CUBA LIBRE REDUX  -  Eating (with) Raoul

          If you are not a film buff you will no doubt miss the irony of my title for this post.  I will get back to that in a moment but first… a reminder to all of you warm weather wusses on the West Coast…. There is life in Cold Country. 

OK, I admit that as time slips away, it is the first snowfall that captivates… the subsequent 25 snow falls…. not so much.  We will be heading south before Christmas to move AURORA further East and South during the heart of the Wisconsin winter.  It seems impossible that it will have been a year in January since the Cuba trip and I may have the most delayed travel reports every recorded.  Somehow it feels like yesterday but here is Roger’s Rant for today.  Take a close look at the photo below:

We are sitting a mere 300 yards from TALARIA

The view looks towards our slip about 300 yards distant across this small lagoon.  A warm January evening a little west of Havana and a delightful dinner at a local “paladar” is a small leak in the dike that is the Cuban Control Complex. Several years ago, due to hard economic times, the Cuban government finally allowed folks to open private restaurants operating out of their homes.  Called “paladars,” they are humble but pleasant places where one can actually converse with locals while enjoying well prepared but basic fare served mostly in their living rooms.  Of course the government does take 50% of their gross but regardless, a privately owned business is a rare occurrence in Cuba.

Not everything available every night, but prices are delicious!

We could have dinghy-ed to this lovely location in about 5 minutes from across the bay but Cuban rules prohibit us from putting our dinghy in the water while we are in the marina and had to keep it locked up.  Fearing a stolen inflatable and a wild attempt to cross the stream to Florida by a Cuban National, there are no dinghy rides allowed to explore the inner harbor or river by us boating visitors as of this writing.  Instead, we took a taxi for about four miles to get to the Laurel paladar restaurant that we could almost see from our cockpit on TALARIA.  Greeted by Jose and his wife (no Raoul to my knowledge) we were given the choice of eating inside their house or out on what appeared to be a public patio.  We chose the view of course.  During dinner, it started to rain and the entire family ran out on the patio to bring us back inside while profusely apologizing for the weather.  It was of little consequence as the food was wonderful (reminder to self... order fresh seafood next time, not the fried beefsteak.  It was my only "buyer's remorse" moment during all of our Havana stay) and besides, we were enjoying ourselves immensely.  The rain however was insistent on intruding and several leaks in the roof forced a few chair moves inciting peals of laughter when a new series of drops hit me on the head regardless of where I moved my chair so I simply put on my baseball cap.  A couple of hours later, (dinners are slow moving affairs when one is have a good time) we paid the amazingly low bill and added a generous tip because we were the only patrons that whole evening.  Unfortunately, we could not get a taxi to come pick us up and return us to the boat.  The still driving downpour had all the taxis calling it a day far earlier and not willing to come out to the “suburbs” for a short distance fare.  Walking four miles during a heavy rainstorm was looking like a horrible end to a spectacular day.  That was when the family put their heads together (none had access to a car that evening) and called several uncles and cousins until they found an uncle who would drive over, pick us up and take us back to the boat.  

Arriving in a tiny Trabant, (an East German disaster of a car often referred to as the worst car ever sold anywhere in the entire world) Mike, Mel and Kris sardine-d into the back seat and I squeezed into the front seat with my knees about 3 inches from my chin. No window handle to roll up the window next to me and no windshield wiper on my side of the car (why should there be, after all, I was not driving!) did not prevent me from squinting ahead nervously while the engine died twice on the highway and then started up again before actually stopping.  “Uncle” kept up a rapid-fire conversation with himself because I could understand nothing with the loud muffler-less engine, the constant rattle of loose metal parts from God knows where, and the hard rain on the thin tin roof of the car drowning out the few words I did know.  We arrived safely, however exciting the ride may have seemed, made sure Uncle was well paid (probably enough to buy another decrepit Trabant) and then ran in the rain to the boat only 30 yards away.  Yes we got wet but the experience and my opportunity to rant about it was worth every raindrop that splattered on my smiling and laughing face.  By the way, for those of you unfamiliar with the Eating Raoul classic film, Raoul WAS the main course.     

CUBA LIBRE REDUX  -  Traditions

    What is this thing we call “Tradition?”  Is it an event that repeats itself out of simple inertia?  Or out of desire to re-capture what is often, a mis-remembered past?  Is it an attempt to improve on those past events?  Or is it merely a ploy to avoid the energy necessary to re-imagine the future?  I have not a clue.  I never gave it much thought until I met my good friend, Chuck, many, many years ago.  Every now and again you meet someone with whom the simpatico is instantaneous. So it was with Chuck and me.  Over the years and hundreds of passionate dinner arguments/discussions, It became clear to me he is overly enamored of the concept of ‘tradition.’  He has instituted (with my enthusiastic concurrence) a long series of traditions within our friendship.  Each and every time we have both agreed that this is definitely “the one.”  Of course, all have fallen by the wayside after a few years due to what I view as the societal mores thrust upon us by the era in which we live. We acknowledge our responsibilities to others and as a result, at certain times, life just gets in the way of living and another tradition goes by the boards. I am not now nor have I ever been the originator of any of our shared traditions in spite of offering (much) unnecessary advice and consult regarding their initiation.  Yet, I have always enjoyed experiencing these forays into establishing stability in an unstable environment. Unfortunately, their individual demise has often played heavily on Chuck.  I see it in his eyes, I hear it in his tone and I feel guilty... guilty for not having done more to preserve them and guilty for not sharing his deep sense of remorse at their lapse.  Chuck, this one is for you. 

.
   Yes, it was a shock to me to find myself desperate to continue that ancient 1961 “tradition.”  I had not even remembered it until I heard the Hotel National mentioned by Kris and Mel while discussing must-see locations. It was a great couple of hours. Continuing the tradition, multiple daiquiris were once again involved, at least I am pretty sure there were multiples!   Do I want to do it again?  Absolutely!  Will the tradition continue?  The outlook is not bright as I run down the long life-list of places I have NOT yet visited and the upward trend of my age demographics.  I started this one in my youth nearly 60 years ago and now it is most likely... dunzo. There is a small, dark and empty space where that new memory should be stored.  I think it will remain dark and empty.  So now I know precisely how my friend Chuck feels in those moments of disappointment.  And I don’t like it much either.  Karma, Baby, Karma.

CUBA LIBRE REDUX  -  A Day of the Dead

So if you had told me a highlight of Havana would be a graveyard, I probably would have laughed.  After this day I would be forced to choke on that laugh.  Of course I have seen the New Orleans “topside” monuments, but they are a mere pittance compared to the Necropolis De Colon.  The 135 acres and 53,000 plots situated in the heart of Havana, contain an incredible testament to the hubris of those seeking a legacy.  Perhaps the reason is that within these 135 acres are the only plots of land on the entire island that can be owned by an individual.  Every other square inch of Cuba is owned by the Cuban government and merely leased to individuals, companies, or organizations.  Also, there are very few venues in the world that display more marble than the British Museum but this may be one of them.

Monumental Hubris

We were smart (lucky!) to engage a Barack Obama “doppelganger” to give us an informative and fascinating tour of this surreal neighborhood.  His services came free of charge thanks to the Cuban government, but it was his candor that captivated us.  The man was a true chameleon, riding the wave of history as Cuba’s fortunes rose and fell with the vagaries of the Revolution.  When Fidel took over our guide left his University teaching job, traveled to Moscow to learn the language and returning home, worked as liaison with the Russian Embassy.  Realizing nothing lasts forever, he taught himself German, French and Spain Spanish along with several Slavic languages rounding it all out with his excellent English. A forward looking polyglot preparing for the increasing tourist hoards from Europe by simply going with the flow.  He spends two days a week escorting tourists through this cemetery giving him the opportunity to use his language skills while staying current on foreign news otherwise unobtainable in this closed island society. I have no doubt he is required to make copious reports on his “tourist charges,” in particular us Americans who remain quite rare in Cuba but I believe the conversational exchanges we had were mutually enlightening.    

"Barack" with Kristine at the Dead End

Every Plot, a Story and Every Story, a Plot

Entrance to Where Exactly?

It May Preserve Fruit But Also Encourages Mold

One of Many Stained Glass Portals

Is 'Angelic Guard' an Oxymoron?

Some Guards are Less Traditional

Gated Community

Chained Melody

Radiating Elegance

No Longer Running Rum.... Sleeping It Off?

The Baccardi Rum family plot contains about 40 members interred prior to the exodus caused by the Revolution.  How?  Most memorials have four to six 'resting places' so the newest residents get top billing.  With a consistent flow of those dying to get in (sorry, couldn't resist) older residents are consigned to the next lower level.  Think of it as a high rise building in reverse where your oldest relatives will always live in the basement beneath you except they will most likely not complain about the noise.     

Lower Apartment Takes on New Meaning Here

No Low Income Housing Here Either

And One Very Un - Traditional 

Is There a Rule Against Enjoying a Graveyard?

First and Only Living Resident

We had one more out-of-the-ordinary encounter during this most unusual cemetery excursion.  As we were walking towards the exit, a  cherry 1957 Chevy Bel Air taxi painted a most unusual shade of purple pulled up a bit in front of us.  As we walked by, the rear door opened and a heavy-coated figure (odd since the temps were upper 80's) stepped out of the back seat. As the figure removed dark sunglasses, Mike did a double take and said to the three of us... "It's Ozzie Osborne."  He said it a bit too loud because the figure immediately glanced at us and rapidly retrieved his dark glasses and pulled the heavy coat over his head.  We had not intended to take any photos but Ozzie (there was no mistaking him)  wasn't taking chances that here in a 150 acre graveyard in the center of Havana, Cuba on a sunny weekday afternoon, the paparazzi had tracked him down!  To this day, the four of us are unnaturally curious as to why he was there.  However, I can report that Ozzie looked older than the tree pictured above.

P.S.  We forced a generous tip on our "Barack" for his wonderful story telling.  If you go, look for him!  

CUBA LIBRE REDUX -  Again

Same old, same old.

After 23 days of non-stop Middle Kingdom touring, I am back in my over-the-garage writer’s garret. Furthermore, I have finally caught up on sleep and now realize that 12 time zones and 25 hour travel days are no longer my cup of tea.  I remember a time (dimly) when taking 12-18 hour flights twice a week were commonplace and seemed a walk in the park.  Apparently that is no longer the case.  Old age really does suck. AURORA still lies moored at Turner Marine in Mobile AL awaiting my return within a month or so but thanks to Roger at Turner for keeping a sharp eye on the old girl while summer heat, humidity and rain have tormented her.  I feel a sense of betrayal leaving her alone for the past months but only slightly since I do not do well in high heat and humidity… another unwelcome development in my dotage.  However, I feel refreshed, revitalized and will continue my Cuba Libre Redux rantings before inundating you with similar observations re: the PRC’s Middle Kingdom exploits.  Our world, it is a-changing…. Thank you, for that line Mr. Most Recent Literary Nobel Winner.  If you are looking for a sanely reasoned travel blog, I have one more Dylan quote for you… “No, no, no..It ain’t me, Babe. It ain't me you're lookin' for...”  So, it is back to Havana for a bit.

CUBA LIBRE REDUX  - Hiatus?

I spent the last week packing, sorting and planning.  I am off to China for three weeks starting tomorrow as a reward for completing my 9 weeks of cancer treatments and getting the thumbs up from all of my docs.  I look at this Cuba stories hiatus as only a temporary delay while I cook up a few new stories from the Forbidden City and the Panda Preserve, and the Three Gorges Dam and the Terra Cotta Army and even from Tibet.  Unsure of my internet availability since most Google apps are banned in China, but hang in there, I WILL bring back stories, regardless and relay them to you if you are interested.

Cooking Up New Stories From China to Follow CUBA LIBRE REDUX Series  

  I'll miss you and look forward to re-connecting with all of you in early October when I return to the good ol' US of A.  Stay safe and try to not choke on all the political pap while I am off cuddling a Panda cub.  Eat your heart out!  

CUBA LIBRE REDUX - Bad Decisions

Lots of Room to Congregate Under Watchful Windows 

Arguably the three most important buildings in Cuba are the primary government offices anchoring the Havana square in which a hundred thousand Cubans cheered Fidel after the Revolution. To this day it remains hallowed ground for his speeches and official celebrations.  

Ubiquitous Sprouting Antennae, Revolutionary Faces

Government buildings in Cuba are readily identifiable by the myriad of antennae sprouting from the roof tops and it is no different in this complex.  Opposite the eight-story metal outlines of Fidel, Che and Camilo Cienfuegos is the dominating marble memorial to Jose Marti, slightly less propagandized. 

Marble, Marble, Marble Everywhere

We have been encouraged by locals to visit a renowned attraction a mile or two from the Marti Memorial…  a cemetery.  One hundred and forty acres and 53,000 plots for dead people seems to me a waste of our precious time in this vibrantly alive city but I am overruled and so we begin the two mile trek along a route I have selected from our city maps to the Necropolis Cristobal Colon.

Over the years I have developed a second sense about personal safety issues when walking in foreign cities.  I love to experience a city from ground level but have been reminded every now and again that human nature is human nature whether you are walking down a busy boulevard on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Barcelona mere steps from Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia when someone attempts to steal your shoulder purse, (Kristine) or sashaying absent-mindedly past a Mosque with a camera hanging from one’s neck in Riyadh while a hostile crowd of bearded men glowers at your obvious infidel-ness.  (Me)  So I am observant when I am on unfamiliar walking tours, taking note of economic conditions, the physical condition of my surroundings and of course, people gatherings that could signal my being in the wrong pew at the wrong time.  Our long trek towards the cemetery takes us longer than planned due to another one of those bad decisions for which I have a knack, having honed the art of bad decision-making during the many years of my foreign travels.  

Our path takes us through an obviously poor neighborhood and my senses are alerted as we approach a group of six or seven men including one quite ancient gentleman with a wheelbarrow standing idly on the sidewalk blocking our way.  Preparing to usher my three companions to the other side of the street we are suddenly greeted by “Hola’s,” broken English and big smiles.  It is apparent to both them and us that we are not on a regular tourist path when they ask us where we are going and if we are lost. (We are not because my map reading is not altogether incompetent but maps do not relate economic conditions)  When we describe our destination the old man with the wheelbarrow smiles and points us two blocks up and tells us when we approach the yellow wall surrounding the cemetery, turn to the right and follow the wall to the main entrance. 

At the bright yellow wall (the only artifice within miles sans chipping or faded paint) we turn to the right but are approached by a young man asking if we are headed to the entrance.  Enter RK’s poor decision making process.  Buoyed by the friendly reaction from the previous group (who looked threatening at first) I listen to this pleasant young man’s offer to take us to the rear entrance which is a much shorter walk. I convince my fellow travelers to follow this young man to the left along a quite dilapidated and garbage strewn street rather than to the right as the old man had suggested. A quarter mile later we are at the rear entrance.  It would appear he has saved us a long walk.  But wait…  a small glitch appears.  There is a guard at this gate.  The young man apologizes and explains there is NEVER a guard at this (broken) gate.  No amount of cajoling or “gifting” can change the guard’s demeanor, friendly but unstintingly firm.  We MUST walk all the way back to the main entrance.  We reluctantly tromp back the way we came and then follow the old man’s original directive to the right.  The old man with the wheelbarrow is now across the street from us, smiling, and I can only imagine his opinion of these dumb touristas.  Thirty-five long, silent minutes later we arrive at the main entrance.  

We, Along with 25 Funerals Everyday, Enter Through the Main Gate

This episode was indicative of our entire time in Havana.  Regardless of the location, regardless of the poverty, regardless of seemingly dangerous neighborhoods, we never once felt threatened or unsafe. It has been many decades since I have experienced that level of comfort while exploring a foreign city on foot.  Furthermore, at no time along that entire yellow wall walk did I find any chipped paint.  Next?  140 acres of gravestones, of course. 

Havana Looking Good From This Distance 

CUBA LIBRE REDUX  -  Priorities

Every traveler has a special singular expectation of his or her destination.  The British Museum in London, the Eifel Tower in Paris, the funicular in Hong Kong or the Ramblas in Barcelona were just a few of mine, and all proved to be well beyond expectations.  It was no different here in Cuba.  I had long dreamed of cruising along the fabled five mile malecon (a shoreline pedestrian promenade) separating a vibrant Havana city from the azure blue and benign Gulf Stream.  Alas, it was not in the cards this day as our taxi rumbled towards the city center.  The unseasonably horrible weather of the past few days had stirred up the Stream so much that crashing waves had inundated the malecon and closed its entire length to vehicles.  My first priority, to see the malecon, was out of the question.  Instead we gazed at the deteriorating neighborhoods passing by the open windows of our 1954 Ford taxi.  

As it was our first day in Cuba, we were newbies about negotiating taxi rates. We paid around $25 to arrive at the center of Havana but would later find the regular rate was around $15 to $20.  Subsequently we would take a free tourist bus into town from the hotel across from our marina slip using taxis only when we missed the bus going back to Marina Hemingway or did not wish to wait for a bus. The bus always took a little longer but made stops at all the major tourist locations outside of the city center. Havana city center, on the other hand, is a very walk-able place with many of the must see attractions within a mile or two of the Capital building.  This is a city chock full of museums and parks and wherever you wander… the sound of music.   

Hollywood Set?

Optional GM or Ford Paint Schemes? 

Once we acclimated to the movie set that is boulevards jammed with 1950 automobiles sporting a myriad of colors that occur neither in nature nor the paint shops of Ford or GM, we strolled into the Museum of the Revolution.  It is housed in what in what pre-revolution had been Cuba’s “White House.”  The minutiae of Fidel’s rise are painstakingly prioritized in hundreds of photos of men with beards standing around with rifles.  Highlights?  The radio Fidel had used to broadcast his arrival from Mexico is prominently displayed but for me, walking up the three flights of the magnificent open marble staircase was reminiscent of an unplanned layover I had in the Athens airport not long after a 1980’s terrorist attack.  I can report that the tell-tale mark a bullet makes in pristine marble is remarkably similar no matter in which out of the way corner of the world the marble may be ensconced. And this Cuban staircase was pockmarked with hundreds of those telltale indentations.  Outside the building, a fenced in park with equipment remnants of the US backed invasion force are proudly on display and freshly painted so the bullet holes are readily apparent.  Next to that, the actual 60 foot boat that brought Fidel and 81 friends from Mexico to Cuba to overthrow Batista.  My boat is 41 feet and once I had 19 people on board for a party in the slip in Marina del Rey. That weight load submerged my entire waterline.  Venturing out to sea in that condition is inconceivable to me.  The fine line between bravery and foolhardiness was obviously more fluid to Fidel than it is to me. 

 Cuba's Former 'White House' 

Batista's Last Stand (or sit)

Back at the center of the city, we have a pleasant lunch at the open air patio of the Ingleterra Hotel.  One of the Havana landmarks, it too is a bit downtrodden (no toilet paper or flushing toilets in the restrooms) but the sandwiches and local beer are excellent. The strolling musicians put a smile on everyone’s face even as they shill for tips and CD sales.  I desperately wanted to see Cuba before it becomes a suburb of Florida as the constraints on Americans traveling here are removed and so I care little that we must stuff our pockets and handbags with toilet paper for any necessary stops. I am happy to be here see this authentic Havana.  In May of 2016, the Starwood hotel chain concluded a deal with the Cuban government to rehab and update three major Havana hotels to American tourist standards.  The Ingleterra was one of them.  The good news is that toilets will flush.  The bad news is that finding an open table on this patio for lunch will be nigh on to impossible.   Further disturbances in the Force occurred on Wednesday, August 31, 2016 when the first commercial US airline in fifty years landed on Cuban soil.

   Finding an available tiled table will be difficult 

It is said that Ernest Hemingway was instrumental in making daiquiris famous at the Floridita tavern. In truth it would appear he drank them wherever and whenever he paused to pee.The famous Floridita however, was on my priority must-see list (as with every tourist in Havana) so we imbibed (they were delicious, if a bit overpriced) then asked a local to document my homage to the Hemingway legend.  Worth every peso. 

The Five Amigos at the Floridita

On our trip back to the marina one other element became quite obvious.  Not just housing was in terrible shape, buildings of every shape and size were run down.  Paint chipped and missing, plaster falling off in chunks, walkways cracked and uneven, all screamed for attention in spite of the captivating and innovative architecture that is everywhere throughout the city.  It is a spectacularly beautiful city… until you look more closely. It is sad to witness this neglect (due to economic issues of course) but there is a bright spot.  Whenever one comes across a reminder of Fidel, or Raoul, or Che or even the Revolution, the reminder itself will be freshly painted, well maintained and expensively displayed.  Just goes to show… everyone’s priorities are different.   And I’m okay with that because it has been one terrific day in Havana, Cuba.  Terrific days are pretty high on my personal priority list. 

   

Cuba Libre Redux – Waking Up to Reality

I awoke confused.  Some of you might posit that you have never seen me in any other state but opening my eyes I see only varnished teak slats three or four inches directly ahead and I do not know where I am.  I have taken many, many long transits via planes. trains, and cars to weird corners of the world and awakened confused and needed a few minutes to determine where I was.  That has never happened to me on a boat regardless of the length of the passage.  So this is a bit worrisome since the last two day’s sail has harshly reminded me of my advancing age.  Suddenly it comes to me that I am in Cuba and age advancement no longer troubles my conscious. Adrenalin and expectation are wonderful antidotes to old age symptoms. 

  

Billowing clouds and a deep blue sky greet me on deck.  The wind still howls but we are safely in harbor and the palm trees bending to the wind are a graceful exclamation point to a brilliant first January day in Cuba and we have errands.  Changing money in most foreign countries is quite straight forward.  You go to a bank or money changer and do the exchange.  Depending on your tolerance of tediousness the exchange rate will not be an issue.  It is slightly different in today’s Cuba.  The government has installed a two tier money system in which tourists use one type of peso and residents use another.  The tourist peso is worth about $1.25 while the resident peso is worth about 15 cents. Citizens may not use tourist pesos when they purchase something but instead must turn it in to the bank for resident pesos.  A clever system to insure tourist money whether dollars or euros or anything else is all funneled through the government owned banks.  Remember there is no private property or private business in Cuba, everything belongs to the State.  (in the past two years, the State has allowed citizens to open 'palidars' which are merely a restaurant you operate out of your living room or back yard)  The State takes a 50% profit tax (they do not call it  "profit") but still, it is income the family would not otherwise have. Will this change with the pending influx of US tourists?  Of course, but control by Raoul is not going away anytime soon and the State will have its cut of every financial transaction be it groceries or cigars or taxi rides.  

Taxi to Old Havana

We need to stop at a bank on our way to downtown Havana and exchange some dollars for Tourist Pesos.  We must also remember that US law currently allows US citizens to spend only a total of $400 per person while in Cuba.  There are ways around this but since we are in a gray area vis-a-vis our travel permits to begin with, we will see how far we get before investigating less legal exchange methods. Upon entering a Cuban bank, you must first be admitted through the locked door by a minder.  When he lets you in, he will take you to a waiting area and point out another waiting customer.  Your turn will be after that person.  Do not forget that person or miss when they go up to a teller window because you may not get another opportunity for a long time.  Everybody waits and watches because the lines were long every time we went regardless of the time of day or location of the bank. Yes a simple numbered ticket dispenser would work but there are few mechanical devices in Cuba that are not in desperate need of replacement parts that are non-existant.  And this method is replacement-part free and quite inexpensive if one does not consider the minder’s salary.  That is the beauty of the Communist system… everyone has a job. One need not ask if it is a job that needs to be done, suffice that someone receives a salary paid by the government who in turn, gets paid by every financial transaction including those of tourists.  OK that’s your dialectical materialism lesson for today.  And we are still five miles from downtown Havana.  But we now have pesos to spend.  Stay tuned...  or not.  

Arrival in a Semi-Forbidden Land

Last Night in US Waters

I would like to report that the above pix accurately depicts our last night in the slip at Marathon but it would be a lie.  We posed this and then spent waaaay too much time loading supplies for a three week cruise.  It is always tough to start any trip without last minute gyrations

A good many of you, I know, are bored by sailing stories and so I will not bore you with the getting to Cuba part but rather, offer a few observations of the Island by Your Man in Havana. (Apologies to Graham Greene for the semi-plagiarism)  Or full disclosure, actually ‘Your Man in Hemingway Marina’ which lies about eight miles west of downtown Havana. Hemingway Marina is currently the only option for a small sailing (or power) vessel to enter Cuban waters and come ashore.  Also, the marina is closed starting at dusk and only opens again at dawn.  No one in, and most importantly to Cuban officials, no one out under cover of dark hours.  We had spotted the lights of Havana the previous dusk but were too far away to make the entrance to Hemingway before it closed so we spent the night in a raging gale 20 miles offshore.  Another story for another time. We finally located the actual marina entrance channel at dawn through mist and light rain while the wind had subsided to a mere 25 knots.  We did have some concerns that the channel entrance would remain closed given the breath of breaking seas assaulting our only path to a calm harbor.  Our concerns were not alleviated by our inability to raise the Port Captain on the radio for permission to come ashore.  When finally he did respond and gave us permission and direction, his comment in excellent English was to use care because the channel was quite narrow and dangerous.  We of course knew that from our sailing guides but getting out of what had been a washing machine of violent motion for the past 12 hours was uppermost in our minds and having had some personal experience with narrow channels and foaming water, I felt confident with Mike at the wheel.  The actual entrance (which we took at hull speed I am sure, surfing down five-foot rollers at the beginning of the marked channel), was anti-climactic because the sailing guide‘s definition of “a dangerous, narrow entrance” was not my own.  We easily slid between the eight-foot breaking seas on either side of us by a margin of at least ten to fifteen yards.  Then, without warning, the violent boat motion suddenly stopped as we slipped into calm protected waters.  The previous night’s rough passage and bruising toss-about was now merely fodder for future captivating bar tales.

Tying up at the customs and immigration dock, we were apprehensive.  TALARIA was an American vessel in a port forbidden to us for fifty years.  Even today we were in a gray area regarding our legal status.  Melanie had wasted hours attempting to get US permission to go to Cuba before we left and finally was told by the Coast Guard, “Just go.”  We recorded that phone call… and we left.  Now we were where the rubber meets the road as my driving friends would have reminded me.  Two young men in uniform with sidearms somewhat hidden by rain slickers efficiently tied us up and motioned for us to follow them into Immigration.  ALL of us… including the two women who were, as they phrased it, “not ready for public viewing.”  I have gone through a hundred third world customs offices in my various travels and I forced myself to remember the rules I was taught by some un-named State department individual a hundred years ago during a different life.  One… smile.  Two…  smile.  Three… look them in the eye.  I mentioned the rules to Mike since he was first as Captain and when he stepped out of the room, he gave me the thumbs up.  The primary question asked was to face the camera so the facial recognition software could get a good look at us.  Our smiling Port Captain and Immigration official was exceedingly courteous going so far as to stamp our Cuban visas on a piece of paper which he gently inserted in our passports with a knowing glance to each of us, thereby eliminating any possible embarrassing moments with US Customs upon our return.  A very encouraging start to our visit.

Tied Up in Cuba

We motored to our assigned slip location and tied up under the watchful eyes of two young men and an older gentleman who would perform our “health inspection.”  This was a thorough poking into every nook and cranny to ascertain we had brought in no black market goods intended for re-sale.  Under cloudy overcast skies, three of us remained on deck while Mike and the Inspector went over the interior.  In spite of having no illicit goods, Mike felt the need to offer a small “gift” to speed our access to the now steady and un-moving bunks so we could all garner some desperately needed, quiet shut-eye. TALARIA was secure but the wind still howling through the nearby palm trees went un-heard by any one of the four of us for the next five hours.  We had arrived in Cuba.  And we were WELCOME!