CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

El Portillo, A Gateway

A

fter our three years of being plugged back into the routine of civilization in Florida, our Cuban interlude was proving to be the perfect transition as we readjusted our internal clocks and daily activities. We were re-acquainting ourselves with the cruising mode of living but made some changes this time around. Sean and Brendan, now six and nine years old, were considerably older from when we first departed France. They were now a huge help as crew, participating enthusiastically in the maneuvers when they could. We were surprised and pleased by their innate sense of interacting with the wind and how the boat should feel. They just naturally knew where the wind was coming from and how to adjust the sails—something that didn't come naturally for me. I needed the "telltale cheaters" (fabric strips attached at strategic spots in the rigging) to indicate the direction of the wind. They had grown up with the feel of the wind.

Despite some discomfort with his implanted defibrillator, Michel was doing well. We did have a bit of a constraint, however, in that we needed to test the status of the defibrillator battery once a month—we had been supplied with a special testing device to do this. Every once in awhile, the testing device itself needed to be charged. We ran into a problem in one anchorage when we left the testing device plugged into a random outlet we found in a cement gazebo-type structure on the shore, not far from our boat. Apparently, the Cuban soldier on duty was alarmed, disconnected it, and took it back to his superiors. We were alarmed when we went to retrieve it, and it was nowhere to be found! Michel quickly found the officer in charge and was able to explain how vital the machine was for his health problem, and that no, it was not some newfangled spy equipment. Reassured, they returned it.

We were struck by how no two places in Cuba looked alike. From the Spanish colonial architecture of Havana to the offshore casas de pesca, and the muddy bay of Santa Lucia, to the dirt-trodden main street of baseball haven Cortez. We sailed onward to the factory town of La Coloma, the white beached island of Cayo de San Felipe, bustling Nueva Gerona on the Isla de la Juventud, and Cayo Largo with its resident turquoise iguanas.

While in Nueva Gerona, some locals told us about a nice outing amidst an area of marble mountains and quarries that was reputed as a good hiking destination with the added bonus of a cave and underground stream. After our climb, we found the cave quite easily but hesitated at the foreboding, steep descent required to enter. We finally convinced ourselves to take the plunge with no regrets, entering a hidden room with stalactites. It was magical; a new adventure for all of us. Climbing back up was athletic, scraping along with our hands and feet searching for footholds in the cliffs and rocks until we poked through the surface.

Brendan was elated. "That was much better than I thought it could be!" he declared.

I know now that this seemingly ordinary outing may have sparked a flame within Brendan, mapping out for him today a then-undiscovered desire and talent for rock climbing. Today this is his overriding passion.

We had just left the relaxing atmosphere of Cienfuegos, and the colonial cobblestoned streets of the preserved museum town of Trinidad, when we spied the unmistakable red diagonal stripe across the hull of a U.S. Coast Guard vessel. We were almost certain that we were in Cuban waters, so what was the U.S. Coast Guard doing here? It seems they had the same question of us. What were we doing here, they queried over Channel 16 on the VHF radio.

At first, we pretended not to hear them, but it was hard to ignore their growing presence in our wake as they kept a tight course on us. The international boundary must not have been far off because then the vessel suddenly seemed to mark time, sitting in place.

"U.S. Coast Guard to sailing vessel: Who are you; what is your nationality; what is your vessel's name; where are you going; where are you coming from…?" the radio called repeatedly.

They knew we must have seen them. We stalled for time. They had undoubtedly already identified us from the name emblazoned on our port and starboard sides, as well as the obligatory American flag that flew from our stern.

"Yes, this is sailing vessel Cowabunga to U.S. Guard, we copy," I finally answered.

"We want to warn you that you are in Cuban waters," they responded.

"Yes, we are sailing in Cuba, and we have a visa." A slightly awkward moment of silence.

"Could you please tell us where you got the visa and when?"

"In Havana, without any problems."

Since we were a Coast Guard documented vessel, we were sure they were in simultaneous radio contact with authorities in Miami to confirm our boat's identity and paperwork. We must be blacklisted now, and on some sort of watch list for our return to the States. With mutual "over-and-outs," the Coast Guard vessel made an about face and headed back out to sea. There was nothing we could do about it now. We imagined that we'd suffer some legal reentry consequences or retribution eventually—whenever and wherever we returned to the States.

We were soon anchored in the village inlet of El Portillo, Cuba, the foot of the Sierra Maestra mountains—Che Guevara and Fidel Castro's hideout and headquarters, from where they launched their guerrilla warfare revolution that eventually toppled the U.S.-backed Batista regime. El Portillo was something out of the 1800s. Horse drawn carts and wagons crawled down well-trodden dirt paths that the locals shared with roaming pigs, cows, and chickens. Thatched-roof dwellings dotted the landscape, and peasants had a Latin flair with their signature wide-brimmed straw hats. Life was calm in this tropical bay as mangroves hugged the shore, tall coconut trees sketched the foreground skyline, and the Sierra Maestra foothills rose just beyond the main street and the beach.

It was a very rural setting, and with the mountains so close, we were tempted to try a little camping trip. The boys were old enough now to be hikers. However, we were in Cuba, so could we just up and go camping freely? It turned out, the answer was yes. The local authorities were open to the idea, and they even offered to provide us with a local guide so we could find our way to a certain spot they thought we might like. We realized, of course, this was a disguised and polite way to keep a watchful eye on us, but it was all very congenial.

The next day, we hit the trail with our backpacks and a necessary minimum of food, water, clothes, and two tents for just a night or so. Led by our guide, we hiked on uneven, rocky trails to a magical secluded oasis: an aqua lagoon fed by a waterfall, surrounded by high cliffs and palm trees. Our guide bid us goodbye, and we set up camp on a flattened patio area, shaded by a standalone thatched roof canopy. The boys spent the afternoon swimming in the cool lagoon, and we savored our evening around a campfire. It seems the local farmers' pigs and sheep also had the run of the place. In the deep of night, snug in our tents, we heard the shuffling of hooves and the munching of grasses as some of them occasionally passed through our camp. They were here first, and they couldn't be bothered with us.

The next day a group of Canadian tourists arrived around mid-morning on horseback. It seems this little secluded paradise was part of the itinerary for a regular trek hosted by a local resort. Their entourage transported all the trimmings for a noon pig roast, and we were graciously invited to partake with them. We befriended the roaster—the one who turned the pig on the spit for a good four hours. With our rudimentary Spanish, we were able to have a simple conversation, and he invited us to visit his home and farm on our hike back to El Portillo, right along the trail. Our new friend Pita’s farm was beautiful and quaint in its simplicity, as many of the farms were. Thatched roof huts, earthen floors, no TV, no phone, no electricity, no running water, no access by car. Pita and his wife were most welcoming, offering us fresh cut sugarcane to munch on with coffee, and delighting in showing us photographs of all seven of their grown children. They also invited us to spend the night.

Not wanting to be a burden for their simple means, we declined the invitation. We were, however, interested in purchasing one of their chickens so we could have fresh meat for ourselves later. They adamantly refused payment, but once Michel had strung the chicken across his backpack, we snuck some pesos onto their kitchen table as we exited for the hike back. It had been a truly unique experience to be invited into their world.