Waiting on Zapote Street
Love and Loss in Castro’s Cuba
A Novel
Betty Viamontes
Love and Loss in Castro’s Cuba
Copyright © 2015 by Betty Viamontes
All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form, whether printed or electronic, without the express written permission of the author.
Published in the United States by Zapote Street Books, LLC, Tampa, Florida
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events, incidents, and businesses are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or events, or to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9864237-0-3
Zapote Street Books, LLC logo and book cover design by Gloria Adriana Viamontes, cover picture by Betty Viamontes
Printed in the United States of America
To my mother, without whose contributions this book would not be possible. She wanted people to know what happened and encouraged me to write about it.
To the 125,000 men, women, and children who, in 1980, left the coast of Mariel, Cuba, on their journey to freedom, and to those who risked their lives by crossing the Florida Straits in boats of all sizes to rescue them.
To immigrants from all over the world who leave their native lands in search of opportunity and freedom.
I could smell the salt of the sea and hear waves crashing against steel on that moonless April night. It was 1980, the year everything changed—after a decade, people in Cuba were being allowed to emigrate, as long as someone from the United States was willing to come get them. Darkness surrounded us, except for our vessel’s faint lights, which reflected on the disturbed black waters. The sixty-seven-foot shrimp boat, the Capt. J.H., battled its way through high waves with over two hundred men, women, and children stuffed into it like the filling inside a rag doll. Havana’s yellow lights had faded over the horizon and the winds were picking up, waving strands of my blond hair in the cool, humid air.
I was sitting on the rusty floor near the stern; my three children—two girls, fifteen and thirteen, and my son, eleven—were huddled around me. I ordered them to get closer to me and to hold on to whatever they could, a way of fooling myself into believing I had some control, when in reality since the moment I had stepped into this boat I had controlled nothing. My hands turned clammy as I watched the sky light up and heard thunder rumble above us.
Moments later, the rain, falling in thick drops, was upon us. The waves seemed higher than before now and slammed the sides of our boat, hard, while our vessel flapped its “wings” (two long pole booms, one extending from each side) as if trying to maintain its balance. I was not sure what I feared most: the display of nature’s fireworks and thunder above us or the fierceness of the sea, all competing for my attention. Sometimes, the boat would tilt so far, the boom on that side would splash the water with tremendous force, creating a shower of seawater over us. Other times, the waves lifted our vessel high up, closer to the sky, only to drop it in the trench between the waves like a toy.
We were now soaked. I could taste the salt on my lips. People who were sickened by the motion of the boat lined up along the lengths of the port and starboard to regurgitate, heads down toward the sea. Flying vomit blended with the horizontal rain. Men protected the seasick women and children from falling overboard, either by placing one arm around them and holding on to the side of the boat with the other, or by sitting on the floor and holding on to their legs. From the shirtless men who had been brought straight from jail to men who were accompanying their families to the United States, all equally helped their seasick neighbors whether they knew them or not.
I touched my daughters’ hands; they were ice cold, their long, brown hair wet and clumped together in strings. I could sense their fear. My son lifted his head and scanned our surroundings quietly. Thirty minutes earlier, when the lights of Havana were still visible, a Cuban coast-guard boat had approached our vessel and, through loudspeakers, announced that another boat like ours had been taking on water. Their captain had called for help and had already issued orders to abandon ship. The coast guard wanted to know if we had seen the sinking boat.
Even if we had seen it, we could not have done much, as our boat already exceeded its capacity. My father had been a merchant marine and through his stories, I had grown to respect the power of the sea. I could imagine the people who had jumped from the sinking boat, holding on to whatever they could salvage from the vessel. The same could happen to us.
My actions, and those of Rio, my husband, and the father of my children, had brought us to this time and place. We had been driven by the love we felt for each other and for our children. I was drowning in guilt, yet none of the roads I could have chosen would have taken me to a different place. This was the price we had to pay. No matter what, my children and I would face our fate together.
In order to understand the choices we made, it is not enough to hear my side of the story. Rio’s story, told from his perspective, will also help others fathom what our lives became.
People in Cuba believe in destiny. The lives we lived made me a believer.