97 Miles South-Key West to Cuba

97 Miles South

Phil Thompson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Phil Thompson

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 1

A faint glow, the start of an early summer day on an island rock called Key West. In the corner of the bight, the striped towers of the abandoned steam plant were just visible, due east, signposts for the soon to rise sun. Scurrying down the dock, a lone figure balances boxes of hot fried chicken, his flip-flop sandals slapping at the quite of the morning. Running late, the trim, sun dark man built up momentum and leaped unto the transom of the idling yacht.

Where the hell have you been? roared Ted."

Good morning to you too.

Ted frowned, My brother's blown a gasket. He's been threatening to leave you for the last half hour!

Pete hopped down into the cockpit and set the boxes on the fighting chair.

I would rather be left behind than listen to you bitch about not having chicken.

Ted shifted his attention to the steaming boxes. Tall, mid-forties, animated face, he was crowned with a full head of gray-less black hair.

Already rummaging the greasy chicken, he picked out a leg, pointing it at Pete. This good stuff, the real deal?

Pete found a wing, Enjoy my friend. This is your last taste of America for a while.

Travis's impish face stared down from the patio-sized fly bridge.

Can we go now?

Let's get out of here. his answer boomed overhead.

You have your orders captain. Pete laughed. That was either Jed on the radio or the almighty his self.

Nodding, Travis removed the radio mike from the overhead control box,

The Havana express is now under way. He broadcast and eased the throttles forward. The sixty-five foot yacht rumbled into the growing light, her massive props churning spa-sized swirls in the calm water of the bight.

Travis piloted the twin-engine vessel through the narrow opening between the granite rock jetty protecting the inner harbor and the Coast Guard base. To the north small mangrove islands rested like moored yachts on the placid waters stretching west. Across the Northwest Channel, a maritime highway to the Gulf, one island, Destroyer Key reflected white in the morning sun. Silhouettes of her stack and sharp bow, nature sculpted likeness of its namesake ship of war.

~

Along the harbors eastern edge, multistoried resorts, each with its own pool set in a palm-shaded oasis stood silent in the morning. Filled with sunburned tourist sleeping off mi tie and daiquiri hangovers, they nurse blistered feet, worn from last night's bar trek known as The Duval Street Crawl. One early rising couple jogged across Mallory Square against the backdrop of the old customs house. Its red brick and tile roof a century old landmark, the former center of maritime law and salvage justice.

Gather the passports. Travis shouted down.

Mine and Jed's are on the galley table.

Pete gathered up the ravaged boxes of chicken.

Hey, check everything down below and give me a heads up when I can run. The young captain added.

Pete waved an acknowledgment and went thru the door into the main salon.

Morning Jed

You're late. I was about to leave you. Jed growled, still holding the radio mike.

Pete set the boxes on the galley table.

Talk to your brother. I was on a mission for him and as the good book says, a man cannot serve two masters.

From deep in the folds of the soft leather couch, Ted muttered. Leave me out of this.

~

Give me your passport before you go to sleep. Pete said.

Ted drew the hand knitted Afghan over his head and wallowed deeper into the couch. Inside my black leather case on the bed.

Gathering the passports off the table, Pete descended the carpeted steps to the cabins below. He woke Dave and Jimmy sleeping on single bunks in the crew's quarters and added their documents to the others.

Pete knew well arriving in Cuba without a passport is a shortcut to jail. It's a blunder that can't be circumvented with conversation or bribed away. Under no circumstances will entry onto the island be allowed without the document. Cuban officials offer the Captain of the arriving vessel two choices.

~

Visitors with passports may remain, enjoying the islands warm hospitality while the offending party or parties languish in jail, their release coinciding with the boat's departure. The second option is to cast off and return to where you came from. These rules are absolute and the absence of an American Embassy hinders any hope of assistance.

~

Pete opened the door to the master stateroom and switched on the incandescent light. Large and plush, the room utilized the full width of the yachts beam. He opened the rich black leather monogrammed case lying on the king sized bed set centerline in the room and retrieved the passport lying among banded stacks of 100-dollar bills.

~

Returning up stairs, he checked the expiration dates and placed the documents in the drawer alongside the Coast Guard security clearance, received by fax the night before. Shifting to sea mode, he searched for items that in rough water might be deadly missiles, once-overed the galley, pored two cups of coffee and turned for the door.

Are you ready to run?

Jed was staring out the rear window not looking at all well. An ashen gray tint colored his face. He turned in response to the question, his eyes bloodshot and watery.

Yea, tell him to go.

~

Pete climbed the ladder, took the swivel chair beside Travis and handed him a cup of coffee.Looks like Jed had a rough night.

Yea, I would say so, seeing as how he fell off the dock last night.

Pete laughed, He fell off the dock. You're shitting me right.

No, I'm not. He didn't so much fall off, he just walked off the end, like ran out of road. Scared hell out of the old dock master, poor guy couldn't get him out of the water. People on the next boat over heard the commotion and lent a hand. Not a great way to start.

"Damn, I hate to hear that. Maybe it was a first night in camp thing. Everyone partied a little hard last night.

Pete took a sip of coffee. He'll be ok when we start fishing. He'll be grouchy, but he won't drink as much.

Let's hope so brother. It's hard to get into trouble in Cuba if you're a rich American, but not impossible. Travis warned. He throttled the yacht up onto a plane, past the remnant remains of Fort Zachary Taylor.

A whisper of a southeast breeze rippled the murky water flowing fast past the red and green markers at the harbor's mouth, the current powered by the flood tide of the waxing moon. Travis spun the wheel and the boat responded to his practiced touch, her wide flared bow sliding across the smooth water, spotted with small clumps of thin bay grass. Settling the compass on 207 degrees, he set the autopilot and turned to the control console.

~

Alarms and automatic shutoffs protected the powerful diesels. Scanning the oil pressure, water temperature and fuel consumption digital readouts, he looked for small differences between the identical power plants, often an early indication of trouble. Satisfied, he glanced aft at the vee wake peeling from the stern, a perfect curling wave spreading across the calm water. The engine exhaust spewed a healthy gray smoke, the carbon footprint of the rich.

Overhead the G.P.S. screen displayed course, speed over ground, distance across the Straits and estimated arrival time. On a second screen, a full color chart of the Straits of Florida. Travis pinpointed the cursor on a spot just west of Havana, pushed the navigate button and aye aye captain flashed on the screen, then a bold red line appeared linking Key West and the sea buoy marking the entrance into Marina Hemingway.

Ninety seven miles, a little over three and a half hours He announced.

Pete focused on the rapidly approaching Sand Key Lighthouse and the Florida Straits beyond. He spun his tattered baseball cap backward and tugged it down tight, over a longish full head of sun dried brown hair. One leg dangled free, the leather sandal slid off. He raised the leg, found the end of the white console spanning the width of the fly bridge, shook the flip-flop free of his other foot, crossed legs and leaned back in the chair.

Here we go again amigo. He said. It looks like a good day to cross. Can't for the life of me think of any place I'd rather be.

Travis adjusted the throttles, fine tuning the engines. Yea brother, me either.

Ahead, atop the coral shoal of Sand Key, the lighthouse reflected rusty hues in the low sun. Scarlet-throated Frigate birds and orange beaked Cormorants balanced on dung-coated beams of the steel frame structure turned like early morning sentinels, eyeing the passing yacht.

The water went ocean blue and gin clear, ominous black coral heads of the inner reef visible from the towering fly bridge dotted the sandy bottom. Large red mounds scrolled across the sonar machine, marking the rocks and disrupting the rising green line indicating the sea floor. From the thirty-foot depth of Hawks Channel, the bottom rose to fourteen feet as the boat skirted the mooring buoys, set to protect the coral of the popular snorkeling spot from anchor damage.

Sand Keys massive living coral rock fingers reached out into ground marl sand forming underwater valleys, teeming with yellow and black striped Sergeant Major fish and multicolored Snapper, each searching for a passing meal while desperate to avoid becoming one. Lobster and stone crabs shared the rock crevasses with spotted moray eels and hid beneath subterranean coral ledges, awaiting the cloak of darkness and the opportunity to venture out and feed. Four silver, toothy barracuda hovered below the surface in the shadow of a white mooring buoy. All were living and reproducing in the protection of the marine sanctuary, safe from the threat of human harvest.

The bottom machine readout abruptly dropped, reaching one hundred feet, then began to ascend indicating the rise of the outer reef. Here, the white sand crowning snapper valley marks the top of the long bar running east to west. During the last ice age, the bar was the inner reef until rising water from melting glaciers left it miles from the new shoreline. Now, its bountiful coral gardens offer some of the finest fishing and diving in the Keys.

~

To the east lay a growth encrusted telegraph cable rising to cross the thirty-five foot depth of the bar before dropping with the ocean floor. Paralleling their path to Cuba, it travels the black silent depths, thousands of feet below, snaking among the wrecks and bones, tangible proof that communication with America's closest Caribbean neighbor had at one time been regular and vital. Politics, not the elements severed the old Western Union link.

~

Anticipation of adventure is never more prevalent in the human spirit than when embarking on an ocean voyage, a foreign port the destination. Add the forbidden island of Cuba and expectations rise higher than the mercury of a Gobi desert thermometer. The fishing yacht became part transporter, crossing ninety miles of ocean, ferrying its passengers back fifty years in time.

~

Cuba is a country trapped under an invisible dome of isolation. Old Chevrolets and Cadillac's, plying the streets of Havana, date the closure of the cage door that imprisons the Cuban society. Deprived contacts and freedoms required to evolve with the modern world, the Cuban people bicycle thru the jet age. Electricity without light switches, televisions with rabbit eared antennas, flush toilets minus paper or seats. These are the accouterments of the first communist dictatorship in the western hemisphere, the last bastion of socialism, a final frontier of isolation.

Participants in this expedition have no political agenda. They are circumventing the niggling American trade embargo and travel ban to fish. Falling under the definition of a fully hosted event, the Hemmingway Marlin Tournament ties the hands of O.F.A.C, (Office of Foreign Asset Control) the enforcement arm of the U.S. Treasury Department. Close to forty American boats will fish the mile deep waters off Havana Harbor and Cojimar this year. Teams, the Cubans call them.

Chapter 2

Forty-five miles out a change in the pattern of the Ocean swell marked the axis of the Gulf Stream. Steeper waves chopped the purple blue water of the world's greatest river, spotted with yellow-brown sun bleached Sargasso weed, riding the three-knot current.

Pete stood and looked down along the line of weed. It shaded a mid ocean nursery, home to a multitude of species comprising the aquatic food chain. In the shadows of the floating weed, small fish hide from predators lurking below and feed on tiny shrimps and crabs hidden in folds of the grass, marine life teemed in the nutrient rich environment.

Blue backed flying fish launched gliding on paper-thin, translucent silvery wings. Like coveys of quail they flush, fleeing the unfamiliar pressure wave of the approaching yacht. Soaring away from the perceived threat, they turned into the wind to reduce speed before crash landing into the face of an oncoming wave. In the distance, under a swirling cloud of swooping, diving terns, a school of feeding tuna launch skyward, their silvery bodies oversized chrome footballs with tails.Travis sat up from his reclined position in the captain's chair.

What the hell? he said staring off in the distance.

Pete grabbed a pair of binoculars and walked to the front of the bridge. Off the bow, a line of white water and silver flash traveled to the northeast, on a collision course with the yacht. Focusing the glasses on the spot, Pete reported,

It's a school of tarpon.

What are they doing way out here?

They must be migrating up from the Caribbean heading to Florida, answered Pete.

Travis picked up the radio mike, pushed the transmission button and spoke.

Hey Jed, come up here and have a look.

A gruff voice replied. What is it?

Just come up and look. Travis repeated and replaced the mike.

By the time Jed reached the top of the ladder they were alongside the traveling fish, a silver highway stretching off to the horizon.

One hundred yards wide and over a mile in length, the number of fish comprising the school was incalculable. Moving fast, rolling on their sides, silver dollar sized scales reflecting sunlight with the flash of a million mirrors.

Dave climbed the ladder and onto the bridge. Wow, I've never seen anything like that. Where are they going?"

Their headed to the Keys for the worm hatch. Pete said.

That's right. Jed agreed. The worms.

Pete explained how in the soft sponges anchored to the floor of the harbors and natural channels of Florida Keys, resides the small red palao worm. Once a year, around the first full moon of summer, they spawn and send their offspring to sea on the outgoing tide. These inch and a half long worms throw the tarpon into a feeding frenzy and generate the best tarpon fishing in the world.

Why the hundred pound fish expend so much energy eating the tiny worm is a mystery to fisherman and scientist alike and theories concerning their behavior abound.

He went on to tell how some believe it's the nutritious value of the small meal. Others say it's the taste that drives the fish. One theory has the worms stimulating an aphrodisiac effect in the tarpon that are at the start of their own spawning cycle. For whichever reason, the fish gather in numbers and feed with an intensity that defies description.

Jed exited with the tarpon leaving Dave up top staring off over the horizon. Man, this is a lot of water, how much farther?

Travis glanced at the G.P.S. A little over forty miles. We're a bit over halfway.

Dave peered ahead as if he might see that far.

Pete, how many times have you been to Cuba?

Pete put his feet back up on the console and leaned back in the chair. Out of habit he surveyed the ocean specked with small whitecaps beginning to crest crowning the rolling waves, before finding an answer.

Fourteen or fifteen times, I lose track.

What's it like, I mean really?

Travis took a sip of his cold coffee, made a face and swallowed. Oh, shit here we go.

Pete gave him a sidelong look. What's that supposed to mean.

Ignoring Pete, Travis focused on Dave. This is mister Cuba. People, politics, from the starving masses to the dirty politicians, he knows it all Go ahead Pete, give him your spiel. Wait. Before you start, did you get in touch with Fito, did he find Jose?

Yes on both counts. They should both be waiting for us at the dock.

It will be good to fish with Jose and I guess Fito is a necessary evil.

Don't be too rough on him. You know how sensitive he is.

Dave interrupted. Who are these guys you're talking about?

Pete gave Travis a sideways look. Jose is a Cuban captain and Fito is an entrepreneur.

Fito's a crook. Travis corrected. He's a hustler and I don't trust him, never have.

"Yea, but you have to admit, he gets things done.

As the Cubans say, One reason for optimism is, we have the best educated hustlers and prostitutes in the world.

You're prejudice Pete, ever since he chose you to be Godfather to his daughter.

Pete removed his Ocean Wave glasses and cleaned them with the tail of his tank top. I suppose I am a little jaded when you get right down to it.

A revved up Travis shot back. "Ha! For the money he makes off us. We should all get head.

Pete laughed, I plan to, just not from Fito.

Dave stood by somewhat confused by the dialog. "All right Pete give me your thoughts. How come we get to go when everyone else says its illegal?

Retaking his seat Pete stared out over the waves. Well, we're participating in a half-century-old sporting event under the Clinton administration's people to people contact allowance. On the streets in both Key West and Havana, many assume that an ending of the embargo and the travel ban was high on the President's agenda. Many believed Clinton would open the beleaguered island before leaving office and the Miami exile community wasn't pleased.

Fueled with funds from Big Sugar, their strong voting block dictates America's foreign policy regarding Cuba since John Kennedy imposed the blockade in response Castro's socialist tilt. Wielding Florida's electoral votes like a samurai sword, they stand ready to decapitate any Presidential hopefuls chances of winning the White house. A hard line stance against the Castro government is required to curry favor and carry Florida.

Any thought Clinton harbored for easing the travel ban and embargo of Cuba took a back seat to the election of 2000. With the race too close to call in Florida, Al Gore needed every vote to win, Cuban American included. His last minute hard line appeal was not enough for the swing state where the final outcome and 27 electoral votes would be decided in the courts and the election go to Bush.

After another hour, ahead, above the blue ocean and under high clouds, the mountains of Cuba appeared purple, rising from the sea, a geological opposite from the low flat limestone islands left that morning. On the horizon, the skyline of Havana emerged, then the low buildings and houses of the waterfront.

When the high rise of the El Viejo el Mar hotel climbed above the waterline, Travis tuned the radio to channel seventy-eight and hailed Marina Hemingway. A heavily accented voice answered, requesting the name of the vessel, the number of souls aboard and their nationality. After Travis transmitted the information, using the phonetic alphabet, Oscar whiskey, Yankee, Zulu, to spell the yachts name, a welcome to Marina Hemingway was broadcast accompanied by the compass course into the channel.

Get the Cuban flag. He ordered.

Remember to hoist it star pointed up. Flying the flag upside down is considered a declaration of war.

Aye aye captain. Pete replied, climbed down the ladder and entered the main salon.

Inside, every square inch of counter top and table surface and most of the carpet was covered with hundred dollar bills, thousands of dollars spread around the room.

What is this Jed, what are you doing?

I'm drying out the money I had in my pocket last night.

Pete began to gather the damp bills.

Jed, we are getting ready to dock. Get this shit up. We can't go thru customs with this money lying around, the Cubans will freak. Come on guys give me a hand. We're almost there. Jimmy began to help gather the bills and Jed reluctantly joined in.

"I don't see what the big deal is. He said.

It's less than ten thousand. That's legal.

Yea, but its more cash that any of these people have ever seen. Pete countered.

And believe me they would figure out a way to relieve you of a good portion of it.

Travis backed the yacht off plane and idled into the channel leading into the Marina, the deep blue water gave way to a lighter green of the shallow corral and sand bottom.

Waving from an uneven, unpainted, concrete seawall, a blue clad guard directed them around the corner where a variety of officials in various colored uniforms waited.

Checking into Cuba could take anywhere from two hours to all day. Six separate sets of officials will board the boat to fill out their paperwork, fumbling with worn carbon paper and old rubber stamps. Each group would delay boarding until the previous party finished their own area of responsibility.

First aboard came the white Guayabera shirt clad doctor, smiling and friendly, shaking each person's hand, looking them in the eyes and immediately declaring them a picture of health. When finished with his through physical exams, he motions the Captain aside.

Captain I have a very unpleasant task to perform. The doctor states, as if the craft were a stricken patience, the cure most unpleasant.

The government says I must spray the boat to kill any flies that may have come with you. The spray smells very bad and some people could get sick. If you give me twenty dollars, I will not have to spray the boat, no one will get sick and the government will be satisfied. Not flinching at the absurdity or the lack of logic behind the request, he pauses and waits for an answer.

Travis hands over a twenty, the doctor smiles and is on his way.

So the pattern repeats, with emigration, agriculture, coast guard and the Hemingway Marina officials. Beer and cokes, cookies and candy are offered and accepted along