Myself, I consider the High Seas Summit a masterpiece of diplomacy and a great feather in TNT’s bonnet. Lleland trying to blame the whole fiasco on me. Am disturbed that Marvin should take his side. Joan a great support throughout historic episode.
—JOURNAL, MARCH 15, 1991
I remember the day as if it were yesterday: the clear skies flecked with small clouds, crisp morning breeze, the deep blue color of the Florida Straits, the whop-whop sound of Marine One landing on the huge American flag painted onto the deck of the Diefenbaker; the arrival moments later of the Soviet-made Mi-26 HALO containing President Castro and the Cuban leadership. The anthems, the review of honor guards. (I must say that I thought the Cuban guard a bit tatty.) It was an awesome sight to behold.
We were steaming in a circle, surrounded by a small armada of U.S. and Cuban naval vessels. Off on the horizon was the Soviet guided-missile destroyer Sovremennyy. Beneath the waters the nuclear-attack submarine Chattanooga prowled the deep.
We were steaming in a circle for a reason. Cuba wanted the Diefenbaker to steam south, toward Cuba. The U.S. wanted her to bear north. East was ruled out by us, west by the Cubans, out of deference to the Soviet Union. Marvin had had to come down to Havana with an admiral and a meteorologist. After tense negotiations the idea of steaming in a circle was proposed. The Cubans accepted, but demanded it be in a clockwise direction because, as Foreign Minister Galvan said, they wanted to set the clock forward. At this point the President declared the whole situation “silly” and said all right.
That El Comandante was smitten by the First Lady was immediately apparent. I must say, I had seldom seen her look so beautiful. (The sea has always complemented Mrs. Tucker.) She wore her peach suit with the ruffle neck and ivory stockings; not a sailor’s eye was off her the entire time.
El Comandante bowed low and planted a kiss on her hand. She accepted his arm and accompanied him on a review of his Moncada Battalion troops, President Tucker following docilely behind. It was an egregious breach of protocol.
Lleland came over, bookended by the beady-eyed Phetlock and Withers, and complained, but there was hardly anything I could do.
By the time the reviewing was over, El Comandante had discovered that Mrs. Tucker spoke Spanish and was even more taken with her. The President was grinding his mandibles, but forcing himself to smile.
Luncheon was more of a success. There had been a great deal of wrangling over the menu. The Cubans wanted their own (revolting) native cuisine—greasy pork and fried plantains. We pushed for a good, hearty North American meal: roast turkey and all the trimmings. They counterproposed chicken, but then an impasse was reached when the Cubans insisted it be boiled and served with black beans. We counter-counterproposed Southern-frying it and serving it with new potatoes and green peas. Just when it looked like a mealless summit, the Canadians offered to undertake the catering. This was acceptable to both parties, and so we sat down to a lunch of smoked rainbow trout and Melton Mowbray pie, accompanied by Okanagan Valley Pinot Noir and Zinfandel. I am quite partial myself to Melton Mowbray pie, and I was told the Okanagan wines were “drinkable,” which is, I suppose, what wine should be.
The President and Castro were seated next to each other, with the First Lady on the Premier’s left. Castro began by telling Mrs. Tucker he had seen all her films. This seemed greatly to distress the President, what with the First Lady’s celebrated déshabillé scenes in Minnesota Hots. Except for a few opening pleasantries with the President, El Comandante spent most of the lunch talking with her. By the time dessert arrived, I feared for the President’s enamel, so hard was he grinding his teeth.
At lunch’s end the President stood and spoke for eleven minutes—about the importance of the day, the need for dialogue and understanding, and ended with his pledge to “forge vibrant links” between our two countries. It was an admirably delivered talk, I thought, and quite appropriate to the occasion.
El Comandante’s people had assured us he would speak for eleven minutes as well; that had been all hammered out in advance. He was known to give five-hour speeches, so particular attention was given to this detail. Eleven minutes, Docal had assured me.
As everyone who has watched the live broadcast remembers, El Comandante spoke for fifty-five minutes. Twenty minutes into what became known as “El Discurso Enorme” (literally, “the enormous speech”) President Tucker’s face assumed a passivity that a volcanic eruption could not have disturbed. He did not even flinch when Castro got to the part about America’s “history of felonious foreign policy” vis-à-vis Cuba.
The networks were furious too, since they were locked into live coverage and El Comandante was cutting into the soap-opera time. In sum, no one was happy—except for El Comandante, whose protracted expatiations inflicted incalculable damage on the administration. There was not much discussion aboard Marine One on the flight back to Key West that afternoon.