.
Jose proudly announced, “I brought just what we need.” He held up an old bicycle tire pump.
“Great, amigo. Pump up the tubes, and we’ll finish the raft.”
Neighborhood children on the street cheered with excitement as the tubes of freedom expanded. They knew another raft would soon leave. Two of the best tubes were chosen for the raft.
The daily crowd gathered outside Carlos' house to offer encouragement and advice on raft building. A few friends begged to go along on the journey, but Carlos firmly told them no. The crew quickly built a frame of 2 x 4s to tightly fit over the four empty barrels, one in each corner, and placed an inner tube in the middle for additional flotation. They spread tar over rusty spots on the barrels. Later that afternoon, cheers erupted from onlookers when Hector and Juan appeared with lumber in their arms.
Juan said to Carlos, “I’m tired. I’ll rest in your house for a while. Jose, will you go with Hector to find more boards?”
“You’re weak,” Jose sneered. “Carlos, why are you letting this thief come with us?”
“He’s scrawny, but he helped me with the tubes and supplies. Besides, he hurt his leg for us.” He dismissed Jose, “Go help Hector.”
They left and returned an hour later with more PCC surplus lumber.
Carlos told Jose, “Good job. Now, can you carve these boards into oars?”
“No problemo," he replied with a smile as he pulled a long, sharp knife from his belt. He held up his arms and flexed the muscles. "The Communists say I must lay bricks all day. I hate it, but it makes me strong. I'm a better carpenter than bricklayer."
“Yes, we need your big muscles to row. Now make the handles round and smooth so they won’t hurt our hands.”
“Yes, boss.”
“We still need two strong tree limbs for the sail.”
“Okay, I know where a big tree is,” Jose replied with a grin. “I have my knife and saw.”
Juan limped inside the squalid house and sat against a wall where onlookers couldn’t see him. He pulled his hat down to hide his bent nose. No telling who would rat on him. They would get a big reward. Maybe a new TV.
“Juan, how’s your leg?” Carlos asked from the doorway.
“Just fine.” He lifted his leg to show the rag with only a few blood spots. “I’m afraid if I help you it will bleed more. I’ll just sit here and watch.”
The rest of the crew sneered and shook their heads. They turned back to the raft and placed bench boards for flooring over the barrels. They tied boards down with electrical cord and rope made from strips of wound tree bark, thus leaving gaps between the boards. Hector secured short, stout poles on each corner, then strung rope from pole to pole for handholds to prevent falling overboard. Jose attached wooden handles to the rear for anyone unfortunate enough to fall overboard. Carlos' finishing touch was to use from scrap metal to create oarlocks that would fix oars to the raft to prevent them from being dropped overboard. This way the men could row with two hands on the handles and pull with strong back and leg muscles rather than using weaker arms. By the day’s end, they completed construction, much to the delight of the crew as well as onlookers who started a spontaneous street celebration.
Juan asked, “What will we do with these other tubes?”
"We’ll tow one behind us as a spare," Carlos replied. "Can you trade the other two for food and water?"
“No problemo," Juan grinned. "I hoped you would say that."
"Also, bring a sheet for a sail."
Hector moaned, “We’ll have water, but I don’t know how long I can go long without coffee.”
"Then you better row fast," Carlos responded. "Now listen. The sky is clear, so we leave tomorrow morning with an outgoing tide. Go home and say your goodbyes. Tell your families to pray for a safe escape. Bring whatever water and food you can, and only one bag each for other stuff. Too much weight will sink us."
“How do you know what direction to sail?” Hector asked.
“My grandfather taught me how to sail his boat. Florida is due north of us, but the Gulf Stream will push us eastward at five knots toward the Bahama Banks. Then it will swing north until we clear the Banks. From there it turns northwest toward Florida.” As Carlos instructed the crew, his confidence grew. “We want to row westward across the Gulf Stream as much as possible. Near Miami, the edge of the Stream is only a mile offshore, but then it turns northeast away from Florida. The farther north of Miami we go, the harder it will be to get to shore.”
“So, we just row west?” Hector asked.
“Yes, when waves are flat. But when they rise, going due west is dangerous because the raft will be crossways to the southern breeze and northern current that create waves big enough to roll the raft like a toy. The best course will be northwester so the raft will slide safely down the waves at an angle and still move west. We’ll use the sail to guide us northwest as we row. If you fall off, we can’t turn around to find you, so try to grab the tube behind us. Any questions?”
“How long do you think it will take us to reach Miami?” asked Juan.
"Maybe three or four days. We might land in Miami, but anywhere in Florida is great. Eat well and get some sleep. Be here at daybreak. No rum tonight. We need to leave early. I'll sleep on the raft so it doesn't grow feet and walk away."
Juan and Hector grabbed the extra two tubes and rolled them down the street with help from laughing children. Juan pulled his hat down low to hide from policemen.
Hector put his hand over his mouth and asked Juan, “Why are you frowning? You should be happy.”
“The trip will be hard. I’ll miss my friends, but mostly I’m worried about Maria. Life will be difficult for her without us. Her libreta card will be cut back to almost nothing.”
“Yes, I hate that too. But I can’t stay here and live with the Communists. I’m going out of my mind having to worry about block captains all the time and never enough food. Maria makes more money than I do. She’ll have to grow up and make her own way.”
“Someday I’ll find a way to bring her to Miami to be with us.”
A police car turned the corner and slowly drove in their direction.
Juan told the kids, “Help Hector with the tubes.”
They grabbed the tubes and scurried into an alley as the police passed. Hector continued home, creeping through squalid backyards to stay out of sight.
Later that night, Juan slipped in the back door and told Hector, "I have to do some trading."
“Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” He laughed and left with the tubes. He would bring back supplies from his black market contacts.
Chapter 7
When Juan returned later with provisions, he found Hector and Maria seated at the kitchen table where a candle cast shadows across the room. He placed a bag of supplies on the floor and sat on a rickety chair. Hector and Maria had been talking. Tears streamed down their faces. Maria ran into his arm and sobbed. Hector stood and clutched his siblings. They held each other tightly and wept until their tears ran dry.
Maria sniffled. “It’s not fair. You’ll be with Moma and Papa in Miami and I’ll be here alone.”
“You have to be strong,” Hector replied. “We’ll send money when we can. You have your US Visa, so keep trying to get your tarjeta blanca (white exit papers).” Both a cherished Visa and a tarjeta blanca were required to leave Cuba. The authorities reluctantly issued exit papers.
“I’ve been turned down twice. Each time took a year and I’m sick of trying.”
“Keep going back until you get them. Maybe the Beard will die.”
“Shh,” Maria whispered with her finger to her lips. “Don’t talk like that. Franco will hear you. I’m so afraid for the two of you. Your trip will be treacherous. Moma and Papa left on a real boat. You just have a small raft."
Juan replied, "Carlos is a mechanic, and he built a strong raft for us. Don't worry; we'll be safe."
She looked down at Juan’s leg and noticed the bloody bandage. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a little cut. No problemo.”
“I’ll cut clean bandages from your sheet. You’ll no longer be sleeping on it.”
“While you are at it, would you cut the sheet for a sail?”
“Sure.”
He whispered, “I have special protection for us.”
“What do you mean, special protection?”
Hector shook his head and looked away.
“What?” she asked.
With great seriousness, Juan said, “Our Lady of Charity will take care of us.”
“What do you mean?”
Hector looked at Juan and shrugged. Juan retrieved his cane cutter bag from the cupboard and placed it on the table with great care. He slowly reached inside and removed Cachita and held her with both hands.
Maria looked with mild interest. “Where did you buy that? At the black market?”
Juan lowered his eyes in silence.
“Tell her,” Hector insisted.
“Tell me what?”
Juan whispered, “That is the real Our Lady of Charity.”
“What do you mean, the real one?”
“Remember when Juan disappeared for three days last week?”
“Yes.”
Realization set in on Maria’s face. “You stole her?”
Juan nodded. “Shh. She always protects sailors. Remember that two brothers named La Hoyos brought Our Lady of Charity to Cuba in 1612. A storm came over them on a small boat at sea. They almost sank before Cachita floated up to them. She was dry on a piece of wood. When they brought her aboard, the storm subsided, and the boys were saved. They brought her to Santiago and built the Shrine in El Cobre for Our Lady of Charity. She will save us too.”
Maria drew her hand to her mouth. "Everybody's talking about it. The policia are looking for a boy with a crooked nose who stole Cachita from the basilica. Please be careful.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Hector said with excitement. “Juan will hide one more night.”
Juan pleaded, “This is our last night together. Please stay home with us.”
“Okay, I won’t work tonight. I’ll stay here and cook your last Cubano dinner. There’s a little bit of rice and beans left from this month’s rations and some chicken at my friend’s home.” She left to retrieve food from the only working refrigerator in the area. All the Worms on the block shared it. Her refrigerator had broken long ago and now was used for storage shelves.
They spent the evening in candlelight as they ate, drank the last of their rum, smoked cigars, and retold family stories of life before and after the Beard took over. As the hours passed, Juan felt increasingly guilty about leaving his younger sister behind. Maria didn’t remember much of her parents, so Hector and Juan passed along their memories to her, as well as a wedding picture. Their parents occasionally sent remittance money and had called once or twice, but communications between Cuba and the US were tenuous. When everything was said and all the tears were dried, they fell asleep late in the night.
Juan didn’t sleep well that night; anticipation of the journey, combined with the sadness of leaving everything he knew, dwelled heavy on his mind. He hated to leave Maria alone. Should he stay in Cuba and live as a Worm under the Beard? Or leave Maria and make the dangerous journey to start life over with his parents in Florida? Here, none of the girls would marry him because he had no work. With a job in Florida, he could find a wife and have a family with a son to carry on his name. But he would forever feel guilty about Maria.
Chapter 8
A key rattled in the ancient metal door lock. They were here again! He scurried to the far corner of the stone cell and brushed away squealing rats. Light hurt his eyes when the door squeaked opened. He screamed and struggled as faceless men in black uniforms descended upon him with wooden clubs swinging. Stunning blows smashed his bones and bruised tender flesh. A vicious strike across his face knocked him out. He awoke moaning in agony as guards dragged him down the stairs, deeper into the bowels of the filthy dungeon. No. Not again. As he panted in fear as blood spewed from his shattered nose. He stayed limp until they reached the last step. He lunged hard, broke their grip, and scrambled on his hands and knees down the dimly lit hall. The guards walked casually after him, laughing and dragging their sticks along the wall. Rattle, rattle. There was no escape. Rattle, rattle. At the end of the hall, he flung open a door and plunged through. Down he went. Falling, falling, screaming. Rattle, rattle. Splash. He splashed into a vat of black oil and helplessly sank. He pushed off the bottom and broke the surface in slow motion. He gasped. Laughing faces with no eyes pushed him down again. He struggled back to the surface. Guards bent over the vat and pummeled him repeatedly with giant fists. He tried to swing back, but it was like being in glue. Helpless, he roared in desperation. They were not going to take him. He hit one man in the face. Another struck his head. He turned and swung back in agonizing slow motion. The guard ducked and laughed. He swung at another and missed. Again, and again, and again, screaming. Helpless.
Hector grabbed Juan’s flailing arms and pushed him down on the bed.
“Juan, wake up!”
He was being pushed down in the vat. Drowning in oil.
Hector held him down. “It’s okay, Juan. You’re dreaming.”
Juan’s eyes opened as he gasped and coughed.
“It’s just the dream. You’re having the dream again.”
Juan fell back.
“Breath deep. That’s it. Breath again. Slowly, slowly.”
Juan panted and sat up. “I hate that dream.”
“I know. You have it all the time.”
“I hate the policia and the Beard.”
“Shh. Relax. Walk around a little.”
Juan gradually calmed down and said, “Tomorrow we’re leaving this god forsaken country and I‘ll never go to jail again.”
He lay back down and slowly fell asleep.
Chapter 9
The La Hoyos brothers awoke to their final Havana sunrise and slowly savored one last cup of strong Cuban coffee. It would be several days before they had another. Hector packed a small bag of possessions and clothes. Juan carefully wrapped spare clothes around Cachita to protect her and put the revered statue in an old brown suitcase. He found a scrap of paper and scribbled a note.
Goodbye, Maria. We left in a good boat and Cachita will protect us. I’ll contact you when we reach Miami. If Cachita comes back to Cuba, we did not make it.
Juan.
They silently left home one last time. Barefoot, wearing ragged shorts and old white tee shirts, they carried their bags and food over their shoulders. Franco wasn’t on his porch yet when they passed his home, so they spit on his door, laughed, and walked on.
A crowd of enthusiastic onlookers had gathered at Carlos’ backyard when the brothers arrived.
“I thought you boys would turn into chickens,” Carlos jabbed.
“Here we are,” replied Juan. “I traded the tubes for brought water and food.” He set down a worn bag, took off his straw hat, and bowed comically.
“What food do you have?”
“Crackers, cake slices, two cans of milk, and fish. I also have a hook and line to catch more fish.” He held up a fishing line wound around a short length of sugar cane stalk.
“Excellent, amigos,” Carlos replied. “I cooked my last chicken, so we have enough food. Jose, are you ready?”
“Yes. I visited my Santera (Santeria female priest) last night and she blessed me for the journey. I told my girlfriends and cousins goodbye. I’m ready. Vamanos.”
“Are the oars ready?”
Jose held up four carved boards. "I cut them to perfection all night," he said with pride, showing ragged yellow teeth. A white rag covered his bald head for sun protection, but he wore no shirt to cover his dark skin, hairy chest, and wiry muscles.
“What about a sail?”
“I brought Juan’s bed sheet,” Hector replied. “He won’t be sleeping on it anymore.”
Onlookers laughed.
“Maria cut it into a sail,” Juan said with pride.
Carlos asked, “Is everyone ready?”
The others paused, and replied, “Si.”
“Let’s take our raft to the sea.”
A dozen men from the crowd helped them raise their prized raft over the backyard wall and carry it to Cojimar's beach a block away. Word spread rapidly through the neighborhood, and a boisterous, barefoot crowd grew as dozens of people streamed from homes to cheer for the first brave balseros launch of the day. The street filled with excited people singing a Santeria song called Yemaya (Mother of the Sea.) Small boys reached toward the balseros, hoping to touch their new heroes. The boisterous crowd also attracted police, but they just stood back and took notes on who dared leave. The PCC would reduce their family's libreta cards.
When the balseros reached the shore's high seawall, they carefully passed the raft over it to men below on the beach. The balseros felt stones of Cuba under their bare feet for the last time as they lowered the makeshift boat to the sea and launched the spare tube connected to the raft with a length of rope. The tube would act as a rudder to stabilize the raft in rough seas.
Carlos solemnly paused and announced, “I christen this raft Yemaya, for our safety.”
The crowd cheered with excitement. Fists shook in the air.
Hector tightened lines and tied Carlos' suitcase to the raft. Juan secured his suitcase to the tube with rope. After the crew wrapped water bottles and food in plastic and tied them to the raft, they unfurled and rigged the sail. Hector and Carlos put on faded baseball caps, turning the bills to the rear of their heads. Juan desperately looked through the crowd, hoping to see Maria one last time; but she was not to be seen.
Carlos’ wife reached toward him one last time. “Be safe and let us know when you get there.”
He nodded, with tears in his eyes.
Carlos’ son ran to the beach, crying out, “Popa, please don’t leave.”
Carlos picked him up and held him tight. “Remember, I will get you to Miami. Be a big boy and take care of Moma. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Popa.”
Carlos gravely turned his back and walked to the raft.
The other balseros also exchanged final hugs and tearful goodbyes with family and friends. Some people cheered with happiness for the brave men. Others mourned to see them leave.
Carlos, Hector, Juan, and Jose climbed onto the raft, carefully adjusting their balance on the small craft while onlookers pushed them off the beach. Several envious men swam to the raft and desperately tried to climb on, pleading for a ride.
“Please let me go. I helped you build Yemaya.”
“It’s me, your cousin. Let me on. I’m stronger than Juan.”
“I want to go with you. I have money.”
With sad hearts, the crew pushed frantic boarders and relatives away from the raft. Wind grabbed their dirty white sail and drove them to out sea. They picked up their oars and began rowing toward freedom.
Spectators cheered, “Libertad! Libertad!” for the balseros courageous enough to leave the Beard and his terrible island.
***
The raft cleared Cojimar harbor and entered the open ocean where water changed from light blue to green, and the wind's smell shifted from land to sea. The crew quickly learned a rhythm to dip the blades, pull back, and raise the oars in unison to keep the raft moving in a straight line. If someone missed their timing, the short raft spun, and they struggled to regain their path. They rowed facing the beach and watched crowds gather again as another raft launched. The beach became a white line and then disappeared under green mountains.
The crew settled into a routine, alternating two men rowing while two men rested, to pace their energy for the long voyage. Sitting at the oarlocks in each corner would spread their weight to provide stability in rough water. The deck floated two feet above the water. They rowed with rags wrapped around their hands and feet braced on boards in front of them, bending forward and pulling back against the thrust of the blades. Carlos trimmed the sail on the mast in the center of the raft. Their journey to Florida had started.
Two hours later, Hector squinted back toward Cuba and asked, “Can you still see land?”
“Yes,” Juan replied. “We’re about ten miles out and I can see the Santa Cruz rum factory.
Dark blue swirling fingers of the Gulf Stream grabbed tiny Yemaya and pulled her eastward. For the first time in their lives they silently watched Cuba's mountains slowly sink into the sea and they realized they had passed the point of no return. The vastness of the ocean set in and excitement transformed to somber contemplation as their past lives disappeared. Mother Ocean, aptly named because she could be calm and giving in one moment, and turn angry and harsh the next, now controlled their destiny.
Chapter 10
A brisk southeast breeze picked up in the afternoon and filled their sail with favorable wind but also increased wave height. Up and down, up and down, they bobbed like a cork.
As they rose to the top of a wave, Jose pointed. "Look. Another raft."
A raft made of four bound tubes bounced in the waves where five men frantically paddled the hapless craft. Without oarlocks on the raft, they strenuously flailed paddles with both arms. With no sail to guide them the raft spun randomly in strong waves as the crew struggled to maintain a constant direction.
“They’re fools,” Carlos said. “If their tubes leak, they’ll sink. Even if they don’t sink, they have no sail to work for them and will tire before they cross the Gulf Stream. They’ll probably die.”
“And the waves will flip them,” Juan added.
“At least they’ll die free,” Hector said. After a moment of silence, he continued, “We’re free out here on the sea. We built Yemaya strong and will survive.”
“I can’t wait to see our parents in Miami. It has been so many years.”
“We’ll all miss our families in Cuba,” Carlos said sadly.
“I have no family left,” replied Jose. “I was just a kid when the damn Communists killed most of them. The rest escaped to Florida.”
Hector spoke up, “I have a plan for getting rich when we get to Miami.”
“Be quiet,” Juan said.
“What’s your plan?” Carlos scoffed.
“We brought something worth a lot of money.”
Carlos looked around. “I don’t see any gold here.”
Hector pulled the tube to the raft and untied Juan's suitcase. He carefully placed it in the center of the deck and opened it, proudly lifting Our Lady of Charity. She was dry, despite the waterlogged suitcase.
“So you have brought Cachita,” Carlos sneered. “She might protect us in the ocean, but how will she make us rich?”
“This is the real Cachita.”
“You fool. You can buy those anywhere.”
“No, amigo,” Hector said with a mischievous grin. “Juan stole her from the Basilica of El Cobre. She’ll be worth a fortune in Miami.”
With their attention focused on the statue, the crew didn’t notice a tall wave approaching. The raft tilted and almost flipped before racing down the steep face. Hector grabbed Cachita tightly in one hand and a rope with the other. The others waited for the wave to pass, then Carlos looked at Hector, who nodded. They looked back at the statue, noting shiny gold and colorful jewels.
“You’re the thief we heard about?” Carlos asked in disbelief.
Juan nodded.
“They said the thief had a broken nose. That’s you.”
“The policia did this to me last year when they rounded up thousands of us and beat us in Acts of Repudiation. When I got out of that rotten jail, I decided I would never go back again. I would rather die on this raft than go back to that horrible prison.”
Jose lowered his head. “The jail killed my father too. Before that, I was a Brainwashed. After he died, I revolted. They called me an undesirable, and I became a gusano. So here I am. But what will we do with Cachita?”
Hector tried to pass her to the others for inspection, but they declined to touch the venerated figurine.
Carlos said, "The Archdiocese of Havana smuggled a replica of Cachita out of Cuba. He sent it through the Italian Embassy, who gave it to a Panamanian Diplomat, who took it to Miami. Thousands of Cubans descended upon Miami Stadium to celebrate the arrival of Cachita from Cuba. Cubans in Miami then built their own Shrine to Our Lady of Charity.”
Juan said, “We will be famoso (famous) for bringing the real Cachita to them.”
"She'll be worth a lot of money," Jose grinned.
“Yes,” Hector agreed. “We’ll get rich.”
Carlos shook his head. “In school we learned that thieves tried to take Cachita from Cuba several times, but she always came back. Pope Benedict XV declared her the Patroness of Cuba in 1916 and her home is in Cuba. Even Papa Hemingway loved her enough to give her his Nobel Prize medal.”
“Castro has the precious medal, and no one sees it,” Juan retorted. “So what?”
Carlos scowled. “We have no choice now. Cachita is here.”
Hector said “She’ll protect us from the ocean. We’ll take her to Miami and be rich and famous. Does everybody agree?”
All heads nodded.
“How much do you think she is worth?” Jose asked.
Carlos thought a moment. “Maybe $60,000. That would be… $15,000 each.”
“$15,000?” Hector’s eyes grew wide. “I wouldn’t make that much money in my whole life in Cuba.”
They stared in wonder.
“Okay,” Carlos said. “Put her back before you drop her, and make sure the rope is tied well.”
Juan wrapped Cachita back in clothes and placed her in his suitcase. After putting her back into the tube, he released it to follow Yemaya.
The crew returned to their tiresome task of sailing. Row and watch waves roll under the raft. Up and down, up and down. Water left their bodies in rivers of sweat as the fierce sun beat on them under a cloudless sky.
Juan, the smallest of the group, wore out faster than the others. After finished his rowing shift, he drank heavily from a water bottle.
“Don’t drink so much,” Carlos snarled. “The water has to last four days.”
“Yeah, yeah. My hands hurt. It’s your turn to row. I can’t do any more today.”
“And just eat a few of the crackers. Maybe tomorrow you can catch a fish.”
Chapter 11
Later in the afternoon, gray storm clouds rolled in from the south. The raft’s speed increased as the sail stretched tight. Steeper waves fluttered Jose’s stomach, but he gritted his teeth and continued to row.
At dusk, the clouds dissipated and the wind lay down. They entered a silver world of flat water and sky separated by a thin blue line gliding on a circular horizon. Rowing was easier in calm water, but with an empty sail, their speed slowed.
“Let’s stop rowing for the night and rest,” Carlos said to his tired crew. “Move your fingers and hands so they won’t cramp. We’ll take turns keeping watch. Jose, you first. Then Hector, Juan, and me.”
“What do we watch for?” Juan moaned.
“Stop complaining,” Hector remanded.
“Watch for boats, whales, storms, pirates,” Carlos responded. “Anything.”
“Pirates?” Jose asked.
“Yes. We’re close to the Bahamas. They’ve had pirates for hundreds of years. Now drug runners go back and forth to Miami, stealing anything they can along the way. Let’s eat.”
Juan passed crackers, chicken, and water to the crew for dinner as they watched the sun recede into a calm sea. Carlos adjusted the sail to catch a faint southern breeze as the raft drifted northwards at five knots in the Gulf Stream.
Juan took the blood-spotted bandage off his aching wound. He dropped his leg into the saltwater for a while to cleanse the cut. Then he pulled it out to retie the bandage.
The noise of sloshing waves dissipated to wavelets caressing Yemaya and an occasional slosh of unseen fish breaking the surface. This was true and complete freedom, to reach for their own destiny. No one to tell them what to do. No one to help them. Whatever they made of this voyage would be their own fate.
Jose pulled his guiro, a long dried gourd with an open end and carved finger holes, from his bag and softly rubbed it with a stick.
The men sang songs of Cuba but were glad to be gone. They were proud of their heritage but hated how the Beard had ruined their once proud country.
After a while, Juan said to Carlos, “Tell us about your parents.”
“It wasn’t easy for them. They were Cuba’s Remington Firearms distributor. Everybody bought guns and they were extraordinarily rich before the Beard took over.” He stopped and smiled. “I can call him Castro now.” The others laughed and tried it themselves.
“Castro.”
“Castro.”
“Fidel Castro.”
Freedom.
Carlos continued seriously. “My parents refused to sell guns to Castro during the revolution. He was furious. My grandparents anticipated the overthrow and took their money from the bank. They hid $972,000 in the walls of our home.”
“$972,000?” Hector gasped.
“Yes. The Beard, I mean Castro, sent Batista running to the Dominican Republic. Afterward, Castro remembered his enemies. He came to our family business and took it over. Our guns ended up in Castro's army. He confiscated all guns on the island to stop resistance against him. My old and sick grandparents died soon afterward, and my parents left for Spain with passports stamped DESERTER. From there they moved to Miami in 1978 and only found work as farmers at low pay. They worked hard and saved a little but are no longer rich."
“I heard The Brainwashed took your home?” Juan asked.
"Yes, what a terrible day. The Block Captain sent a dozen men with baseball bats to kill us. They circled my house and called for gusanos to come out. I walked through the front door with my bat, though knew I couldn’t win. My sister saw my trouble, so she scurried back inside to find an ax. She returned and threw it to me. I started screaming and swinging at The Brainwashed and they left fast but said they would be back. That night we packed up and left to find a new home in Cojimar.
“Good for you,” Jose said. “What happened to the money?”
“Do you remember my aquariums?”
“Yes, in the barrels.”
“While my parents waited for their tarjetas blanca the year before, the block captain came to our house and took inventory. Tables, chairs, knives, forks, TV, everything. All to be redistributed when we left. We could take nothing with us. The day before my parents left, they packed only a few clothes and pictures. Everything else belonged to the PCC. When my mother removed a dress from her closet, the end of the hanger ripped the paper covering the closet walls. Paper had been used due to shortages of wood. Anyway, out fell my grandparent's money. All of it. My parents were terrified that the Block Captain would find the money when he came back for his final inventory of our house.”
“They would behead you for having Batista money,” said Jose.
Carlos nodded. “My father ran outside and knocked over one of my aquarium barrels. He told me to remove all of the sand and gravel. After I did, he put the money in the barrel and burned it.”
“No!” exclaimed the crew.
“Yes. I put the sand, gravel, and water back inside the barrel, along with fish from the other aquariums. We were frightened the next day when the Block Captain made his final inspection. Luckily, he didn’t smell the burnt money and my parents were allowed to leave. So now you know my barrel story.”
He pointed down. “And that barrel is saving us.”
“You fooled that Block Captain,” Hector said. “I loved to do that. You have great stories. Be sure your son hears them some day.”
“I am afraid it will be a long time before I see him in Miami,” he responded grimly.
“I’m tired,” Jose said. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Juan lay down on the deck alongside the others and pulled his hat over his face. Exhaustion from a long day put him into a deep sleep.
Later that night, Hector shook Juan as he thrashed. “Wake up. Wake up.”
Juan opened his eyes to darkness and screamed.
“Wake up, brother. You’re having the dream again. It’s okay. You’re not in jail. We’re on the raft.”
Juan slowly sat up trembling.
“You’ll never go to jail again,” comforted Hector.
“I hate that dream. Will it ever stop?”
“Stand up and shake it off. It’s your turn to watch.”
“Watch what? There’s nothing to see.”
“Go on. It’s my turn to sleep.”
Chapter 12
Juan stood in front of the sail pushed by a cool breeze that shifted from south to southwest during the night, bringing in clouds to hide twinkling stars above. He shivered as he held onto the mast, and stretched tired muscles not used to such arduous work. His back ached and his leg bandage still felt wet. Blackness as dark as espresso enveloped a moonless night in all directions as the raft rose up and down in a calm tempo. With nothing to see and only the sound of the waves, he felt as if he was standing on water. Never had such absolute darkness shrouded him. It reminded him of the dreaded Havana dungeon. The cells were terrifying. He couldn’t sleep because rats scuttled around the room in the dark, occasionally creeping across his limbs in their search for food. Out here he felt the same unknown. What would hit the raft or jump aboard it?
At first, lights flickered in the distance. They spread wider into an extended ribbon rolling through blackness.
Juan shook Carlos awake and said, “Look. Lights are coming.”
“Where?”
“In front of the raft.”
“I see them.”
“What is it?”
“Shh. Wait and see.”
The soft light grew thicker.
“It can’t be a boat,” Carlos said. “Wake the others.”
The crew stood and watched in awe as the unknown luminescent blanket slowly approached. The magical glow parted and surrounded Yemaya in undulating lit water. Hector reached down and grabbed a handful of the light.
“What is it?” asked Jose.
"Seaweed, called sargassum. Sometimes it glows in the dark like this.”
Juan said, “It’s magic from Cachita. See the tube behind us?” Weeds and luminescence parted into a ten-foot ribbon of blackness around the tube. The crew crossed themselves and watched in awe as the blanket of light swayed like it was making love to the ocean. Back at the front of the raft, darkness approached on the far side of the lights. The edge of the glowing weeds slowly rocked up and down, passed under the raft, and receded into the night. The Cubanos once again floated in empty blackness.
“Carlos, it’s your turn to watch,” said Juan. He lay down and curled up behind Hector for shelter from the cool breeze.
He told Cachita, “Thank you for another day of deliverance. You gave us calm water for our journey. In return, we will take you to your new home in Miami.” He fell asleep smelling the breeze of freedom.
***
The sun slowly rose from blackness, growing into a golden ball above Mother Ocean. Carlos awoke his crew to start another day of liberation.
Jose blinked and rubbed his bristled chin. “Did you see anything last night?”
“Just darkness and stars,” Carlos replied. “Later I heard singing in Spanish from other balseros far away. A pair of porpoises surfaced near the raft. They scared me at first when they jumped and landed with a splash. They came back up again rolling and blowing for a while, then vanished into silence."
“This is the first time I’ve seen a sunrise over the ocean,” Juan said. “In Havana, the sun rises over the mountains.”
“Get used to it,” Hector said. “Sunrise is always over the ocean in Miami.”
They bathed in the sea, ate salted fish, and shared a tin of milk opened by Jose with his knife.
“I miss hot coffee already,” Hector moaned. “I drank it for breakfast all my life.”
“I can’t wait to have coffee in Miami,” Carlos replied. “Time to row. Jose and Hector first. I’ll adjust the sail to turn us north. Duck your heads.” He swung the sail around to the other side of the raft.
Hector and Jose shook stiffness from their sore bodies and picked up oars for yet another day of arduous rowing.
Juan noticed a small blue runner fish darting between the raft’s barrels. He unwound fishing line from the cane stick and put a small piece of dried fish on the hook. He dropped the hook into the water and patiently waited as small fish circled the bait cautiously. A larger blue runner boldly swooped in to grab the morsel. Juan jerked to set the hook and pulled in line hand over hand to lift the struggling silver fish onto the raft where it flopped around the deck. Thin, vertical gray stripes flickered between two sets of dorsal fins, top and bottom. A long split tail ended in black tips. Juan used the hand line stick to club the fish into submission, bringing cheers from the crew.
Jose said, “I knew you were a thief, but I didn’t know you were also a fisherman.”
Juan grinned mischievously. “There’re a lot of things you don’t know about me.”
"Take my knife and cut him up. We'll eat the meat and you can fish with the guts."
Juan cut the fish’s head off and sliced thin strips of meat that he handed to the others.
“I give you breakfast today.” He beamed.
They chewed eagerly on the fresh white meat.
“Catch some more, little brother,” Hector said.
"Sure. Fishing beats rowing," Juan replied.
Juan caught more blue runners until the crew ate their fill. They passed a water bottle around and relaxed in the sea's rhythm of waves.
“I’ve never eaten fish until I was full.” Carlos said. “I already like this freedom. Now it’s time for Juan and me to row.”
The rowers settled into a brisk westward pace with renewed strength. After an hour of rowing, blood seeped through Juan's bandage and rolled down his leg, where it dripped through spaces between the boards and into the water below. Red drops swirled into an invisible trail for hunting sharks to follow.
He moaned, “My hands hurt already.”
“So what,” sneered Carlos. “All of our hands hurt. Keep rowing. You have to earn your freedom.”
“Right,” Jose said. “You want us to do all the work?”
“Just keep rowing and think of American girls,” Hector added.
Juan grimaced at his blistered hands and bloody leg. He lowered his head in determination and thought about Miami.
The crew continued to row in shifts through the day, watching endless waves and sky.
Chapter 13
By midday, the sea flattened into shimmering glass while the brutal sun beat down on them.
Jose brought his hand to his head and looked into the distance. "I see something ahead."
The crew squinted to identify a point on the horizon that slowly became taller as the current pushed them eastward. A thin black line appeared on both sides of the spot.
“I don’t see anything,” Hector said.
“It’s land!” called out Juan.
“Why are we seeing land?” Jose asked.
“I don’t know,” Carlos replied.
As they neared the mysterious sight, it grew into an island. Water beneath them changed from blue to clear turquoise.
“It’s a lighthouse,” Carlos exclaimed. They looked in wonder at a small island rising only a few feet from the sea. They rowed toward it in bewilderment as they crossed a long, white sand shoal and landed on a beach.
“Pull the raft up far so it won’t wash away,” Carlos barked.
The crew stepped ashore, stretching stiff legs as they searched for clues to their mysterious location. Scraggly vegetation barely held onto jagged, gray rock that hurt their bare feet. They carefully walked over a rise. At the base of the lighthouse, men huddled under a few tattered sheets spread over bushes. Rags and debris were on the rocks.
“Hola,” shouted Carlos. “Hello.”
Six gaunt black men in tattered clothes stood up and hesitantly approached them. The largest man stepped in front of the others. Jose touched the knife on his belt. Hector picked up a stick.
“Alo,” said their leader.
“Where are you from?” Carlos asked.
“Haiti.”
The Cubans paused to ponder this unexpected answer. After a military coup had recently deposed President Aristide, many Haitians had left their battered country on boats to immigrate to the Bahamas.
“I know a little Creole,” Jose said. “Let me try to talk to them.”
He spoke to the Haitians for a few moments and then turned to his crew.
“We are on a Bahamian island named Cay Sal, somewhere between Cuba and Florida. They tried to sail to Nassau, but their boat wrecked here one night a few weeks ago. They want food and water from us. We need to get out of here before they steal our raft.”
“Tell them we have no food or water to spare,” Carlos said.
When Jose repeated Carlos message to the Haitians, the two men moved menacingly toward him. The other Haitians picked up rocks and sticks.
“Spread out so they can’t get around us. They have knives, but they look weak. I don’t think they can put up much of a fight. Slowly walk back to Yemaya.”
Hector swung his stick back and forth like a baseball bat.
Jose pulled out his knife nonchalantly and said, “Adios.”
“No,” said the leader, who advanced two steps closer as he swung his knife with practiced ease. “The boat is ours.”
“This is going to be like fighting The Brainwashed,” smiled Hector.
The leader slashed at Hector, who sidestepped and smashed his stick against the exposed arm. The Haitian grunted and lunged again.
A melee ensued with bodies colliding and sticks swinging. Juan threw a rock that hit a Haitian in the head and knocked him out cold. Jose was a whirling dervish with his knife thrashing wildly. He slashed another Haitian’s arm and sent him running.
A Haitian swung a stick across Carlos' back, knocking him down. When the wood rose for another cruel blow, Juan screamed and jumped on the Haitian's back. They tumbled to the ground, lashing wildly with feet and hands. Juan was on his back, taking a beating to the face when Carlos bowled into the Haitian and pummeled him into submission.
Two Haitians circled Hector, feinting in and out as he swung his stick. One darted in from behind. Hector backhanded his stick into the black head, sending the Haitian down. Hector continued the swing in a circle to catch the other man in his knee, knocking him to the ground.
The Cubans circled the remaining Haitian. He spun in a circle, dropped the knife, and ran back to the lighthouse.
The crew raised their fists and shouted in victory.
“That was easier than fighting Cubanos,” Juan exclaimed.
“And just as fun,” Hector agreed.
"Let's get off this island," Carlos said.
They backtracked to the raft and pushed off from the empty beach.
“What do you think will happen to them?” Juan asked as they rowed to deep water.
“They’ll probably be picked up by Bahamians and sent back to Haiti,” Carlos said. “Now you know why we need to watch all night. We don’t want to run into anything and wreck our raft.”
“They weren’t as tough as Cubanos,” boasted Jose.
“That reminded me of fighting The Brainwashed at school,” said Juan. “Tell them the story, Hector.”
Hector grinned. “Everyday Juan and I walked home from school down the same street and a gang of The Brainwashed attacked us. We would fight and go home all bloody. One day, our father said ‘No more. You have my permission to fight back hard,’ and he gave me a baseball bat. After school the next day, The Brainwashed waited for us again. Only this time I started swinging the bat like Roberto Clemente. I hurt them bad. After that, we had no more trouble from The Brainwashed.”
The men laughed and bantered as they resumed sailing.
Chapter 14
The balseros rowed back to dark blue water and caught the Gulf Stream current.
“Florida is north of us, but the Gulf Stream is flowing northeast,” Carlos said. “We need to stay on a northwestern course. The good news is we have a southeastern Bahamian breeze.” He swung the boom until the sail filled and then tied it down. Once again, they settled into hypnotic rowing to cross two-foot waves at an angle as the tube and Cachita followed. Up and down, up and down.
Juan's leg had stopped bleeding in the night, but during the fight it began to drip again. A red rivulet of blood ran onto the floor as he pulled the oars. He tried to wipe the stain away with his feet.
“What are you squishing?” asked Carlos. “Did you bring roaches on board?”
“Yeah.”
“You and that leg.”
“Leave him alone,” Hector said.
Juan’s attention turned to a purple Portuguese Man-of-War floating nearby, trailed by long, deadly tentacles. A wave flipped it over, but the weight of its many appendages pulled the bladder right side up where the wind blew it again like a happy sail. Tiny fish swam between undulating tentacles, immune to the poison that inflicted fierce pain to other creatures. A sea turtle with a carapace nearly the length of the raft rose nearby. Its big eyes watched the approaching bubble that couldn’t see impending doom. The turtle opened its bony mouth, closed its eyes, and slowly inhaled the jellyfish, filaments and all.
“Look.” Juan pointed at the turtle. “It just ate that Man-of-War. It must eat those like I eat habanero peppers.”
“It is a leatherback turtle,” Carlos said.
“A turtle egg sure would taste good now,” replied Jose. “One night when I was a child, my grandfather took me to Buanahacabibes National Park to collect turtle eggs. He lived in La Bajada at the west end of Cuba near the Park. We weren’t supposed to take turtle eggs, but we just wanted a few. What could it hurt? Besides, we were starving. The turtles crawled ashore that night and dug holes in the sand with their big flippers. The pain of birth appeared to cause tears rolling from their eyes as they laid dozens of soft, large eggs deep in the holes. We waited until one turtle left, then dug up the eggs. My grandfather broke open the first one we found and ate it raw. He made me eat one raw too. It was muy bueno (very good). We put the rest of the eggs in a sack and took them to my grandmother. She cooked them up and we had full bellies for days."
“You’re making me hungry,” Hector said. He smiled at the thought of fresh eggs. “I sure could use some coffee too.”
The leatherback watched them a while longer with its perpetual smile and then sank from sight in blue water penetrated by shafts of sunlight reaching deep into the abyss.
They continued to row, trading shifts when hands cramped into claws.
Later, Hector asked Juan, “How’s your leg?”
"The cut is deep, and it's still bleeding some."
“Does it hurt?”
“Not too bad.”
“You should clean that bandage.”
Juan took the blood soaked rag off his leg and leaned over the side of the raft. As he scrubbed it, a shadow passed deep below. It vanished, and then appeared again much closer. Only it wasn’t a shadow. A bull shark at least ten feet long glided beneath the raft.
“Shark,” Juan yelled.
A black fin broke the surface, slicing water like a scythe on a path toward Juan. Big black eyes searched for the source of blood it had trailed for hours. Juan sat at the same level as the ominous fin that extended higher than the raft's deck. Screams of fear rang out as the shark approached and bumped a barrel with its blunt brown head. They retreated in terror from a menacing fin close enough to touch. Only they couldn’t move far because the deck almost tilted to the water where the dreaded monster could reach for them with slashing teeth to shred their flesh.
“Damn,” Hector cried.
“Son of a bitch,” Carlos cursed.
They slipped and scrambled to grab ropes and pull themselves back to the mast at the center of the raft. All eyes watched the smooth beast with two remora fish attached to its back as it patiently circled Yemaya.
"What's a matter with you boys?” Jose snorted. “I'm not afraid of one shark." He waved his knife in the air with disdain. "I'll cut him with my knife."
“Yeah, right,” Juan said.
“Calm down,” Carlos yelled. “Juan, tie your bandage to stop that blood so the shark will get tired and go away.”
“Sharks don’t get tired,” Hector said.
“Shut up,” Carlos replied. He needed to get their minds off the shark. “We haven’t gone far enough across the Gulf Stream. All four of us need to row now to go farther west. Rowing will keep us from thinking about sharks.”
“How can I not watch it?” Jose asked as the nearby black fin rose and fell.
Hector tied Juan’s bandage tight and pushed hard on his leg until the blood stopped oozing through the rag. They moved to their oarlocks and rowed in unison, mesmerized by the ominous fin that stalked them. It vanished, and about the time they relaxed, reappeared behind the raft, patrolling with its fin and zigzagging tail above water.
Later in the afternoon, a large school of flying fish appeared. They built up speed underwater and launched into the air with long, silver wings spread to catch a breeze and sail like a bird for great distances to evade predators below. Hundreds of them launched in frenzied flight around and over the raft. The men reached for the fish as they flew past but couldn’t grab the slippery creatures in speeding flight. The school passed on and left the balseros staring in astonishment at another of Mother Ocean’s mystical joys.
They rowed and rowed, up and down, up and down.
Towering white clouds with flat gray bottoms built in the east from Andros to push a summertime storm across the Gulf Stream. Four foot high waves rose like sand dunes marching at three-second intervals to send the raft on a wild ride as they climbed the backside of a wave, paused at the top, then raced madly down the front, almost burying the raft's square nose in the bottom of the trough.
Carlos stopped rowing long enough to lower the sail, reducing the raft's severe pitching. When Jose's stomach revolted, he hung his head over the side. Black clouds rolled in with loud gusty, wind. Waves built faster and faster into racing valleys and mountains that broke into landslides tossing Yemaya through the angry water. A thick, jagged lightning bolt raced from the sky to water with an explosive boom. Yemaya turned sideways to a wave that crashed over her, knocking Jose down. He grabbed a rope and pulled himself back to his seat.
“Keep rowing or we’ll spin out of control,” Carlos yelled.
Jose moaned, “I’m sick.”
“So am I,” Juan said as he retched.
“Be a man and row if you want your freedom,” Carlos commanded.
"Will lightning hit the mast?"
“Maybe. You better say a prayer to Cachita.”
They rowed in fear, struggling against the ocean's tremendous power. Up the waves, down the waves. Up the waves, down the waves. The storm descended upon them now, with crashes of white lightning nearby, close enough that the sound and sight jolted them simultaneously. The crew ducked in terror but had no place to hide from the storm's fury. For hours they fought an endless legion of bucking waves and screaming wind. When exhausted, they quit rowing and desperately held on to ropes and the mast with cramped hands as Yemaya pitched in a witch’s caldron. The waves would rise high, threatening to crash over Yemaya, but then washed up through the spaces between deck boards and release the wave’s pressure as it passed underneath the raft and tube. The use of wire and rope to secure the boards provided an unexpected escape from the furious waves trying to flip the raft. If nails had been used nails to secure the deck boards close together, the wave force would have thrown them over like a kite in the wind.
Their arms ached. Their hands cramped and became deformed. Rain washed salt from sweaty bodies. Their mouths opened to catch rainwater. Stomachs heaved to emptiness, and then continued to dry heave, straining muscles. They desperately held on for liberty far away from Cuba.
“Please Cachita, take the storm away,” begged Juan repeatedly.
“I think she’s mad at us for taking her from Cuba,” Jose screamed over the roar of the storm.
They were trapped on the raft. All they could do was hang on for their lives.
Chapter 15
As darkness descended over a violent ocean, the rain slowed, the wind subsided, and waves flattened. Clouds blocked stars and moon, putting the balseros in absolute blackness. The crew collapsed on the floor in exhaustion.
“Never has my stomach hurt so much,” moaned Jose. “Nothing is left in me at all.”
"My leg hurts bad," Juan shook his head. "At least Cachita didn’t let us sink.”
“Why didn’t she keep the storm away?” Hector asked. “My hands are so cramped they won’t open.”
“I didn’t get sick,” Carlos replied. “You’re just weak girls. Put your hands in the water and they will cool. Juan, retie your bandage. Jose, pass water and food around. We need to be strong to do it again tomorrow.”
“I can’t eat. I’ll get sick,” Jose whined.
“At least drink water. I’ll take the first watch.”
Carlos sat with his back to the mast while the others drank from a bottle and fell into wearied sleep. He peered into the darkness in vain. He couldn’t tell which direction the wind blew from. Mother Ocean would take them on her own course. He felt suspended in a world painted black. He didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. His chin dropped. He jerked up and smacked the mast with the back of his head.
“Ow.” He rubbed his head just to move his weary arms.
Splash! To his right. He spun around to look for the noise. Splash, behind him. Splash, in front of him. What was it? Smack! Something soft hit him in the head.
“Ahhh,” he yelled in fear. The object fell beside him and flipped on the floor. A fish. He blindly reached toward the noise. His fingers closed on slimy skin. Flexible wings beat his hand. A flying fish! He put the squirming gift under his leg until it stopped struggling. More splashes. Another flying fish landed on the raft. He grabbed it also. The school passed, leaving him in silence once again.
When he could stay awake no more, he grabbed Hector and said, “Wake up. It’s your turn.”
“Get someone else.”
“Come on, get up. I caught flying fish. We’ll have food and bait tomorrow. Watch out. They'll hit you as they fly around."
"How can I watch out? I can't see a thing?" Hector stiffly stood up and balanced against the mast.
“Just listen.” Carlos said. He lay down and immediately passed out from deep fatigue.
Hector watched in all directions. Enveloped in darkness, he rode for hours, listening to the invisible sail flapping in a light breeze and the snores of his crewmen in weary sleep. He loved the sea and would always live close to the ocean’s salty air.
To stay awake, he thought about his parents in Miami. They would have a house for Juan and him. With $15,000, he could afford glasses and see for the first time. And a car. He would be a taxi driver. Free to go anywhere he wanted without a block captain watching or a curfew to keep him home at night. He would drive his car all night long if he wanted. And find a good Cuban-American wife. What more could a man want?
In the distance, a light flickered, shaking him from his fantasy. Again, for a little longer. The light turned into a gleaming line that grew longer and wider. Another weed line. Fully awake now, he watched the sea’s mysterious luminescence approach and envelope Yemaya with a glowing carpet as far as he could see, except for a black hole around Cachita’s tube. The Lady of Charity rode on her throne.
A faint sound. He couldn’t tell the direction. It grew to a constant, high-pitched whine. Louder. A boat. Going fast by the sound of the motor.
Hector shook Carlos. “Wake up.”
“What? What is it?” Carlos moaned. “I was dreaming about big breasted American girls.”
“Listen.”
“It’s a boat. Coming closer. But I can’t see it.”
"It has no lights. It must be a drug boat or a pirate."
“Wake up,” Carlos yelled.
“What’s wrong?” Jose asked in a daze.
“A boat’s coming without lights.”
Louder and closer came the roaring engine. Suddenly, the weed’s phosphorescent light split a hundred yards from them. It unzipped on a course straight at Yemaya. The crew yelled and waved their arms to no avail. The driver couldn’t hear or see them in the darkness. Closer. Bearing down on them. The crew cringed, hung on, and waited for impact.
The boat driver must have seen Yemaya’s shadow in the weed's lights, because he swerved hard at the last second and sent a high wave that almost flipped the raft. The sail jerked hard and broke its tie-down rope. The boom swung around, smashing Hector in the stomach. He flew overboard into glowing seaweed. The blow knocked the wind completely out of his lungs, stunning him like being hit by a bull. The rest of the crew desperately hung on to the bouncing raft's ropes as the boat screamed by and disappeared on its covert mission.
Stunned and paralyzed, Hector sank. Cool water brought him to his senses, but there was no air was in his lungs. He rapidly dropped into a black abyss. Above him, a blanket of light moved further away. With excruciating pain in his stomach, he struggled to flail his arms and legs toward the light. He broke the water's surface, though his paralyzed lungs couldn’t inhale life-saving air that would let him yell. Hector frantically beat the water with his hands and feet. He drew in a little air and squawked weakly.
They crew cursed as they struggled to catch the boom in the dark and tie it back down.
When they finished, Carlos asked, “Is everyone okay?” They could only see shadows outlined against the glowing seaweed.
“Yes,” replied Juan and Jose. No Hector.
“Hector,” said Juan. “Hector. Where are you?”
No response.
“He’s overboard,” Carlos said. “Shh. Listen for him.”
“I hear splashing,” Jose responded.
“Where?”
“I can’t tell.”
“I hear him,” Carlos said. “Can anybody see him?”
Jose replied desperately, “The boat waves broke up the glowing weeds into many patches. I can’t see him.
“Hector! Hector!” Juan screamed in despair.
But Hector didn’t have enough air to call out. He splashed again. His tortured lungs came back to life and inhaled water in their last gasp. He sank beneath the surface as his hands reaching upward to Yemaya.
The crew rowed in circles for a few more minutes.
“Hector, where are you? Hector?” Juan yelled over and over.
“We can’t see him,” Jose moaned. “It’s a terrible thing, but what can we do?”
Finally, Carlos said, "He's gone."
“No,” Juan sobbed. “You can’t mean dead. He was just here, and now he isn’t. How will I tell Maria? What will I tell our parents?
“He wanted to go to Miami so badly,” Carlos said, patting Juan on the shoulder.
The crew consoled Juan for a while, then soon fell asleep as Juan cried himself out.
He stayed awake the rest of the night on a vigil for his brother. Though thousands of bright stars twinkled close enough to touch, he couldn’t see his feet. One of the stars flashed red and white as it slowly moved across the sky. It was a plane, leading them on a flight to freedom without his brother.
Chapter 16
Clouds, forever coming and going, cleared in the night. Calm seas slept in exhaustion. A glow on the horizon announced the start of a new day. A horizontal rainbow of colors built over the glow, adding white on top of yellow on top of blue as a red-rimmed white orb rose from Mother Ocean and broke loose into the sky.
Juan looked back at the tube; relieved to see Cachita was still with them. Already feeling homesick, he leaned on the mast and thought about Cuban mountains and Maria.
Jose and Carlos woke up and stretched tired and battered muscles. They cooled their blistered hands in the sea and shared water from a bottle.
"At least we have fresh fish for breakfast," Carlos said, holding up a flying fish. "Hector caught them." They paused for a moment of silence and remembered the previous night's horrible events.
“I hope sharks didn’t eat him,” Juan said.
“At least he didn’t die in Cuba,” Carlos replied. “He died a free man.”
"My stomach is so sore that I don't know if I can eat," Jose complained.
"You need to eat," Carlos responded. "We need strength to row to Miami." He held up a flying fish and gingerly took a bite of flesh and chewed. "Better than a blue runner." He passed it to Jose. "Go on. Try it."
Jose grimaced and took a bite. “It is better than a blue runner.” He took another bite and passed it to Juan, who sucked off the last bit of meat and spit the skin into the water below. Ravenous pilot fish rushed out to fight over the morsel.
“My first flying fish,” Juan said. “I like it. Here’s another one. Let’s eat more.”
“Leave some of it for bait,” Jose said.
“Yes,” agreed Carlos. “We’ll take turns rowing. From now on, we’ll tie a rope on each of us at night so we don’t get swept away.”
“My hands and leg hurt too much to row,” Juan complained.
“All of our hands hurt,” Carlos yelled. “We have to be strong and keep rowing if we want to survive. Put your scrawny fingers in the water to make them feel better.”
“I didn’t think freedom would be so hard to find,” Jose replied meekly.
“You have your freedom now. Today. On this raft. You are free. It is up to you to decide what you want to do with your freedom. You can do nothing and die, or row hard and maybe reach Florida. You are free to die here in the ocean or die in Miami.”
Juan slowly picked up his oar, wrapped rags around his hands, and rowed in time with Jose.
Looking behind the raft, Juan said, "There're more sharks."
Three menacing fins rose and fell silently, inspecting the tube and the barrels as tails occasionally twitched to keep pace with the raft’s placid advance. A pilot fish left one of the blue-grey beasts and swam to the raft to look for breakfast underneath.
“Don’t look,” Carlos ordered. “Watch the sky.”
Onward they rowed and rowed and rowed toward liberty. Jose still wore the rag on his head, but the others had lost their hats in the storm, leaving their heads to sweat and burn under the tropical sun. The blazing eastern sun blinded Juan, so he squinted and looked down at Cachita. The ocean rested dead flat, smooth as ice, reflecting a blue sky. The solitary raft with its limp sail was all that existed on a canvass of shimmering water.
Juan thought it was no wonder that ancient sailors perceived the world was flat. They didn’t feel the vast distances as the horizon glided along with them unnoticed as their own floating world appeared unchanged. They moved in a circle thrown up to the dome of the sky centered on their boat that appeared stationary while the same stars rolled over them night after night.
The crew stopped rowing at midday to rest and eat meager rations of a few crackers and water. An enormous school of porpoises appeared ahead of them, jumping high in mating dances as they twirled, and dropping gracefully with little splash back into the sea. The porpoises enveloped Yemaya, spreading around her for miles in numbers so numerous that they became the ocean's waves. They rolled beside the raft to greeted fellow travelers with large black eyes, endless smiles, and broad tails that flapped goodbye.
“Look how happy they are,” Carlos said. “Free in the ocean just as we are.”
“But they swim faster,” Juan grumbled.
“At least they chased the sharks away,” responded Jose.
The crew watched in awe as rolling porpoises came on and on. The carpet of splashing gray happiness swept by Yemaya and slowly left her behind.
“They have the freedom to go wherever they want,” Carlos said. “We have that same freedom.”
“Yes,” the others murmured.
“Uh, with Hector gone, how much money will we get now?” Jose cautiously asked.
“How can you think of Hector’s money? He’s barely gone.” countered Juan.
“Just asking.”
Carlos thought for a second, and said, “$20,000 each.”
Silence.
“Do things cost more in Miami?” Jose asked.
“Yes,” Carlos replied.
“How much more?”
“Hmm. I think twice as much.”
They contemplated $20,000.
“My uncle has an Edsel,” said Jose. “I’ll buy a new red Ford Edsel and send him a picture. He’ll be so happy for me.” Juan and Carlos nodded in agreement, thinking of newfound riches.
“I want a new refrigerator in my house,” said Juan. “We never had one of our own. We had to use our neighbors’.”
“A color TV,” Carlos sighed. “I’ve heard of such a thing.”
“We’ll buy new things in Miami, but right now I wish I had my hat,” Juan complained. “This sun is wicked.”
"You're always whining," Carlos scorned. "You're just a weakling."
Jose thought about a new car in Miami. He squinted into the sun. A black spot to the left grew larger as they drifted closer. A bird!
In excitement, he let go of his oar, which splashed and caught in the oarlock.
He pointed, “Look at that.”
A large bird appeared, with long, black wings, red throat, and deeply forked tail. It flew ahead of them in long, lazy circles.
“It’s a Man-of-War bird that circles over big marlins,” Carlos said. “They drift for days on air currents.”
“Birds always follow you,” Jose replied.
They watched it glided gracefully in circles.
Carlos finally said, “We need to keep rowing. Jose, you help me. Juan, see if you can catch more fish.”
They rowed westward toward the bird as it soared with motionless wings, higher and higher, then suddenly dropped toward a school of flying fish that spurted desperately from the water. The Man-of-War splashed as it grabbed a fish with its hooked beak and then flapped narrow, pointed three-foot wings to rise back to the sky and circle over the school again.
Juan baited his hook, pulled a surplus of line off the sugar cane stick, and wrapped rags around his hands. He dropped the bait into the water and put the stick under his leg. He wondered if flying fish stopped long enough to eat, or if they just swam and flew eternally. Maybe he could catch one. He looked over the side. Gold flashed in the water. A school of dolphin circled below. He loved to eat dolphin. When he lowered the line deeper, dolphins rose through clear water and circled the entrails. The school sniffed and swirled beneath the raft. A three-footer grabbed the bait. When Juan jerked the line to set the hook, the angry fish dashed under a barrel and tightened the line around Juan’s hand, almost pulling him overboard. He howled in anguish as he twisted his hand free of the line. More line rushed out before he grabbed the spinning stick and stopped the run.
“Hang onto him. He’s a good one,” Jose yelled.
The angry yellow and green fish with blue spots raced out from underneath the raft and jumped high above the water. It twisted and back flipped, tumbling down with a splash that soaked the men.
“Don’t lose him,” Carlos shouted. “Pull him in.”
"I'm trying, but he's hurting my hands," Juan said desperately as he followed the fish that now circled the raft with hard dashes and explosive leaps into the air, over and over. Hand over hand Juan struggled to pull in the line that built into a tangled nest at his feet. The weary fish swam in slow circles under the boat, trailed by a curious pilot fish.
“Help me,” Juan pleaded.
A huge fin broke the surface in front of the boat, pushing water toward the dolphin like a torpedo.
“Hurry up,” Carlos screamed. “The shark’s back.”
Jose stepped next to Juan and helped pull in the line. Up came the defeated dolphin. As the fish neared the surface, a shadow rose swiftly from below and jolted the raft as it grabbed the dolphin on its rising flight. A pointed spear long as a baseball bat broke the surface smoothly. Upward came a marlin in slow motion, unendingly, water pouring from its sides. Its black eye, the size of an orange, looked at Jose with impunity as it rose above the boat, high as the mast, bright against the sun. Its head and back were dark purple with wide lavender stripes along its side. Now completely out of the ocean, it turned and entered smoothly back into the water like an arrow. Jose shrieked in fright and tripped backward into the bird nest of line piled around the mast. Out sped the line, tightening on his leg. Jose screamed in anguish as the line deeply cut his flesh above the ankle and then pulled him overboard in an instant. Down he descended behind the diving marlin, disappearing in a trail of blood. The line pulled taut as the end of it reached the stick tangled in the mast. Snap went the line, and Jose spiraled into the deep.
Juan and Carlos screamed in incredulous shock. They couldn’t believe what had happened in an instant.
Underwater, Jose's leg writhed in agony where the line cut unmercifully through muscle, all the way to hard bone. The marlin's dive took him deep into purple water as his arms and leg floundered. He struggled to reach his waist and pull out his knife. With all his strength, he slowly reached down, brought the knife to the tight line, and sliced it.
He felt instant relief from searing pain in his leg, though he still hurt and bled freely. He kicked toward the light above. Pulling water down, pushing his body up. Stroke after stroke. He broke the surface and gasped for air. He floundered and weakly swam toward the raft fifty yards away. Juan and Carlos jumped up and down, shouting at him.
“Help me,” he feebly called out.
They continued to yell frantically. Jose sank under water and rose back to the surface. More yelling. He wondered why they didn’t row to him. He felt a bewildering blow to his bloody leg as the enormous bull shark grabbed it and pulled him down. He kicked with the last of his strength and broke free. He struggled back to the surface. More blood poured from his leg. He frantically paddled weak arms toward the raft. More screaming from the men on the raft. A terrible vice closed on his stomach and back, squeezing air from his lungs and life from his tattered body. He feebly reached toward a receding light. Darkness enveloped him.
Chapter 17
Juan and Carlos stared in disbelief at what had transpired in less than a minute. Merciless Mother Ocean had taken another one of their compadres.
“Why did this happen?” Juan cried.
“No, no,” wailed Carlos.
“Cachita is supposed to protect us. Instead, she's letting us die."
“She’s mad, and it’s all your fault! Why did you have to bring her on my raft?”
“I didn’t know,” Juan moaned. “I thought she would be happy to get away from the Beard.”
“El Cobre is her home and she doesn’t want to leave.”
“Once she is with Cubans in Miami, she’ll be happy again.”
They crossed themselves in shock, watching the now calm ocean in silence for a few moments. Carlos started a prayer.
“Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
The men drank water and returned wearily to their stations at the stern to row westward into calm winds.
An hour later, Juan leaned forward. “Let’s rest. My hands hurt.” He unwrapped rags from his hands and held up blistered and bloody fingers.
Carlos raised his cramped shut palms. "Put them in the water."
“Nooo.”
“The salt will heal them. Just watch out for sharks.” They trailed their hands in the ocean until two fins appeared behind Yemaya. They jerked back from the water and sat up straight.
“How’s your leg?” asked Carlos.
Juan looked at it and replied, “No more blood.”
“Good. You’re almost healed.”
“Time to eat,” Carlos said. “We need our strength.”
They shared flying fish and crackers and watched blue runners quickly snatch crumbs that fell through the floor cracks.
"The fish is still sweet," Juan said. "I hope more come aboard tonight."
“Feed the bones to that fish under Cachita. He’s escorting her.”
Juan tossed the remains toward the tube. A pilot fish and two dolphins rushed out, making short work of the carcass. After consuming the last flickering morsel, they resumed guard under Cachita. The men wrapped their hands with cloth again and continued rowing, though not as fast as the previous day. Fatigue was setting in. To the rear, patient sharks stalked the beleaguered raft in hopes of another meal.
Juan noticed a small bird approach Yemaya from the west. It was a tired warbler flying low over the waves. It landed weakly on the sail’s line to rest for a moment, then circled the raft and landed on the tube.
“Cachita has another friend,” he said. “Birds always find her.”
The weary bird teetered on the tube, its tiny feet holding onto a line.
“That’s not an ocean bird,” Carlos said. “It shouldn’t be this far out. A storm must have carried it away from land.”
Juan told the bird, “Stay here and rest as long as you want. Cachita will take care of you.”
“Like she did Hector and Jose?”
“Shut up.”
Juan continued to talk to the tired little bird and fish below the barrels. Onward they rowed.
Several exhausting hours later, Carlos’ contemplated his lost amigos. He was tired of Juan’s chatter. Pain shot from his hands, up his arms. He had felt pain before in labor camps.
“This is bad, but not as dreadful as the Unidades Militares de Ayuda a la Producción (UMAPs) labor camp.”
“Nothing could be as terrible as that. Those were the worst two months of my life.”
UMAP camps were concentration camps where ‘social misfits,’ Jehovah Witnesses, and Roman Catholics were rounded up and sent to work on agricultural farms and undergo ‘ideological re-education’ under harsh conditions.
Carlos recalled, “Thousands of us stayed in a camp near El Dos de Cespedes. We worked from sunup to sundown every day. They fed us terrible food. We worked on a farm that grew the biggest, most beautiful tomatoes you've ever seen."
“You’re making me hungry.”
“They were for export, not for Cubanos. The fields had long rows that extended for two miles. All day long we bent over and hurt our backs to pick tomatoes. For two hours each night they indoctrinated us with communist propaganda. The Brainwashed running the camps treated us like animals, keeping boys and girls together in windowless concrete buildings. They raped many of the girls and beat gay men mercilessly. I endured unspeakable things in that camp that still give me nightmares. Only the stupid ones fell for the Communist propaganda and turned into The Brainwashed. I didn’t believe a word they told us. I stayed a gusano.”
Juan responded, “They took me to a sugar cane farm, and I chopped cane all day. We were just free labor for the CDR. My hands hurt then like they do now.”
Carlos laughed. “One day I was in a tomato field and a stupid Brainwashed called me a name. I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I pulled a big tomato off a vine and threw it at him--splat--on the side of his head. He threw one back. A tomato war erupted and hundreds of us threw red bombs at each other. We started out mad and ended up laughing and laughing as we ran and hit each other with tomatoes. The guards eventually broke us up, but by then we had ruined thousands of red tomatoes. As punishment, they made us clean latrines for a week."
“You too? Oh, I hated that.”
“One night a Brainwashed went to an outside latrine. We were waiting for him. When we tipped the latrine over, he almost drowned. He emerged furious but didn’t know who to punish. We laughed for days. They couldn’t conquer the gusanos; we were too smart.”
“That must have been great,” Juan howled with glee. “To get revenge on a Brainwashed one.”
“It was worth the punishment.”
Juan suddenly straightened up and pointed. “Look.”
A large boat appeared on the horizon.
“Take down the sail,” Carlos said.
“Why?”
"If the Americans catch us, we'll be taken to Guantanamo Bay and kept many months while they decide what to do with us. If we make it to land in Florida, we get to stay in the United States. They can't take us back."
“That might be better than staying on this damn raft,” moaned Jose.
“No way,” Carlos replied. “I’m not going back to Cuba. Be tough and we’ll soon be free.”
They lay down, trapped with no place to hide as the raft swayed on the waves. The boat came closer. A tanker. They didn’t move a muscle, hoping their thin mast would escape detection. After thirty minutes of nerve-wracking fear, the ship slowly moved away on a southward course. After it had sailed into dark clouds on the horizon, they breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos raised the sail and trimmed it to catch the southern breeze.
“Miami can’t be too far away if we’re in a shipping lane,” Juan said hopefully.
“Yes, but storm clouds are building in the south.”
“No, not again,” moaned Juan.
“Maybe they won’t come this way. We must get across this damn Gulf Stream. Time to row again.”
They settled into a rowing trance as the wind increased and waves gradually built to gentle five-foot rollers. Bend forward, pull back. Bend forward, pull back. Their stomachs and arms screamed in protest, but onward they went. Fortunately, the clouds floated away from them.
Juan looked back to the tube where the tired bird still hung onto its bobbing island, happy for the ride; or maybe it was happy to be with Cachita.
He said, “Our little friend hasn’t left us. That’s a good sign.”
"Yes, it is."
They rowed to the northwest, struggling not to turn sideways to the waves. On and on they rowed.
More dorsal fins appeared behind Cachita.
“The sharks are still back there,” bemoaned Juan.
Fins rose and fell with the waves, always the same height as they gave leisurely wags of their tails to keep pace with the raft. Slowly they circled and occasionally nosed the raft in search of food. Sunlight caused their blue-grey skin to look brown under the water. Three dolphins that had been following between barrels dashed away from the predators and vanished into deep water. When a big wave rose, it lifted a shark higher than Juan's head, giving him a direct side view of the predator. Like being in an aquarium, the shark swam alongside the raft with a smile full of wicked teeth and remoras attached to its back. Juan yelled in fear, thinking the shark would swim aboard. Then the raft leaned and rose gracefully on a ridge of the wave, passed over the shark, and descended on the other side. A pilot fish, once loyal to Yemaya, darted out and swam away with its newfound ride.
“I think I’ll tie myself to the boat now,” Carlos said, reaching for a rope.
“Me too,” Juan replied.
They took a break to drink water and eat as they watched the sharks.
At the tube, the little bird also watched the sharks and decided to leave, flying away westward.
With the sun low on the horizon, Carlos said, “We’ll row one more time before dark.”
"My hands are killing me." Juan held up bloody hands with fingers swollen together.
“If we don’t row, we don’t get to Miami. Then we die. Do you want to die on this boat?” Carlos snarled. “We can sleep tonight.”
"Okay, okay," Juan snapped. He picked up his oar and began the wearisome rowing routine once again. The waves increased in tempo, running at five-second intervals with white froth breaking at the tops to fall onto Yemaya before she rose with the waves. While the trailing tube still climbed the steep face, the raft passed a crest and dropped down the backside, violently jerking the tube across the top to fly into the air, landing close to the raft. Over and over.
“I’m sick and can’t row anymore,” Juan cried out over the roar of the waves.
“I’m sick too, but we have to keep rowing.”
“No more.”
Juan tied down his oar and curled up around the mast as his stomach rebelled in pain. Carlos lay down with him and held onto a line.
Carlos said, “Think of the good side. We’ll be across the Gulf Stream and see Florida tomorrow.”
Juan crawled to the rear and held onto his rope as he retched.
“I’ve never seen such waves. Cachita, please make the waves go away.”
The waves rolled endlessly. On and on as the sun set, in what would have been a spectacular view from land. However, on board the raft, Juan and Carlos clung for their lives as they rose up high and raced down the waves. They shivered violently with cold and held on to their lines as Mother Ocean's washing machine relentlessly tossed the raft. Juan heaved for hours. Finally, even Carlos succumbed to seasickness. With nothing left in his stomach, Juan continued to dry heave, praying for the night to end. He tried not to think, only endure. In the darkness, he heard roaring waves approach, but couldn’t see them. He only felt the raft rise and waited in terror to reach the top to have the bottom drop out on the other side with a soaking splash, like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. Hour after hour the wind roared, and the waves crashed relentlessly. Through an endless night, Juan trembled violently and wondered why he ever left Cuba. Nothing could be worse than this. Maybe Cachita was mad at them. Maybe she did want to go home, but they couldn’t go back now. Whatever Mother Ocean had in store for them, he and Carlos had to wait. And wait. And wait.
Chapter 18
A faint light in the east signaled a new sunrise over waves that flattened to long slow rollers. Exhausted from the horrible night, Juan watched the sun pull free from the ocean as he quivered in a stupor. Yemaya was still intact, with Cachita following behind her. With hands clenched like claws, they couldn’t let go of the mast. He pulled hard and cried out in pain as fingers straightened out briefly to break free, and then snapped back into miserable curled fists.
Carlos shuddered in pain as he struggled to let go of his line and sit up on Yemaya’s deck.
“My stomach and chest hurt so bad,” he moaned. “I think something’s broken.”
“Me too,” Juan whimpered. “I have nothing left in me. Even you were sick this time.”
“We must drink water.”
“I can’t untie the bottle.”
Carlos moved his fingers back and forth to straighten them. He crawled to the last water bottle tied to the raft and hunched over in pain as swollen fingers picked at the knot until it came loose. Lifting the bottle with both hands, he used his teeth to open the cap. The round top fell from his swollen mouth and bounced across the deck. Juan yelled and reached awkwardly as it fell over the edge of the raft and slowly spun into bottomless depths. A dolphin dashed out to inspect the plastic debris, and then returned under a barrel in disappointment.
“No!” Carlos screamed.
Juan collapsed to the deck and cried.
“Damn this water,” Carlos yelled hoarsely. “Damn the wind. Damn the Beard. Damn Cachita.”
“Stop,” shouted Juan. “Don’t say that to Cachita. You’re the one who dropped the cap.”
“It’s her fault. It’s your fault. You shouldn’t have stolen her. Now she’s mad and punishing us.”
“I just wanted to give her a better home.”
“Cuba is her home! She didn’t want to leave,” Carlos answered
“You wait and see. She’ll protect us all the way to Florida.”
Carlos drank from the bottle and moaned, "The water hurts my stomach." He passed it to Juan, who also took a sip of liquid and whimpered, holding his stomach.
“Careful,” Carlos said. “Drink slow. We must make it last. Is there any food left?”
Juan unwrapped their last pieces of fish and soggy crackers and split them with Carlos. They had one can of milk left, but without Jose’s knife, they couldn’t open it. Their stomachs protested, but they knew they needed strength to row. Juan carefully tied the water bottle to the mast with a rope. They slowly stood up and massaged aching fingers and backs in the morning sun's warmth.
Carlos trimmed the sail and said, “The wind has changed. Now we’re headed west toward Florida.”
“Thank God,” said Juan, trying to build strength and enthusiasm for another bleak day of rowing.
Carlos untied his oar and took his seat, bracing his feet on the deck. Juan just looked at him.
“Come on,” Carlos ordered.
“Can’t we just let the wind blow us west?”
“Estupido. It won’t be enough. We have to row. Sit down.”
Juan untied his oar and sat across from Carlos. He squinted against the bright morning sun and flexed his raw fingers. He wrapped his hands with rags, grabbed the wooden handle, and bent forward against protesting stomach muscles. When he dropped the blade into clear water and pulled.
“Oh, that hurts,” he said, rubbing his back.
“We’ll start slow.”
They began their rowing ordeal. Bend forward. Pull back. Bend forward. Pull back.
“Think about Miami,” Carlos said. “What is the first thing you’ll do?”
“I’ll drink five cups of Cuban coffee.”
“What about you?”
“Yes. Black coffee that roars down my throat and kicks my whole body awake. Not that watered down American excuse for coffee.” Row and row.
“Then I’ll eat ropa vieja,” Carlos dreamed. “Real roast beef. Pollo (chicken) is all I’ve had for years.
“I‘ll have picadillo (ground beef with raisins and spices.) My grandmother used to make delicious feasts with that."
“And a long, slow, hot bath. No more bathing in the ocean.”
“I’ll never get on a boat again,” Juan said. “I’ll work and buy a red car. I never had a car.”
“You, work? You’re just a thief. What work will you do?”
“Everyone in America has a car. I’ll wash their cars with plenty of water. Not orange water that comes from the pipes in Cuba. Water that’s clean enough to drink all the time.”
“Yes, lots of water. And I’ll buy shoes. Maybe even two pairs. One for work and one to dress up in when I go dancing with American girls." They grinned at the thought of American girls and rowed faster.
Juan was thinking about Miami when he noticed golden flashes under the tube. Four dolphins now accompanied Cachita on her journey. They swirled under the tube and then darted over to look under Yemaya for food. Finding nothing to eat, their curiosity led them to splashing oars. Each time a blade dropped into the water, a fish rushed out and followed the oar until it rose from the water. When the oar splashed back down, a playful fish scurried back to the oar and followed it again. The dolphins played the game until they tired of it and settled into the shade under the raft.
“I sure would like to eat one of those again,” Carlos said.
“Me too.”
“Let’s take a break.”
“Okay.”
They watched dolphins and wondered how to catch one when Juan looked up and pointed. “What’s that?”
The sea boiled to the south.
“I don’t know. It’s getting bigger.” His voice rose. “Get ready.”
They held tight to lines and watched roiling water come closer. An immense school of yellow dolphins bounded out of the sea like torpedoes, racing toward Yemaya frantically instead of with their casual, lazy jumps used when hunting flying fish. They bounded continuously like fugitives, whipping the sea into white foam. Behind them, a large, black fin sped along on a zigzag course, like a cowboy herding cows.
“Look how big that shark is,” Carlos said with fear.
Some of the desperate fish took refuge under the raft, circling into a tight, golden shoal underneath that shimmered and danced. Others continued to flee and splashed away in a glittering mass of colors. The gleaming back of a twenty foot blue shark dove and circled the fish under the raft, then sped westward after the fleeing shoal. The dolphins under Yemaya rose as one, colorful backs rising above the surface, and swam eastward with a burst of speed. The sea calmed again.
The Cubans looked at each other in stunned silence. Once again Mother Ocean had shown her magic.
Chapter 19
Juan and Carlos drank more water and picked up their oars. The overhead sun now burned their heads instead of their faces. They paced themselves with steady, slow strokes, hands on fire with blood dripping from the rags. Every few minutes Carlos looked over his shoulder to check for boats or, even better, land. They were still in dark blue water of the Gulf Stream, at its fastest now in the Straits between Cuba and Florida. Row for an hour and rest. Row for another hour and rest. They were exhausted and hungry, too drained to talk. More sharks returned, with fins patrolling steadily behind Yemaya as they followed the blood trail and occasionally circled the raft with ominous black eyes watching from below. A few pilot fish from the sharks left to find a new home under the raft. An afternoon wind swung back to the south, piling up two-foot waves for them to quarter the raft through. They rocked up and down, but nothing compared to the dreadful waves of the previous night. When they stopped to rest, Juan looked around the never-ending horizon.
He pointed. “Look over there. A boat.”
A cruise ship appeared on the horizon, sailing south with American tourists. They watched until it vanished and wondered what life would be like on a big party boat. All the food they could eat. Music. Dancing. Coffee.
Swirling white seagulls appeared from the west to inspected Yemaya as they searched for food. Soon they departed over the horizon on their endless quest.
“We must be getting closer,” Carlos said optimistically. “Ships and birds are good signs.”
“I wish we would hurry up and get there. I don’t think I can last much longer.”
“Sure you can. Just thing about American women.”
“You can have the women. I just want dry land and coffee.”
“With $30,000, you’ll drink coffee day and night for the rest of your life.”
“Yea, lots of coffee. And new clothes. I’ll buy seven new suits, one for each day of the week. White and silver and black. I’ve never had a suit. I also want black shoes and a white Panama hat. People will see me coming and say, ‘There’s Juan La Hoya.’ I’ll have a beautiful American girlfriend and buy her pretty dresses. Maybe I can find a doctor to straighten my nose.” He smiled and wiggled his nose, dreaming of riches and respect.
“I can see you strutting down the road.” Carlos laughed.
“What will you do with your money?” Juan asked.
“I’ll buy a new Chevy and a real boat. I’m a good mechanic, so I can fix up an old boat and catch lots of fish. And I want a house.”
“Do you think $30,000 is enough for a house?”
“Of course. That’s enough for two houses.”
Juan noticed a white line on the southern horizon and said, “That looks like waves on a reef.”
“There’s no reef to the south.”
They watched the ominous line grow into a wall that rose higher and higher.
“It’s a wave,” Carlos cried. “A giant one. Turn the raft and get ready.”
“How can it be so big?” Juan asked in terror.
“It’s a rogue wave! They appear out of nowhere.”
They desperately turned Yemaya northward and secured the oars. Carlos tied himself with a three-foot line and Juan used a six foot line.
“What are we going to do?” Juan asked.
“We’ll ride it like a surfboard.”
“I don’t know how to surf.”
“Just hang on.”
Juan heard it now, an angry roar, growing louder and louder like a waterfall. The enormous wave raced impossibly fast toward them.
Yemaya rose on the front of the swell, climbing high toward the towering crest as it began to break. Juan screamed in terror as the stern rose to vertical near the top of crashing doom. The raft paused, and slowly flipped over, catapulting the men backward. Juan's body jerked to a viscous stop at the end of his rope as he plunged through the air alongside Carlos, the raft, and Cachita’s tube. They tumbled down the face of the enormous wave and crashed into thunderous oblivion. Carlos' short rope kept him under the raft when it hit, crushing his body limp like a rag. Juan's longer line allowed him to fall away from the raft. He tucked into a ball and landed on his back in a stunning blow. Thunderous whirlpools of foam smothered and pounded him. He spun underwater until his face crashed into the raft. When he shrieked in pain, saltwater poured into his lungs. The raft tumbled underwater, dragging Juan helplessly by the rope around his waist until the wave passed.
Yemaya and Cachita popped to the surface like a cork, pulling Juan to life-saving air. He gasped and floundered as water spewing from his lungs and blood poured from his nose. Where was Carlos? He dove and frantically swam in angry water under the raft to find Carlos struggling with his short rope; his eyes wide open in terror. Carlos stretched his hand out for help. Juan grabbed it and pulled, but the short rope held him tight. Bubbles escaped from Carlos' mouth. His hand slowly relaxed. His eyes closed. Juan screamed underwater in anguish. He pushed away from the raft and popped up, spewing water and screaming in distress. That’s when he heard another roar like a freight train. A second wave rose high, building from stripes of foam into a glittering wall.
He coughed up more water, took a deep breath, and pushed himself away from Yemaya as she rose toward the breaking peak and plunged down the boiling face. Peals of thunder crashed on him. He tumbled helplessly until the raft pulled him back to the surface. Yemaya’s broken sail now pointed skyward. Carlos’ lifeless body lay on the deck. Juan rolled over to his back, floating in defeat. He watched a third wave rise from the trough. No, not again. He held onto the raft as the swell rose high, but it didn’t break. In a second, he and Yemaya and Cachita glided quietly down the backside of the gentle wave. The three rogue waves raced northward on a quest to pummel other hapless boats.
Juan floated in the water, gasping for air, totally spent. He felt his mouth. A tooth was gone. He touched his nose and jerked back in pain; his hand covered with blood. Broken again. He reached down and probed his tender leg wound and winced. His hand came back with more blood on it. Sharks could be anywhere. With the last of his strength, he grabbed the handhold on the back of the raft and pulled himself aboard, where he collapsed beside Carlos’ battered body and passed out.
Chapter 20
Juan awoke face down. His eyes were out of focus. Where was he? A bird chirped in front of him. He laid on a wooden floor that gently rocked and his brown back sweated under a late afternoon sun. Every muscle in his body ached, especially his stomach where the line had towed him through the manic sea. He blinked until his eyes focused on a small bird singing to him while it balanced on the safety line above the deck. The same warbler from yesterday. Singing ‘wake up, wake up.’ Memories floated through his foggy brain. A raft. Yemaya. Leaving Cuba. Cachita in the tube. Storms. Waves. Giant waves!
He raised his head and pushed his body up. Agonizing pain in his hands. He fell back to the deck and curled up in a ball. His eyes jerked wide open at the sight of Carlos lying on his back, dead eyes staring into the sun. His neck and legs tangled in a line at grotesque angles.
“Carlos. Carlos,” he sobbed until he passed out again.
***
“Wake up. Wake up,” the bird sang.
Juan stirred and opened his eyes. He jolted again at the sight of Carlos’ grotesque body. His tortured hands pushed him up in agony. He turned his head away from Carlos to look at the little bird that twisted its head sideways as if to say, ‘Why did you sleep so long?’
“Why is this happening to me?” he moaned to the bird.
“Tweet.” The bird flew to the tube and stopped, looking at the suitcase. “Tweet.”
“Is Cachita mad at me?”
“Chirp.”
“She can’t be.”
“Tweet, tweet.”
“Oh Cachita, I’m so sorry.” Juan lowered his head and sobbed, but had no water left for tears.
“Just wait a little longer,” he pleaded. “You’ll like your new home in Miami where many Cubans will love you.”
He looked at Carlos, who had struggled so hard to leave Cuba for independence. He gently untied the rope from the mast, trying not to touch Carlos as he unwound it from contorted limbs. When the last bit of rope slipped free, Juan quickly turned away. He didn’t notice when one foot dropped over the safety line and splashed into the water.
“I should have died, not you. If I had grabbed the short rope, you would be alive, and I would be dead.” He thought for a moment and looked down at Carlos. “At least you died free. I’ll take you to Miami and you’ll be buried in a grave of freedom.”
Juan looked around his battered raft. The food and water had washed away. A broken mast, one oar, and Carlos’ suitcase were all that remained on board. That Yemaya still floated in one piece showed Carlo’s skill in building her with ropes, barrels, and lumber. Through gaps in the deck, he saw the center tube was deflated. The raft tilted to one corner due to a leaking barrel. His tattered shirt hung onto him by a thread. He lifted shredded and swollen hands to touch his severely broken and swollen nose, moaning at the familiar pain. His mouth hurt where the tooth was missing. Behind the raft, Cachita’s tube still followed. Juan rolled to his side, pulled his knees to his chest, his back to Carlos, and waited for whatever would happen next.
The sunset left him in blackness again. He had never been so completely alone. Just Cachita and him on an empty ocean.
“Tweet.”
“Yes, I still have you little bird. We’ll go to Florida together.”
Juan crawled away from Carlos' body and lay over the edge of the raft. He dropped raw hands into the saltwater. The fingers gradually loosened up. No need to keep watch tonight. He had no sail, no oars, no light. He tied the line to Cachita’s tube and lay down to fall into deep slumber.
Chapter 21
A bump against a barrel awoke Juan later in the night. Stars surrounded a sliver of moon that shone light onto a sea of diamonds rippling in the breeze. Yemaya rocked in gentle waves. He looked around and noticed light on the horizon, like after the sun had set. He jumped up and looked harder. Yes. Lights. It had to be Miami. He must be almost there. Excitement swelled up in his heart, giving him hope.
“Cachita, do you see that? We’ll be there tomorrow. A new home and freedom.”
Bump. Bump again, harder.
He frantically looked into shadowed water around the raft.
Bump and splash.
Carlos jerked!
I thought he was dead!
Fins rose in the moonlight.
“No!”
He grabbed the oar and swung at the closest shark. The blow landed solid. Splash, and the fish rolled away. Excruciating pain ripped through his battered hands.
Carlos shuddered again. Another shark. Juan screamed and swung at the second shark pulling on Carlos' leg. In the dark, he missed the fish and broke the oar against a barrel. His hands felt like fire, causing him to drop the wooden handle and fall to the deck with hands clenched to his stomach. Carlos still shuddered as the shark whipped his leg back and forth. Juan gritted his teeth, rose to his feet, and picked up the broken handle that now had a speared point. He drew back the oar over his head. Down he stabbed at the beast with all his strength. The point bounced off tough hide and his mutilated hands opened in agony. The oar handle dropped into the sea.
“Nooo!”
One shark still pulled on Carlos’ leg. Another circled the raft. Another smashed into the backside of the raft, knocking Juan to his knees. As Carlos’ body inched off the raft, his other stiff leg slid out over the water. The body lurched and shuddered. Juan staggered to his knees and grabbed one of Carlos’ hands and pulled. He couldn’t let them take Carlos. The stiff bent arm reluctantly straightened. Despite his tortured hands, he pulled harder. The shark pulled back. Its head thrashed, flinging water and shreds of meat onto the raft. Back and forth they tugged. Juan's feet slipped on the wet deck. Down he crashed. A second shark rose from black water and grabbed Carlos' other leg. Bone crunched. The body jerked under the safety line, close to the raft's edge. On his knees, Juan yanked back. He grabbed Carlos other stiff arm and straightened it over the rope in desperate hope that it would hold on. The first shark bit completely through Carlos' leg at the knee and withdrew to swallow. Another shark rose and seized the remains of the leg and thrashed in a wild frenzy. Juan couldn’t fight them both. They pulled and heaved. His weak hands gripped Carlos’ stiff arm. Slipping, slipping. Gone. With a splash, Carlos dropped into darkness.
Juan raised his head to the moon and howled in horror.
“Nooo. Cachita. Why are you doing this to me? Why did you let my hands fail?” He dropped to his knees and wept uncontrollably until he collapsed and passed out.
Chapter 22
“Tweet, tweet.”
Juan's swollen eyes fluttered, then closed against an overhead sun. His nose was swollen shut, and his hands looked like hamburger meat. Thirst raged in his mouth, dry as a desert.
“Chirp.”
“Go away.” Juan turned his head sideways and slowly focused on the little bird on the perimeter rope. “Why are you back?” he mumbled through cracked lips. “I can’t help you.”
The bird flew back and landed on the tube where it continued to sing.
When Juan rolled over to his stomach, every muscle in his body protested in excruciating pain, especially his swollen and cracked hands clinched in fists. He moaned as he used his elbows to push up to his knees. Small waves rocked the boat gently. Two flying fish lay on the deck, a gift from the Mother Ocean during the night.
“Tweet, tweet.” The bird hopped around on the tube, then flew back to the raft’s perimeter line.
“What do you want?” He scanned the ocean and noticed clouds in the west. He blinked several times to clear his eyes and squinted. On the horizon, scattered black objects reached upward, too tall and thin to be boats. Buildings!
“Yes,” he yelled hoarsely. “Cachita, look. We’re almost there.” Mesmerized, he watched a sliver of land float on the water.
“We really made it. Only a few more miles to hot coffee and my family.”
He lay on his stomach and dropped raw hands into cool water while watching mystical buildings rise and fall in synchronization with the waves. His fingers slowly uncurled. He flexed aching muscles and tendons to bring them to life. The bird was no longer with him.
Juan crawled to the back of the raft and pulled the rope to bring in the tube. Three dolphins followed, watching in curiosity. He struggled with sore muscles to lift the tube onto the raft. He untied the suitcase and gently removed Our Lady of Charity del Cobre. He placed the dry, sparkling statue between his legs.
“Cachita, do you see that?” He pointed toward land. “There’s our new home. People will praise you in Miami. Hector and Jose and Carlos didn’t believe you would take care of them. They just wanted you to bring them money. But I always knew you would save me and be thankful for a new place to live.”
He gazed at the horizon, wondering what freedom would be like. He could go wherever he wanted. Say anything without covering his mouth or worrying about block captains. No one would call him a Worm. He would find a good job and all the clean water and food he wanted.
The thought of food awoke his stomach.
“Thank you Cachita for these fish. You are bountiful. I will enjoy them with you.”
Juan crossed himself and reached for a flying fish on the deck, bringing it to his mouth with a smile. He wished he could smell the fish through his shattered nose. He took a bite of flesh, flinched when it touched his broken tooth, and rolled it around his tongue to savor the taste.
“Thank you too, Mother Ocean.”
Juan savored the sweet meat, gradually sucking flesh and liquid from the bones. He finished the first fish and picked up the second one. What a feast. When he threw the carcasses overboard, dolphins rushed out and devoured an easy meal. He looked at Cachita’s dazzling jewels and wondered where her new shrine would be.
“Cachita, I already feel stronger. I am in your hands now.” After securing her in the suitcase, he tied it to the tube. Juan gently pushed the tube back into the water where she would continue to oversee his safety.
***
A light easterly wind rose and pushed the raft toward land and freedom. Dark clouds slowly built where ocean breezes met warm air over Florida. Juan held onto the short piece of remaining mast as waves built. The blue ocean turned aqua. More buildings rose from the water. Excitement grew in his heart; he would soon be in Florida with his parents. Just a little further.
The noise of an engine broke his daydream. A small boat appeared in the south. He dropped flat on the raft. If the Coast Guard rescued them from the raft, he and Cachita would be taken back to Guantanamo Bay. He had to float all the way to shore. The fishing boat with two men aboard turned toward the raft. No. What should he do?
Juan looked in the water around the raft. No shark fins. He slipped overboard and dove underneath, rising between barrels. A pilot fish looked at him scornfully for invading his spot and moved to the other side of the raft. Flashes of golden dolphin receded into deeper water. He painfully held onto a rocking barrel as he desperately waited. The engine sound came closer.
“Hello. Anybody there?”
The boat circled Yemaya twice. Juan hid motionless under the rocking raft; grateful his brown skin matched the color of wood. Voices again. The motor sound gradually faded as the boat left. He swam to the back of the raft where he grabbed a handle with battered hands and excruciatingly pulled himself back onto the deck before sharks showed up. He rolled over on his side and watched the boat disappear.
Chapter 23
The Miami skyline danced on the horizon. Buildings taller than any in Havana mesmerized him. Suddenly, a noise as loud as a gunshot erupted behind the raft. He jumped and yelled, turning toward the sound. A wave of water washed over him.
“What the hell?”
A hole in the water boiled up, larger than any fish would make. Even bigger than his raft. An enormous black shadow passed beneath Yemaya, shaped like a kite with a long, thin tail like a spear as long as the rest of the body. At the base of the tail, a pair of small fins hung downward. Two large, brown fish that looked like sharks trailed behind the creature. The beast swam to the surface with undulating thin wings beating like a bird. The wingtips broke the water surface, slicing the sea gracefully. He recognized the manta ray, at least fifteen feet wide. Another black shadow passed just below the surface. Narrow black-and-white appendages protruded two feet in front of the head and flapped to a rhythm different than the wings. A wide oval mouth gaped at the base of the U. Large eyes watched him from the outer bases of the front flippers.
Another crashing at the other side of the raft drenched him again. He was trapped in the midst of a school of these mysterious denizens. Yet another manta ray propelled itself out of the water, higher than Juan's head, wings spread wide, and paused at the top of its flight, glistening water dripping from its wings. Underneath were lines of gills on a white stomach. It landed flat with a loud eruption of water. He watched in awe as the magnificent creatures lazily swam past him through the water and disappeared. He never knew Mother Ocean had such multitudes of life in her belly.
He lay back down on the deck and watched Miami to the west.
***
Boom. Startled from sleep, he awakened. Lightning crashed across clouds ahead. Waves picked up as a storm moved closer. Maybe it would miss him.
Up and down. Up and down the raft rocked on faster waves. Closer rolled the clouds. Crack! A white bolt raced down a white jagged path from a cloud, close enough for him to see water splash and steam. He hated lightening most of all. Helpless, he lay flat in terror. He wouldn’t even see a bolt coming if a cloud reached out to him with blinding speed. Surely Cachita would not allow that to happen.
He closed his eyes but couldn’t close out the sound of thunder, whistling wind, smashing waves, and rain splattering on the deck. He curled around the short mast and held on as he turned his dry mouth upward to catch water. His stomach felt sick again. Waves crashed against the boat, but not as bad as previous storms. Juan held on and said a Hail Mary.
Gradually the lightning moved away, and the wind lay down. The waves resided to their normal tempo.
Juan relaxed his grip on the mast. His eyes opened to an incredible sight. Miami’s buildings were closer now. A rainbow arched over them, rising from the shore to reveal bright colors across the top of the skyline and falling back to the shore again. Sunshine from above warmed his skin.
A sign! He was going to make it.
Closer Yemaya floated. Then the east wind faded, and waves flattened.
"No," Juan screamed. "Just a little bit closer." The Gulf Stream had carried him within a mile of shore. Normally he could swim that distance, but he had no strength left.
“Please, dear God. Bring back the wind. I swear I’ll never steal anything again. I‘ll go to Mass every day. Just take me a little further.”
Ripples built, then small waves pushed him eastward.
“Nooo.” So close, but so helpless.
Angry waves rose again. He wished Carlos were here to tell him what to do. Sunshine disappeared. He looked over his shoulder to the east. A black cloud now covered the sun. More black clouds raced in from the south, howling with angry winds. Juan lay down again, grabbing the mast with dread. Waves crashed over Yemaya.
Juan looked up in disbelief as a black cloud sent a twisting finger down toward him. The waterspout reached lower, centering directly over the raft. Violent wind rocked Juan. His bloody hands gripped the mast with the last of his energy. One finger slipped. Another. The left hand flew away. The sea whipped into froth and rose to meet the waterspout that enveloped the raft.
His right hand ripped loose. Juan flew away, screaming "Cachita.”
Chapter 24
A bikini clad girl dozed in a secluded area of Miami’s beach. She awoke and pushed on her flesh. Another hour should be about right. She reached for a bottle of water from her ice chest and drank cool liquid. She looked at her friends frolicking in the distance and then decided to take a swim to cool off. When she turned to walk to the sea, she noticed the brown body of a man at the edge of the water. Probably some drunk had passed out again. She carefully approached, wondering if she knew him. She drew near and saw he was battered, curled up in a ball, and bruised with blood spread over his body. He must have been fighting. She poked him with her foot. Again.
Juan groaned and slowly pushed over to his stomach. He opened his eyes and slowly focused on sand.
He heard a voice. “Are you okay?”
Juan rolled over to his back and looked up at a beautiful white girl. An angel. No, she was in a bikini. He was in Miami!
He laughed through parched lips and said, “Thank you Cachita.”
Chapter 25
One September morning in 1994, Ron Sparks left Port Canaveral on Perseverance, his 36-foot Sport Fisherman, and took a due east bearing into a golden sunrise. Gordon and Annie England and Doug Thompson were today’s crew, all experienced saltwater anglers.
While Doug rigged lures with fresh ballyhoo, Gordon joined Ron at the helm and asked, “What’s the plan?”
“It’s been storming for a couple of days, so it’ll be a little choppy. I heard there’s been a lot of fish caught around those Cuban rafts. After drifting for so long, dolphin, wahoo, and other fish have congregated under those floating islands just like they do with weed lines. We’ll scout the edge of the Gulf Stream and look for rafts. Once we find one, we’ll troll baits around it to see what we pick up.”
“Sounds great. I‘ve seen some of the rafts that floated to shore. It’s unbelievable that people sailed on those raggedy things. Some of them have orange paint. What's with that?"
“The Coast Guard intercepts most of the rafts down around Miami. When they remove Cubans from a raft, they spray it orange so other boaters will recognize a successful rescue. Sometimes they try to sink a raft by shooting it, though most stay afloat. If we see a raft with no paint, then the Coasties missed it."
“Oh,” Gordon replied. “This is going to be interesting.”
Ron continued eastward for an hour until he encountered a north-south rip where water changed from calm green to deep blue. Two-foot waves marked a velocity change from the eddy.
"Here's the Gulf Stream," he announced. "We'll work this edge until we find a raft. Keep your eyes peeled."
He turned southward into the current and zigzagged to cover more area as his crew prepared for action.
A few minutes later Gordon pointed. “There’s a big weed line up ahead.”
"That'll work," Ron responded and steered toward the thick yellow stripe across blue water. "Drop the baits."
He skillfully brought four skirted ballyhoos close to the thick sargassum. His crew waited anxiously as flat-nosed lures created bubbly trails skipping along the water's surface.
A bait close to the weeds exploded when a flashing dolphin attacked from below and leaped in a high, thrashing arch with a lure in its mouth. It crashed into the sea and a rod bent double as line stripped from the reel in an adrenaline pumping scream.
“Fish on,” Gordon yelled.
He grabbed the thick rod and reared back hard to set the hook firmly, causing the angry fish to surge away on a furious run. Annie and Doug rapidly reeled in the other lines to prevent tangles in the ensuing battle. When the dolphin slowed, Gordon skillfully pumped and reeled to lead an angry dolphin close to the boat in short order. Doug swung the gaff, bringing in a thrashing 15-pounder.
High fives and whoops followed in a brief celebration cut short by Ron yelling, “I see a raft.”
Eyes turned toward a small object bobbing in the distance. The crew re-rigged the lure, prepared rods, and wondered what the raft looked like.
As they approached, Gordon asked Doug, “What in the world is that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a wooden frame, but I don’t know what it’s floating on.”
Ron steered close to the bizarre excuse for a boat as the crew stared in disbelief. Five twelve-inch aluminum pipes, 20-feet long, lay stacked on another row of five twelve-inch pipes tied in place with multiple ropes. The pipe's ends were squeezed shut as though a giant pair of pliers had sealed them airtight. The bottom row of pipes was submerged. On top of the pipes lay on a plywood platform lashed to a wooden framework of two-inch sticks that also held several strips of thin cloth serving as sun protection. The platform floated only a foot above the water. On the back of the raft, a large, deflated inner tube hung partway into the water. With no rudder or sail, the eerie raft of doom floated sideways to waves that swept over it.
Annie asked Gordon, "How did it keep from capsizing in storms?"
“Maybe it was too heavy.”
“How many Cubans do you think were on it?”
“Couldn’t have been more than five or six.”
Ron circled to the other side where orange paint glowed on the silver pipes.
The crew sighed in relief, realizing the Coast Guard had rescued balseros from this raft.
“I’m glad they made it,” Ron said. “I see baitfish under the raft. May we’ll find bigger ones below.”
He drove away in a large circle, giving his crew time to position baits. Gordon and Doug donned fish belts in preparation for an exciting battle. Two fish rose from underneath and attacked the lures passing the raft, outrigger lines snapped and line screamed from the reels.
"Fish on," Doug yelled as he grabbed a rod. Chaos ensued.
A twenty-five-pound dolphin skyrocketed from the sea and tail-walked across the other lines as its head thrashed violently to disgorge the wicked hook embedded in its mouth. Gordon picked up the other throbbing rod and reared back. His fish took of on a ferocious run, slamming Gordon hard against the transom as line streamed from his reel. He staggered to regain his balance and braced his knees against transom cushions. Ron put the boat in neutral and descended to the cockpit to help Annie bring in the remaining lines. Doug's fish swam in a large circle around the boat. Typically, Ron steered away from a dolphin's circle; but such a move today with Gordon's fish still running straight away would probably lose at least one of the prized fish. Doug followed his dolphin to the bow as it jumped furiously and then sounded. A few minutes later, it skyrocketed in another aerial display of thrashing gold acrobatics of fear before it splashed back into the sea. Yells and cheers erupted from the astounded crew.
Back at the stern, Gordon’s fish finally stopped its long run. He tightened the drag and started a brutal tug of war measured in inches.
Gordon felt a rhythmic pulsation in the line and declared, "It's a wahoo. A good size one too."
“Let it stay deep until we get Doug’s fish in,” Ron commanded.
Doug gradually horsed the dolphin to Ron's gaff. Into the boat it came.
Gordon resumed his fight with the wahoo.
When it rose close enough, Ron announced, “I see color.”
The fish torpedoed out on another furious run. Minutes later, the wahoo joined the dolphin in the fish box.
Ron resumed the search for another raft. He patrolled the edge of the Gulf Stream several more hours, catching more dolphins along weed lines. They were about ready to call it a day when Doug spotted another raft. As Ron cruised toward another mystery, the crew watched with curiosity. He stopped Perseverance next to the raft so the lures would drop deep. Gordon looked silently at the empty raft made of barrels and wood. A broken mast stood in the center. One of the barrels was full of water, dropping the deck to one corner. A waterlogged suitcase lay on the high corner.
Ron circled and said, “No orange paint on this one.”
“Get closer, Ron,” Doug said. “I want to see what’s in the suitcase.”
“No way. That’s a dead man’s raft. Whatever’s in there is haunted by bad mojo.”
“Come on. There’s probably good souvenirs in the suitcase.”
Ron responded by gunning the boat and steered in a circle. As the lures rose, a rod bent nearly to the water and the reel sang.
“Your turn, Annie,” Gordon said.
She picked up the rod and struggled to turn the handle. Ron stopped the boat so she could more easily wind in the line.
"This is a weird fish," Doug said. "It's not running or fighting."
Annie pumped and reeled, slowly gaining line.
“It just feels like a rock,” she said.
“The raft’s getting closer,” Ron called out. “I think you hooked something underneath it.”
Sure enough, the more line Annie brought in, the closer the raft drifted to the boat.
When the raft was next to Perseverance, Doug announced, “Here it comes,” and swung the gaff. He lifted a deflated inner tube out of the water.
Gordon pointed. "Let's see what's on that rope," He pulled on a rope tied to the tube and lifted a large, battered suitcase to the surface.
“I wonder what’s in it?” Annie asked.
Gordon pulled on the rope tied to the handle but couldn’t lift it.
“Doug, help me. It’s full of water.”
Together they strained to lift the suitcase higher. It was almost to the transom as water poured out of holes when the handle broke. Splash. It slowly sank into the depths.
“Too bad we couldn’t save it,” said Doug. “There was probably cool stuff in it.”
"I didn't want haunted Cuban junk on my boat," said Ron. "That's enough for today. Let's pack ‘em up and go home."
Epilogue
Maria walked along Cojimar beach, as she did every morning since her brothers left. Ten days had passed with no word from them. If they had reached Florida, surely, they would have contacted her by now. She hoped they were in Guantanamo and would eventually be taken to Miami. She picked up pebbles and threw them into the water where seagulls swirled, feeding on fish. If she could just fly away like a bird and never come back to Cuba.
She looked down the beach where a glittering object bobbed near the shore. She walked toward it, wondering what Mother Ocean had washed in.
She entered the water and saw Cachita, completely dry, floating on a piece of wood.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Cachita had come home again. She fell to her knees, turned her tear-stained face to heaven, and cried out in despair. She crossed herself and trembled, praying for her brothers.
References
Our Lady of Charity, also known as Our Lady of El Cobre or Nuestra Senora de la Virgen de la Caridad, is a popular Marian title of the Blessed Virgin Mary known in many Catholic countries. Several known Marian images with the same title exist around the world while a particular Hispanic image is pontifically designated by Pope Benedict XV as the Patroness of Cuba. The present image is enshrined in National Shrine Basilica of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre was built in 1926 is situated in village El Cobre, near Santiago de Cuba. Pope Pius XI granted a Canonical Coronation towards the image on 20 December 1936. The feast day of Our Lady of Charity is September 8; the solemn Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Various similar Marian images predating the Cuban image bear a similar title with their respective canonical coronation are found in the Spanish cities of Cartagena, Villarrobledo, Illescas, Loja, La Garrovilla, and Toledo, Spain along with its replicated copies in Basilica Minore of Our Lady of Charity in Agoo, and Ilocos Sur, Philippines.
History
The history of the La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre began around 1612. The image is thought to have been brought by Spaniard colonists from the town of Illescas, a province in Toledo, Spain where a similar posture of the Virgin Mary of Charity is already well venerated. Local legend recalls the Spanish captains who bring with them religious Marian images to guide and protect them from English pirates at sea. Two Native American or Indian brothers, Rodrigo and Juan de Hoyos, and an African slave child, Juan Moreno, set out to the Bay of Nipe for salt. They are traditionally given the moniker the "three Juans". They needed the salt for the preservation the meat at the Barajagua slaughterhouse, which supplied the workers and inhabitants of Santiago del Prado, now known as El Cobre. While out in the bay, a storm arose, rocking their tiny boat violently with ongoing waves. Juan, the slave, was wearing a medal with the image of the Virgin Mary. The three men began to pray for her protection. Suddenly, the skies cleared, and the storm was gone. In the distance, they saw a strange object floating in the water. They rowed towards it as the waves brought it towards them. At first they mistook it for a bird, but quickly saw that it was what seemed to be a statue of a girl. At last they were able to determine that it was a statue of the Virgin Mary holding the child Jesus on her left arm and holding a gold cross in her right hand. The statue was fastened to a board with an inscription saying "Yo Soy la Virgen de la Caridad" or "I am the Virgin of Charity." Much to their surprise, the statue remained completely dry while afloat in the water.
Preserved in the General Archive of the Indies of Seville, a written testimony of Juan Moreno recalls the following:
"Having camped in the French Key, which is in the middle of the Bay of Nipe, waiting for a good time to leave for the Wabba mines, being a morning of calm seas, they left the French Keys, before daybreak. The aforementioned Juan y Rodrigo de Hoyos and myself, embarked in a canoe, headed for the Wabba mines, and far from the French Key we saw something white above the foam of the water, which we couldn’t distinguish. As we got closer, birds and dry branches appeared. The aforementioned Indians said, 'It looks like a girl.' While they were discussing, they saw an image of Our Lady, the Holy Virgin, on top of a small wooden plank, holding the baby Jesus in her arms. On this small tablet, was written in large letters, which read, 'I am the Virgin of Charity.' Looking at her clothes, they realized that they were not wet."
Overjoyed by what they had discovered, they hurried back to Barajagua. They showed the statue to a government official, Don Francisco Sánchez de Moya, who then ordered a small chapel to be built in her honor. One night, Rodrigo went to visit they statue, but discovered that the image was gone. He organized a search party, but had no success in finding Our Lady of Charity. Then, the next morning, she was back on the altar, as if nothing had happened. This was inconceivable, as the chapel had been locked. This event happened three times. The people of Barajagua came to the conclusion that she wanted to be in a different spot, so they took her to El Cobre. She was received with much joy in El Cobre, and the church there had its bells ring on her arrival. It was at this point that she became known as "Nuestra Señora de la Caridad del Cobre" or "Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre." Much to the dismay of people in El Cobre, the disappearance of the statue continued to happen. One day, a young girl named Jabba was playing outside, pursuing butterflies, and picking flowers. She went towards the mountains of the Sierra Maestra, where she came across the statue on top of a small hill. There were those who did and those who did not believe the little girl's testimony, but in the end, the Virgin was taken to the spot of her discovery, where a church was erected for her.
Before the famous image on 19 May 1801, a royal edict from king Charles IV of Spain decreed that Cuban slaves were to be freed from the copper mines of El Cobre. The story circulated around the island quickly. Many felt that the Virgin purposely chose to have her sanctuary in El Cobre because it is located in Oriente Province. Later folk legends associated the taking of copper materials to their homes after having it blessed near the Virgin's sanctified image as a form of souvenir and miraculous healing.
The Cuban statue venerated measures about 16 inches tall; the head is made of baked clay covered with a polished coat of fine white powder. Her feet rest on a brilliant moon, while angels spread their golden wings on a silver cloud. The child Jesus raises his right hand as in a blessing, and in his left hand he holds a golden globe. A popular image of Our Lady of Charity includes a banner above her head with the Latin phrase “Mater Caritatis Fluctibus Maris Ambulavit” (Mother of Charity who walked on the road of stormy seas). Among Cuban religious devotees, the image is given the reverential title of La Cachita or La Virgen Mambisa.
Pontifical Recognitions
Cuban revolutionary leader Carlos Manuel de Céspedes presented the Cuban banner to the image along with his soldiers who wore a similar medal while Cuban general Calixto Garcia bowed at the image during a Holy Mass in honor of Mambises resistance. On 24 September 1915 the Cuban revolutionaries wrote a letter petitioning the Pope Benedict XV to honor her as Patroness of their country.
• Pope Benedict XV declared the image and Marian title as Patroness of Cuba on 10 May 1916 at the written request of the soldier veterans of the Cuban War of Independence.
• Pope Pius XI granted a Canonical Coronation towards the image for the first time during the Eucharistic Congress at Santiago de Cuba on 20 December 1936 by Monsignor Valentin Zubizarreta y Unamunsaga.
• Pope Paul VI, in his Papal bull Quanto Christifideles then raised her sanctuary to the category of Minor Basilica in 22 December 1977 through the appointed Papal legate Cardinal Bernardin Gantin
• Pope John Paul II solemnly crowned her again during his apostolic visit in 24 January 1998.
• Pope Benedict XVI awarded a Golden Rose in honor of the image and her shrine on 27 March 2012.
• Pope Francis enshrined a brass statue given to Pope Benedict XVI by Cuban bishops (in May 2008) within the Gardens of Vatican City on August 2014.
Veneration
A chapel of Our Lady of Charity exists within the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C.
In 1954, American author Ernest Hemingway donated his Nobel Prize in Literature medal for The Old Man and the Sea in thanksgiving to the image of the Virgin Mary at the shrine of Caridad del Cobre in Cuba. The medal was stolen in 1986, but was recovered days later upon the threat of Raul Castro, after which it was hidden from view. The medal is very rarely present in the image and only worn during solemn and Papal occasions.
From: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Charity
September 8: Ochún's Feast Day in Cuba
Ochun is syncretized with la Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, who is the Patroness of Cuba. On September 8, Cubans show their devotion to Ochún by dressing in yellow, putting sunflowers and special treats like honey and pumpkins on her altar, lighting candles and, if possible, holding a tambor (drumming ceremony) or violín (classical music played by a solo violin or a small string orchestra) in her honor. One reason Ochun and La Caridad del Cobre were syncretized in Cuba is that both are traditionally represented as women of mixed race, thereby thought to symbolize the Cuban people.
The History of La Virgen de la Caridad de Cobre At the beginning of the 16th century, Spanish missionaries went to Cuba to evangelize the indigenous people and convert them to Catholicism. Cuba had very little gold and silver compared to places like Mexico and Peru, but it was nonetheless a valuable colony of Spain because of its strategic location as a stopping off point for vessels sailing between Spain and the new world. Cuba also had rich fertile land that lent itself to cattle grazing and agriculture. These were lucrative businesses because they supplied the sailors with food for the long ocean voyage.
In the eastern part of the island, the Nipe Bay was an important source of salt used in the curing of meat. Around the year 1612, three boys were there gathering salt, and the Virgin appeared to them in a vision. By tradition, they're called the "Three Johns" (los tres Juanes), although records show one of them was actually named Rodrigo. Two were brothers (Juan and Rodrigo de Hoyos) of indigenous descent, and one (Juan Moreno) was Afro-Cuban. They were probably about 10 years old at the time. As an old man, Juan Moreno gave an account of what happened. According to him, they were in a small boat and they saw something white appear over the top of the waves. As they got closer to it, they saw it was the figure of the Virgin Mary, carrying the Baby Jesus in her arms. They noticed that her clothes weren't wet, and she was standing on a wooden plaque that said "I am the Virgin of Charity." The boys went back to the shore and reported what they saw to the overseer of the copper mines in that area. Upon investigation, they discovered that the boys had seen a statue of the Virgin; the administrator of the mines asked that a shrine be built in her honor, and she was installed there. But, according to the story, the statue of the Virgin kept disappearing and reappearing at that site, even though the doors were locked.
The people living nearby decided that the Virgin wanted to be moved to another spot, so they put her in the Templo Parroquial del Cobre near Santiago de Cuba. From that time forward, she became known as La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. But, she wasn't happy there, either. She kept disappearing and appearing, so the people decided she wanted to be in the Sierra Maestra
mountains. This coincided with another vision of the Virgin, which took place on the mountainside near the copper mines. A young girl named Apolonia claimed she saw the Virgin there while she was picking flowers.
Although not everyone believed the girl, they decided it would be best to move the Virgin's statue there. This became her final resting place, where her shrine is found today, although over time, the shrine has been expanded to accommodate more people. She was moved to the larger sanctuary on September 8, 1927. About ten years earlier, veterans of the Cuban war of independence had asked the Pope to name the Virgin of Caridad del Cobre as the Patroness of Cuba. He signed the documents in 1916, and September 8 was recognized as her official feast day. In 1977 her sanctuary was elevated to the rank of Basilica by Pope Paul VI.
La Caridad del Cobre: Patroness of Cuba
History and legend have mixed together in the story of the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre. For example, some people say that the Tres Juanes were fishermen, and the Virgin appeared to save them from a terrible storm at sea. According to official records, the statue of the Virgin of Charity was carved in Toledo, Spain, at the orders of a captain who wanted to create a shrine where his soldiers could pray for the Virgin’s protection against English pirate attacks on the coast of Cuba. Some people say the ship carrying the statue was wrecked on a coral reef in the Caribbean and the statue floated to Cuba. They claim that several times the church officials tried to return the statue to Spain, but each time something unexpected happened and the statue returned to Cuba. They took this as a sign that she wanted to stay in Cuba, which explains why the Cubans feel a special attachment to her. Cubans refer to her lovingly as “Cachita.” When Ernest Hemingway won the Nobel Prize for literature, he gave the metal to her to show his love for Cuba.
From: https://www.aboutsanteria.com/la-virgen-de-la-caridad-de-cobre.html
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