10

OVER THE NEXT half hour or so, we each downed two sixteen-ounce bottles of water to hydrate ourselves for the trip. Gabriel couldn’t say exactly how long we’d be at sea. Instead, he was more like a weatherman giving a forecast he wouldn’t stake his reputation on.

“Depending on the currents, we could reach the coast of Florida inside of two days,” he said, before putting both hands out in front of him as if to halt any hopes of a guarantee. “But the weather can change in minutes. Even storms miles away can have an impact, driving us off course, spinning a small vessel in endless circles.”

“You have a compass, don’t you?” asked Uncle Ramon.

Basically, the only reason to have a compass in Cuba is to help you defect. So you could get into serious trouble being caught with one.

“Think I’d take you and two young boys onto that ocean without one? I’m not the devil,” Gabriel countered, with a twinge of annoyance. “As a kid I experienced what happens when it’s tried that way.”

That was the first time I’d seen Gabriel tense. It didn’t seem like much to get upset over. Maybe his nerves were getting tighter as the sun slipped lower.

“I’ve got other supplies, too,” Gabriel continued, his voice leveling out. “Food, water, flares, and an extra can of gasoline.”

So I figured his boat had a motor. I felt better knowing that, like we could choose our own direction if the currents didn’t cooperate.

“Ramon and I will sit in the front. Julio and Luis, you’ll be in the back,” he added. “Oh, and we’re going to be low to the water, very low. That’s by design, to avoid being detected on any radar. If it’s choppy we’ll get slapped in the face by a few waves. Be prepared to get soaked.”

That’s when I took the transistor radio out. I wrapped it in a pair of plastic bags to keep it from getting wet, as the others eyed it.

“We might need this way out there. You never know,” I said, trying not to make a fuss.

“You’re right. Could come in handy,” said Uncle Ramon, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing me a new 9-volt battery. “We could hear a World Series game on it, too. Give us something else to focus on.”

– – –

The tide rolled in and the water’s edge kept creeping closer to our camp. From a distance, those two girls waved good-bye to Luis as they walked off the beach. He didn’t return the wave, though. Instead, he just glanced their way like somebody they should have been starstruck to meet. Then that man got up and left without his family, just the way Gabriel told us he would.

“I want you boys to take the barbecue and cooler to my trunk,” said Gabriel, giving us his car keys. “But leave the chairs behind. It’ll look better when we hang around to see the stars.”

Even with the charcoals emptied, I could still feel the warmth from the barbecue as I carried it back. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining Mama and Lola in my arms for one last embrace.

Gabriel’s car was the only one remaining behind those rocks.

“When we walked off that baseball field today, I wasn’t thinking about anything like this,” said Luis. “Things can change fast, huh? My mother passing, your papi—thought I was all through growing up for a while.”

“Maybe it never stops,” I said as he opened the trunk. “In a few hours, we might be looking back at right now, thinking we didn’t know shit.”

“I just hope my next learning curve is about life in the US, not how to shower in prison,” said Luis, stowing away the cooler and leaving enough room for me to fit the barbecue next to it.

“No, I hope the next curve I see comes out of a pitcher’s hand. That I’m waiting on it to break, right before I drive it over some center-field fence and round the bases.”

Luis slammed the trunk lid down and then gave me a high five.

“Amen to that, Cuz,” he said.

A minute later, I saw those two police officers slowly rolling back down the beach on their motorcycle. Only this time, because of the tide coming in, they were going to be much closer to us.

“Act like we’re packing the chairs up next,” said Gabriel, casually folding one.

Suddenly, I heard the rev of an engine, and the officers’ motorcycle turned in our direction.

“I don’t trust these two,” Uncle Ramon said, barely moving his lips. “What if we have to jump them?”

“Easy, Ramon,” whispered Gabriel. “They’re probably looking for more food, or beer.”

I was wishing I had a baseball bat in my hands. I’d be more comfortable wielding one of those than any weapon in this world.

Their wide tires kicked up a ton of sand before the officer driving pulled back on the throttle, four or five feet from where we were standing.

The one sitting in the sidecar of that three-wheeler said, “So you boys are baseball players, huh? When I played, shortstop was my position. I had a lot of range with my glove and a good stick, too. I even dreamed of one day becoming a Nacional, representing Cuba. Now I wear this uniform.”

“This is our star shortstop. My nephew,” said Uncle Ramon, who’d moved to the outside of the officer’s right hip, where his pistol was holstered.

“I’m not surprised. I used to have a build like yours, like a whip. That was before I put on an extra twenty pounds sitting around,” he said to me. “Where are you from? Not Cárdenas. I’ve been stationed here for three years. I would have seen you play.”

“I’m from Matanzas,” I answered, taking a step closer to the one on the motorcycle, in case I had to defend my uncle.

“Ahh, the Crocodiles,” he said, turning to his partner.

Meanwhile, Gabriel had slipped an arm around Luis. I guess to stop him from doing anything stupid.

“These boys are very dedicated,” said Gabriel. “Baseball is all they dream about.”

“What’s your name?” the officer asked me. “I’ll keep an eye out for you in the future.”

“My name’s Julio.”

About thirty yards behind those officers sat that last family on the beach, minus their father. And maybe another forty yards farther down the beach, I saw the bushes start to shake and shimmy a little. Then they went completely still.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

Ramirez was on the tip of my tongue. But I bit it back, thinking he’d probably heard of Papi. And that might make him suspicious about us being here.

“Sanchez,” I said, giving him Mama’s maiden name and praying he wouldn’t want to see any kind of ID. “My name’s Julio Sanchez.”

I felt sick to my stomach at having to deny my own name. But that was all on Papi, and the politics of Cuba.

“Very good,” the officer said, nodding to his partner, who put the motorcycle in motion. “Remember, the beach closes at sundown. You have to be on your way soon.”

“Thank you, officers,” said Gabriel. “We appreciate your concern.”

In the distance, that father had just reappeared from the bushes. The officers were traveling in his direction. He began pulling at his pants zipper, as if he’d gone off from his family to pee. Then the motorcycle rolled right on past him without slowing down.

“That’s one obstacle out of the way,” said Uncle Ramon.

“Men are a small obstacle compared with what we’ll be facing,” said Gabriel. “But you’re right.”

That entire family walked off the beach together. A minute later, I heard Gabriel’s car starting up from behind the trio of huge rocks that separated us from the sandy lot. Once it pulled away, and the echo of it faded, everything that was about to happen felt even more real.

The sun was in flames now, burning orange and yellow in the red-blue sky as it went sinking into the horizon. It reminded me of one of Papi’s fastballs blazing into a dark catcher’s mitt.

Gabriel’s plan was for each of us to walk straight into the bushes, one by one, while the others kept lookout along the beach. His order was me, Luis, Uncle Ramon, and then himself.

“That clearing I mentioned, it’s small and about thirty paces straight into the bushes,” emphasized Gabriel. “Don’t get yourself moving sideways. You’ll miss it completely.”

When the moment came, I headed into the bushes without hesitation. But a few strides into the thick brush, I had to reset my bearings to sidestep a branch full of sharp thorns. When I did, I found myself standing in the middle of a cloud of mosquitos. They were hitting my arms and legs like I was the last warm meal on earth. And every time I’d slap at one spot, five or six of them would bite me somewhere else. So I bolted forward, praying I was still going in the right direction. I shoved aside branch after branch that either snapped back at me or cracked beneath my weight until I finally arrived at the clearing.

First, I saw the green body of a Buick automobile. There was something strange attached to the grille—a wide, pointed front that looked like the bow of a ship. I searched for a boat, maybe one on a small trailer behind the car. But there wasn’t any. Then I saw the weld marks, sealing the car’s four doors shut, and the supplies tied down in the backseat.

That’s when it hit me: we’d be sailing to the US in a floating car.

For some insane reason, I reached my arm inside the open driver’s side window. I was about to tap the horn, as if I needed to hear how it sounded. Then Luis came stumbling through the bushes. His eyes focused on the car/boat in astonishment, and then on mine.