CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cuba, the Other Side of the Divide

F

rom the time of Adam and Eve, there is something about a forbidden fruit that makes it all that more enticing. Likewise, our curiosity was piqued by stories of sailing to Cuba and the cruising experience on the other side of the divide. In our French sailing circles, as well as in the French sailing press and even American cruising magazines, Cuba was touted as a distinctive place to visit with a sailboat. It was praised for its distance from madding crowds in the West Indies, affordability, genuinely friendly population, unique places to explore and discover, and of course its history.

Prior to beginning this trip and truly envisioning sailing to Cuba, we needed to find out the real scoop about whether or not we could legally travel to Cuba, and how to go about it. I first made a phone call to the United States Department of State, inquiring if it was in fact forbidden to travel to Cuba. If other American boats had gone there, how was it possible? The U.S. government cannot forbid an American from going anywhere, I was told. The stipulation was that should Americans venture there, they were not allowed to bring back any items purchased, or be subject to a fine and the items would be confiscated upon return to the U.S. That wasn't much of a deterrent for us since we wouldn't be coming right back to the States.

Next, we contacted Cuban authorities to find out what visa was required, if any, and how to go about procuring that. They informed us that it was not necessary to obtain a tourist visa before going to Cuba, either for French or American citizens, and that sailing to Havana would be very straightforward. All we needed to do was hail the port authorities on the VHF radio as we approached the harbor, and they would give us instructions from that point on, no strings attached. Hmmm. This really seemed too easy given everything we’d understood and feared up to this point. We determined there must have been a catch, but still, we ventured forth to the land of Fidel the infidel.

We sailed from Key West on basically an overnight trip. It seemed strange to set out from a U.S. harbor with a compass set straight for the "enemy." I kept expecting a Coast Guard vessel to appear and begin accosting us with a PA system, menacingly inquiring as to our intentions. Instead, the Cuban coast came within our sights by daybreak, and we unceremoniously hailed the port of Havana on our VHF radio, as we were instructed to do.

Our arrival and welcome from the Cuban authorities was one of the most unexpectedly gracious experiences we had encountered in our six years of sailing. Our only other such memorable warm welcome was in Buenos Aires, Argentina. It must have been the Latin nature. Once hailed on the VHF radio, the Havana port authorities informed us in English that they were sending out a military escort to guide us to the Marina Hemingway, ten miles west of Havana. We weren't too sure what to expect from this "military escort." Would we be seized after all? Would there be hefty fines to pay? Would we be suspected spies? We were sure they would be brandishing guns, demanding to do a full search of our boat.

The Guarda Frontera patrol boat crew proved to be very courteous. Bidding that we follow them to the marina channel, a young man in a small outboard engine-powered boat came out to meet us at the marina jetty. The military escort bid us goodbye as the young man took over and led us into the marina channel. He signaled that we tie up at the entrance in front of the customs office. Several customs officers came aboard then, extremely cordial and matter-of-fact in their manner. There were just a few papers to fill out, an obligation to hand over our .22 rifle for safekeeping during our stay, and a quick perfunctory inspection of the boat. I pointedly asked if there was a problem that our American-flagged boat was in Cuban waters with the intention of staying for a while.

"None," they answered. We were as welcome as any other tourist from any other country.

"We don’t have a problem with you being here," an officer told me. "It’s our governments that have a problem with each other."

Once these first formalities were finished, we were instructed to continue to the immigration and health authorities’ station inside the marina itself. Firing up the engine again, we continued briefly down the channel and turned the corner where we were thrust into a scene frozen in time. An expansive, completely empty marina lay before us. Amongst hundreds of slips, only three boats were docked, including us. Incredibly clear, bright turquoise water framed rows of decaying docks, upended chunks of broken cement, rusted iron rebar, and dilapidated buildings…thirty years of neglect.

Once we were deemed legal, Nadia, the government marina public relations official appeared and welcomed us in excellent English, pleasantly informing us that she would do the necessary paperwork to procure our legal permanent tourist visas. Nadia was accompanied by a young man in pressed white slacks, a white waiter vest, and a white apron. He sported a large, elegant serving tray laden with coffee, orange juice, water, and mojito cocktails, complete with a serving towel dressed over his arm! This was quite a spectacle as he stood framed by the hot sun and decaying cement. We didn't know what to make of this. Never could we have imagined an American marina welcoming a foreign traveler in such a manner.

We delighted in this unexpected honor and settled in at the Marina Hemingway, aptly named for the celebrity whom Cubans seemed to hold so dearly in their hearts. The marina itself was part of Ernest Hemingway’s old stomping grounds, as he would set out from here on his regular fishing trips. Along with the marina honoring his name, there was also the Hotel El Viejo y El Mar, the Hotel of the Old Man and the Sea, Restaurant Papa’s, and various statues erected in Hemingway’s memory.

The next day Nadia returned with our visas, valid for one month and good for two subsequent renewals, thus good for a total of three months. Content that our plans were going well and that Michel, other than some occasional discomfort from his implanted device, was in good spirits and physically nimble, we were excited to begin exploring Cuba. First, we would get to know Havana, spend Christmas there, and learn some of the ways of the locals and the culture before heading out for coastal exploration.