20

THE BACK OF my eyelids were filled with orange light. So even though my eyes were still shut, I knew that the sun had come up. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in days. The worst taste in the world was living inside my mouth. I opened my lips a crack to suck in some fresh air, trying to diffuse it.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my upper arm in a frenzy. I figured we were about to be slammed by another monster wave, and my entire body tensed.

It was Luis, and he shouted, “Land! I think that’s land!”

He was pointing straight ahead into the distance. It took a few seconds for my eyes to focus. Uncle Ramon was awake now, too, jumping up and blocking my view. But when I finally was able to see over his shoulder, I saw that Luis was right.

There were tall buildings and a beach, maybe four or five miles away.

Only Gabriel was sitting calmly behind the steering wheel.

“When were you going to let us know?” Uncle Ramon asked him excitedly.

“At first, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. That I wasn’t dreaming,” answered Gabriel, with a look of satisfaction. “Then I decided that I didn’t want to cheat you out of that moment of seeing it for yourselves.”

“Is it Miami?” I asked.

“We won’t know for sure until we’re there,” answered Gabriel, pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

“Pinch me, Julio,” said Luis. “I want to know that this is for real, not a dream.”

“All right, but you don’t need to pinch me,” I replied. “None of my dreams have been this good lately.”

Getting closer, we could see windsurfers on their boards. Luis and I climbed up onto the roof of the car/boat and started waving. Then a cluster of windsurfers gathered, before turning their sails around and heading toward us.

“Think they’re excited to meet Cuban refugees?” Luis asked.

“No, I think they’ve never seen a green fifty-nine Buick before,” I answered.

That’s when I heard the siren. There was a big gray ship, probably a mile off, closing in from our right. I could see the US flag on its side.

Gabriel hit his horn in return, and the sound waves vibrated through the soles of my feet.

“You see the red, white, and blue?” asked Luis.

I nodded my head, thinking how it was the same three colors as the Cuban flag, only with fifty small stars instead of a single giant one.

A voice came over the ship’s loudspeaker in Spanish.

“This is the United States Coast Guard!” it bellowed, with an echo. “You are in US waters! Shut off your engine! Put your hands on top of your head!”

– – –

“Have we made it far enough to stay?” I asked my uncle, leaning down into the cabin. “Not to get sent back?”

Uncle Ramon climbed onto the roof with us, while Gabriel kept driving with the engine still running.

“Gabriel thinks this is good enough,” said Uncle Ramon.

“How could it be better?” I asked.

“If we were standing on US soil,” he answered.

The voice on the loudspeaker repeated its demands. Then that ship launched a smaller, faster boat, full of uniformed men.

“I’m not taking any chances,” I said. “I’m going to swim for the beach.”

Luis told his father, “You go, too. Maybe it’ll help us all.”

“No way I’ll leave you here,” my uncle said, an instant before I dove into the water.

I was swimming in a straight line, as fast as I could, riding every wave to pick up speed. Gabriel finally shut off his engine. Glancing back, I could see them all with their hands on their heads.

That smaller boat reached the Buick, and now a second one was motoring after me. I was kicking my legs harder, reaching with every stroke. I was already exhausted. But there was no way I was going to stop.

Ahead of me, one of the windsurfers had broken away from the others, coming in my direction. He reached out a hand, like he wanted to pull me onto his board. But I kept on swimming.

“Behöver hjälp?” he asked, lowering the sail and paddling alongside me.

I didn’t know what language that was. All I knew was that it wasn’t English. And that really freaked me out, like I might be swimming toward the wrong shore.

That boat was getting closer, and I’d reached a group of windsurfers, maybe a hundred yards off the beach. I was so focused on going forward that my brain couldn’t link together their words. But my ears understood they were speaking both English and Spanish to me.

My arms felt like limp rubber bands, and my lungs ached until I thought they were going to explode. Then, about fifty yards out, I heard the cheers from the people on the beach. And that sound gave me an added surge of strength.

I heard the motor of that boat getting closer. So I turned my head to see where it was. That’s when a wave broke overtop me and I swallowed a mouthful of seawater.

I was closer to the shore than that boat was to me. I was choking and gagging now. Someone grabbed me around the shoulders and started dragging me in. But as soon as it was shallow enough for my feet to touch the bottom, I got myself free from that person’s grasp and propelled myself toward the sand.

Before I knew it my chest was out of the water, and then my waist. I staggered onto the dry sand, falling to my knees. I touched the ground like it was home plate and I’d been rounding the bases. Only I wasn’t safe. I was free.

The applause and the motor were ringing in my ears.

I collapsed face-first into the sand, and it stuck all around my lips and mouth. I’d seen photos of people kissing the ground, grateful to be somewhere. But this was different. I could taste it.

Then someone in the crowd turned me over, putting something ice-cold into my hand.

“Drink. Drink,” a woman said in English.

I looked and it was a can of Pepsi.

The sound of the motor stopped and the circle of people around me opened. A man, maybe in his early thirties, with a complexion that looked like mine, came walking through. He was wearing a blue uniform and hat, with a holstered pistol strapped to his right hip.

I put the can down into the sand, before I ever took a sip. Then I held out both my wrists, expecting him to handcuff me.

He stood over me with his hands on his hips. Then in Spanish he said, “I’m Chief Petty Officer Sebastian Rodriguez. You sail from Cuba? Looking for asylum?”

I nodded, with the salt water dripping from my chin.

“You didn’t have to swim so fast. Once you hit the water, I wasn’t going to stop you from reaching shore. I’m just glad you didn’t drown. Do you need a doctor?”

I shook my head. And when I finally caught my breath, I asked, “You won’t send them back, my family in the car/boat?”

“It’s not up to me,” he answered. “There’s a government agency—Immigration and Naturalization Service. They take care of that. But unless you’re terrorists, you’ll probably all be allowed to remain. Basically, it’s your reward for surviving the trip.”

“I’m not a terrorist,” I said. “I’m a shortstop.”

“That’s always better,” he said, smiling from the corners of his mouth.

I couldn’t believe it. I was actually here, alive and in one piece. It was like being reborn. Every breath seemed new, and even the sun felt different on my skin.

Suddenly, there were more sirens, this time from the street beyond the beach, and the sound of another motor on the ocean in front of me.

Uncle Ramon, Luis, and Gabriel were coming ashore with some officers in a small boat. Then a pair of ambulances and three carloads of agents in blue Windbreakers with the letters INS across the front and back arrived.

Luis leaped onto the sand. He ran up and threw his arms around me.

“How long?” I asked him.

“Sixty-two and a half hours,” he answered through his hug.

“That’s a long trip in a Buick,” said Officer Rodriguez. “Who put that thing together?”

“That was our guardian angel here,” answered Uncle Ramon, kissing Gabriel once on the forehead. “We made it on a wing and a prayer, right?”

“Always,” answered Gabriel, with his hands clasped to heaven.

“My men are checking it over from top to bottom now,” said Officer Rodriguez. “If it’s clean, you’re probably in good shape to stay.”

“Don’t worry. No drugs. No guns,” said Uncle Ramon.

“Just three coconuts waiting to be cracked,” added Luis, lightly punching my arm.

People all over the beach were taking photos of us with their cell phones. But Officer Rodriguez wouldn’t let any of them pose with us.

“Buena suerte con su beisbol,” said Officer Rodriguez, wishing me well before handing us over to a Spanish-speaking INS agent.

“Good luck?” questioned Uncle Ramon. “This is the son of El Fuego, soon-to-be World Champion. He was born with skills.”

That statement brought more cheers and photos from the crowd.

I couldn’t tell by the look on Officer Rodriguez’s face if he’d ever heard of Papi or not. But for some reason, I almost wished he hadn’t.

“Family’s important,” said Officer Rodriguez, with his brown eyes on mine.

Then he turned away and gathered his men, before walking back to his boat.

We didn’t want any medical treatment. So that INS agent took us to his car.

“Excuse me, but what year model is this?” Luis asked him as we got in.

“I believe it’s a twenty-twelve,” he answered.

“Can you imagine that, Cousin? A two thousand and twelve,” Luis said in awe. “I’ll bet you it rides like a dream.”