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!