CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Let Them Eat Lobster!

W

e set sail west from Havana a few days after Christmas, not really sure where we were headed. Detailed and current charts of the coast and harbors didn’t really exist, and what did exist was mainly the property of the military. A Spanish couple in the Marina Hemingway had some information, and they generously let us copy it.

We planned to sail around the entire island of Cuba, about 2,000 miles of coastline, or as much as we could once we had proper permission to do so. We inquired with several harbor officials for such an authorization, and they seemed mystified. It seemed there wasn’t any set procedure for this, and that we could just…go. This seemed odd and too good to be true. That’s not what we had read according to other cruisers’ accounts, and we wanted to protect ourselves from bureaucratic entanglements. We prodded them to provide us with some sort of permit or written permission, duly stamped in triplicate, should we have to satisfy some prickly bureaucrat down the road.

Most tourists in Cuba at that time were either Canadian or from European communist eastern bloc nations, visiting through group-organized guided tours. Typically, they would stay in official government designated resorts. Since renegade individual tourists such as ourselves were not common, the Cuban system lacked set procedures on how to handle our request to travel freely about the country.

Eventually, Michel established a rapport with Señor Antonio Pardo, the Jefe de l’Aduana (Customs Chief) at the Marina Hemingway. Together they set about creating an "official" travel plan. The two of them pored over charts, identifying viable harbors for us to enter, pointing out the military stations that were off limits, noting dangerous rocks, coastal outcroppings, and coral reefs to avoid. Together they came up with a guideline itinerary, and Señor Pardo said he would inform harbor officials along the way of our possible visits. He assured us that we would be free to roam with no timeline hindrance and that authorities wouldn’t question our presence.

We decided to target the fishing village of Santa Lucia, west of the Marina Hemingway, en route to the western tip of Cuba. This would be our first attempt at entering a Cuban harbor with no viable chart and only some sketchy information. Toward the late afternoon, we were fairly sure we saw the two channel buoys that had been indicated to us. Since unknown reefs were an ever-present danger, our depth sounder was always on. We tried to call up a harbor authority on the VHF radio, but there was no response.

Once we were inside the channel, we flagged down a fishing boat, and they very kindly led us the rest of the way. The channel was lined with mangroves, and the fishermen waved us onward through a bend in the waterway. Not to worry, they reassured us, it was deep enough for our keel; we wouldn’t hit high ground. More mangroves provided total shelter from the breeze while we continued to motor along in a still, peaceful calm. Finally, we eyed some factory smokestacks, a few barges, a crane, a few fishing skiffs, and a military vessel all nestled snugly in a muddy little cul-de-sac bay. It was a drab looking scene, yet what we wanted—our first look at a slice of the real Cuba. There was no turning back now.

A Guarda Frontera officer waited for us onshore and was polite and congenial. He briefly looked over our passports and papers, and then indicated a gate behind him which we were free to use as we pleased. As we typically proceeded when in a new place, Michel set out first on a quick reconnaissance tour, stepping off the boat onto the wharf where we were tied up. Upon his return, we gathered up the two kids and went on a brief walk about the village. It was a walk into a past, frozen in time as Santa Lucia had the feel of a frontier-era town. Most of the houses were windowless wooden-slat huts, some with thatched palm leaf roofs. There was a simple bakery, an egg stand, and a shoe cobbler, and since most daily necessities were rationed, people waited in line as we had previously seen regularly in Havana. One villager passed us in an ox-drawn cart, while another diligently transported a pig in a wheelbarrow.

Most traffic was on foot while an occasional soldier passed by on a motorcycle sidecar or in a jeep. There was a 1940s-era aerial mining tram that crossed a good portion of the village, transferring copper from a nearby mine to a dumping spot on the harbor wharf. Sean and Brendan were in awe of all of this. Havana was definitely not as modern as Florida, and Santa Lucia was a completely different reality. We drew stares dressed in our comparatively bright, colorful clothing, accompanied by our young redhead and blond-haired tots.

We later met Oscar, a young man who pointedly made his way to our dock and volunteered to guide us around. A tad suspicious that this might have been a planned tactic to restrict our movements, he turned out to be a most gracious host and a valuable resource. He showed us where and how to buy food, and gave us a tour of the local copper mine. Fifty-year-old machinery and techniques maintained the daily operations there. Oscar also took Michel to his family home, introducing his mother who spoke some English. They plied him with dulce de limon, Russian wine, and engaged him in political propaganda discourses on the Cuba of today.

Curiously, foreigners in Cuba could only use U.S. dollars to purchase items. There was no reason to exchange money for Cuban pesos anyway because foreigners were only allowed to frequent diplomercados—stores reserved for tourists that only accepted dollars. However, Michel was determined that we have some pesos in hand. We didn’t know what lay down the road and he didn’t want us to be restricted or hindered for any reason. Besides, traveling outside of the official resort circuit, there were no diplomercados around. Although in theory there was no way for a foreigner to exchange dollars into pesos, I learned to never underestimate this Frenchman on a mission. He found a black-market money exchange connection in Havana, and as it turned out, our original exchange of $100 went a very long way over the next few months.

Thanks to Oscar, we also learned that we could get some supplies in the bodegas, or little local food shops. The shop tenders were most courteous and anxious to make our acquaintance. We were always waved to the front of the line, and since we had no ration tickets, they wouldn’t let us pay cash for items. Shopkeepers didn’t dare accept our pesos since that would put them in a difficult situation. There wasn’t any way they could spend the extra pesos even if we did pay them since people rarely used money instead of ration tickets for their daily necessities. Consequently, we left Santa Lucia with our $100 in pesos intact.

After a few days, it was time to move on, and Oscar was able to give us more detailed coastal chart information. Most importantly, he mentioned we might like to stop at Ensenada El Cajon, a lobster fishing station, or a casa de pesca. We never would have stopped there if it hadn’t been indicated to us. It was a few rickety shacks on stilts, nestled together along a freestanding dock in the middle of nowhere. Although seemingly completely open to the weather elements, coral reefs broke the ocean swell, providing protection for this outstation. Since leaving Santa Lucia, much of the coast was peppered with underlying coral reefs, and thanks to Oscar’s indications, we were getting the hang of navigating through such mazes, blazing our own trails. We glided up to this dock and tied up our lines. No one was around, yet it obviously wasn’t abandoned. There was a generator, a cold storage room, signs of daily life, several aquariums holding lobsters, and even a cat with its litter box. Someone would surely show up soon.

As it turned out, we had arrived over the New Year’s holiday, and a day later, a fishing boat did come in with four men on board. Our presence surprised them, and they duly radioed authorities to confirm who we said we were. Once reassured that our presence was legal, they couldn’t have been more hospitable. We stayed several days, and they fully included us in their daily routines.

Every evening, the dock came alive with frenetic activity as big trawlers came in and unloaded their huge catches of lobsters. Once a boat docked, each man set about his duties, feverishly unloading and sorting, talking loudly, shouting, and laughing. Michel, Sean, and Brendan gleefully joined in the daily commotion, and the fishermen rewarded us with buckets and buckets of lobsters and fish. It was lobster nirvana! Food in Cuba was rationed, yet we gorged ourselves on lobster. We had so much that we even fed it to the cat. Besides eating lobster every night, we began using all our known tricks to save more for a rainy day, freezing, cooking, and canning the extra. Never would such an opportunity come our way again. We couldn’t pay for it; they wouldn’t let us pay for it. Our money was flatly refused.

Although there were a lot of negative facets for Cubans as they went about their daily lives, the government certainly did something right in maintaining, conserving, and even increasing the lobster population. Lobster fishing played a prominent role in Cuba’s economy as a valuable export, and the fishermen were very mindful of this. The government issued strict guidelines regarding the legal size of lobsters that could be caught, the times of year they were allowed to be fished, and rules regarding juveniles and females with eggs that were to be thrown back. Consequently, there was an abundant lobster population despite the huge amount hauled up daily.

We developed a genuine friendship with the men as we settled into their daily routine at this coastal outpost. They were eager to have us try their cooking, and I would reciprocate by offering some of my bread and cake. They also treasured a bottle of whiskey we offered—a rare treat for them. Sean and Brendan became very comfortable, whiling away hours with the men, helping them with various tasks, picking up some spotty Spanish, sitting with them in the evenings, and even watching the movie E.T. with them. The boys even learned to snorkel there, in the clear turquoise shallows.

Later, we learned that we had been quite reckless when we first arrived in the area. Before finding the station, we were anchored for a day or two in a nearby shallow area, protected by mangroves. Anxious to discover the waters and lobsters, Michel and the boys did some exploratory snorkeling, mostly as an introduction for the boys. The fisherman later told us that was a very dangerous thing to do since a type of Cuban crocodile inhabited the waters, especially near the mangroves. Sean and Brendan snorkeled in safety near the dock after that.

Bagunça even had a rare treat and was able to go on land. We didn’t usually let her off the boat if we were at a dock for fear she would panic, run, and get lost on land. Not only that, we were warned that Cubans eagerly caught stray cats and ate them! Since this dock was isolated and surrounded by water, there was little risk that she would get spooked, lost, or become someone’s dinner. So we let her stretch her paws and explore a bit without worrying about her.

After a peaceful, enriching five-day stay, it was time to move on. We needed to fill up on diesel fuel, and the fishermen were able to accommodate us. As with the lobsters, they showered upon us, they refused payment for the fuel as well. For the same reason we couldn’t pay for food in the bodegas, we couldn’t pay for either of these. The government provided the fuel for the trawlers, and the fishermen were state employees. So, how would they justify receiving extra cash for fuel or lobsters sold to us?