My Trip to Cuba - (Part 9)

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 9)

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them." 

- Desmond Tutu

I feel cheated and lied to. I was told as a kid that roosters crow in the morning sunlight. It was painfully obvious on this trip that I was misinformed. As the rooster, oblivious to my peaceful sleeping, decided to make his presence known at 3 a.m. I jumped awake and for a brief moment, wasn't sure where I was. The smells of the farm, of mud and decaying manure coming in through the open windows, quickly reminded me of where I was.

I was trying to fall back asleep, thinking of frying a particular loud and obnoxious rooster, but through the windows emitted a soft moonlight that spread across the room. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, something moving on the wall across from me. The moonlight and gentle breeze were causing shadows to dance across the walls and the mosquito net that was draped over my son and I.  But this was no peaceful shadow slowly dancing back and forth.  It was a huge, hairy, tarantula-looking spider about the size of the palm of my hand and just a few feet over from it was one of the largest palmetto bugs I have ever seen. I quickly brought my foot, which had slid out from under the mosquito net, back into the confines of the now highly valued shelter.  Visions of the two insects plotting my demise made for increased anxiety.  The idea of waking up to something crawling across my face coupled with the anticipation of the tomorrow's activities made it difficult to sleep peacefully. I slept on and off for a couple of more hours until I heard my uncle stirring awake. The bugs were now gone, the spider probably making a meal out of the roach or both having retreated to their hiding place.  "Good riddance!" I thought to myself.

The suitcases, which had traveled with us wherever we went, would stay here so I filled my small backpack with our identification papers, some money and our water purifiers. We made our way next door to our cousins house where we had some Cuban coffee for breakfast.

One of the things that made the biggest impression on me and my son was everyone's hospitality. We were constantly being asked if we wanted something, if we were ok. They would offer up their chair for us to sit in. We instantly felt like family which was very comforting. Because of their caring and nurturing, we never felt like an outsider, as if the time and miles that kept us apart all of these years were insignificant. It's one of the things that stuck with us long after we returned home and I still think about when I reflect back on my trip.

As we exited the house to make our way to Mongo's house, my cousin's son was preparing his horse for the day.  As far as I know this was the only horse, and transportation my family owned. The horse, like the others, was very thin, but beautiful nonetheless.  He asked me if I wanted to ride the horse.  As I began walking towards the horse, I noticed the horse had no saddle. I also noticed that I outweighed the owner of the horse by at least 50 pounds. I could see myself climbing atop the bareback horse and the horse quickly protesting the extra weight and bucking me off and leaving me lying on the ground with bones protruding through my skin or some other kind of serious injury. I have a friend who nearly died from such an injury and the fact that there is no 911 or emergency services made me instantly change my mind. My son; however, declared eagerly that he would take my place.

The horse turned out to be very tranquil and my son, having never ridden a horse, rode the bareback animal across the road and back. He looked like a natural and the beautiful animal was very accommodating. I think the horse was just happy that he didn't have to carry me!

The thought of a serious injury had gotten me thinking, so I asked my uncle about emergency services and he didn't seem to understand what I was talking about. Loli explained to me that there are no ambulances or firetrucks in this village or any village within 4 hours. So, basically, you would have to wait for an ambulance to come from Havana. That seemed crazy to me, barbaric in a sense.  In Henry County FD, we strive for 7-minute response times in EMS and they seem comfortable with a 4-hour response time. Crazy!

The house we slept in the night before belonged to my cousin, Martha. It was the house my grandmother lived and died in and it was next to the main road that went from Bay of Pigs, through Cayo Ramona (where I had additional family) through Bermejas (where I currently was) and beyond.  Across the street was a bus stop.  Next to the house, was the dirt road we would walk up and down as we made our way from Mongo's house to Martha's house.  Where the dirt road met the highway, for lack of a better word, was a small store that sold soft drinks, candy and sometimes sandwiches. I was hungry, having skipped breakfast, so I approached to buy a sandwich. "We don't have any," the lady said, but we have a few soft drinks and a few pastries. I bought Eric a cola and we shared a couple of pastries. Below is a google image of the village my family lives in.

https://www.google.com/maps/@22.1378105,-80.9578363,783m/data=!3m1!1e3




Across the dirt road was the government grocery store. I figured I would step inside and possibly buy a huge bag of chicken or rice or something that I could give my family in order to feel like I contributed in some way. I asked Loli about making such a purchase and I was advised against it. The grocery store, which was run by the government, was where you picked up your rations. If you had some extra money, you could buy what was on the shelves, but buying too much food would raise a few eyebrows and garner the attention of the local official. "Ridiculous!" I thought.  I can't even buy extra food without a government official questioning me.

I stepped inside the store and I instantly felt sorrow. The store looked more like an over-sized kiosk. There were small chalkboard signs advertising items for sale, such as a can of tomato paste for $130.00 or a box of matches for $1.00. There was a set of old wooden shelves that ran along the back wall. Tucked away in the corner on one of the shelves was an old cash register.  There were quite a few green plastic bottles with hand written labels affixed to them. I'm not sure what was in them and I never found out. A small counter separated us from the employee and the goods on the shelves. No browsing or reading labels here. In the other corner was a roll of pipe and a few hardware items such as a mop and a strainer of some sort.  Matches, cigars and various fruits were advertised but nowhere to be seen. My uncle, Onelio, bought some cigars, which appeared from a room in the back and stuffed them in the front pocket of his shirt. He flirted with the ladies behind the counter, something he did with every woman we met, and we left the store.

I tried to imagine what it would be like not having choices when it comes to buying food. Not having the money to buy a can of tomato sauce or a box of mac and cheese. How many nights as newlyweds did my wife and I get by with spaghetti or mac and cheese with hot dogs. I bet we know 20 different ways to prepare mac and cheese, and to think, I thought I was missing something or struggling.  What these people wouldn't give to struggle like that!

We left the store and took the dirt road down to Mongo's house. As the dirt and pieces of coral crunched beneath my feet, I took in the surroundings and breathed the morning air. The road and surrounding houses, shacks really, reminded me of pictures I'd seen of the past from small rural farm towns in Georgia. Old wood clapboard houses with tin roofs, built upon pillars of brick and a small porch in front. Instead of pines, moss-covered oak trees or rows of pecan trees, these had scattered palm and plantain trees.  Most of the houses had 5-gallon drums on the front porch where they kept their drinking water.  Some houses had small gardens in the back, which had only been recently allowed by the government. Beyond these houses, and slowly creeping in towards the dirt road, was nothing but jungle.

We arrived at my Uncle Mongo's house and Onelio decided to sit down and smoke one of the cigars he picked up at the government store.  My uncle, Mongo, asked me if I'd like to take a walk.  We set off further down the dirt road into the jungle.
 
He first took me across from his house to an area just 50 yards up the road. He pointed out a large area and stated that it used to belong to my cousin, Frankie, before he escaped to America. This was his pasture where he kept his animals for the government. Upon closer inspection, I could make out the old fence.  As I took another step closer, Mongo quickly stopped me.  He pointed to a bush I was about to lean into and told me to take a closer look.  As I looked closer, expecting to see a snake or a spider, but I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He hesitantly grabbed a branch from the bush in front of me and then I noticed some fierce barbs all along the branches.  The bush was covered in long thorns an inch or more in length.

He said, "This is the Marabu plant." I found out it is also called the sickle bush, but the Cubans call it "el marabu". The plant was brought here during the 19th century, probably because of its beautiful flowers.  My uncle said the plant was brought here by the Japanese, but I later read it was brought here from Africa.  Unknown to the importers, whomever they were, the Cuban soil and climate were a prime growing habitat for the plant and it quickly took over most of the uninhabited land and is now taking over the rest of the island. There are now efforts to rid, or at least curtail, the spread of this menacing plant. The plant and the roots must be removed and if any of the roots are left in the ground, they will quickly sprout new plants. One bright note is that they have found that the plant makes a charcoal of extremely high quality due to its high ratio of carbon.

My uncle shared a few stories of Frankie and his farm which is now an unrecognizable mass of overgrown plants and looks as if it has been swallowed by the jungle. My uncle and I turned back and we kept walking past his house and my cousin's, who lives next door, and we came upon the last house in the village. The house was about 10 feet by 15 feet and looked like it was abandoned. I asked about it and he informed me that someone still lives there and he will probably stop by later. The house, he said, was just a one room shack, everything else is done outside. Outside I could see his barrel of water, a ragged old chair and a charcoal stove that seemed to be very common in the village.

The road I was walking down, as my uncle explained to me, leads to the ocean. It is about a 7-mile walk down this dirt road, through the jungle, without another house in sight. Walking down this road became surreal to me.  My uncle explained, with a smile on his face, that all of the brothers would take this road to the ocean where they would swim and fish and camp out by the sea.  They would spend the night by the moonlit ocean fishing, listening to the seagulls and the waves crashing against the rocks and make their way back the following day.  These memories seemed very dear to him and I felt they reminded him of a much easier time, of an easier life.  I remembered as a kid, my father telling me the same stories.  My father even shared a few pictures from those days, young brothers holding their catch up for the camera, victory grins plastered on their faces - the innocence of youth seen with each smiling face.

My uncle abruptly paused, and with an undertone of sadness, he tells me he should have listened to my father.  I wasn't sure what he was talking about.  Sensing this he repeated what he said, "I should have listened to your dad, your dad told me what Cuba would turn into, but I didn't want to believe him.  I'm approaching the end of my life and I will never know prosperity, freedom or opportunity.  Until I die, I will never truly be a free man. Your father knew what was coming and he was brave enough to change his life. We are all very happy for your father, very proud of what he has done, I just wish we all had listened to him!"

Ironically, the area we were standing in at that moment, was the area my father came out of the jungle and was staring at a jeep with a machine gunner looking in the opposite direction.  My father wasn't detected, but he knew it was pointless, the war against Castro was lost, and he could see that they were questioning his family.  He had no choice, he announced himself and with a nervous and sad voice,  greeted his captors.
We continued down the dirt road and we were quickly surrounded by ever thickening jungle. The jungle was incredibly dark with the canopy blocking out the sun and I couldn't imagine what it was like to fight in this jungle. I imagined my father walking from here all the way to the beach, to the Bay of Pigs and back again fighting against Castro's troops. I was in awe of the desperation and determination it must have taken my father and the others that joined him to fight in that battle.

As we continued walking, my uncle began telling me a story that is known to everyone in town.  A long time ago, a communist man fled his government, he was said to be from Spain.  He was known as "Old Man Vison."  He was supposedly fleeing capture, so he decided to settle, secluded from society, about a half mile further down this road we were walking down. This man, it was rumored, was a man of importance where he came from and was extremely wealthy.  Where he kept his money, no one knew.  One morning, he was found dead, hanging by a tree near his home.  Fingers were pointed, but the guilty person or party, if there was one, was never found.
  
Years later, an uncle of mine, by marriage named Armando, decided to build a house and move onto this piece of property.  Before he could get settled in, the Bay of Pigs started and he was captured along with my Father never to return to Cuba.

Years later, somebody decided to settle on this piece of property again. After a few nights there, he walked up to my uncle Mongo and told him he couldn't sleep there anymore. When Mongo asked him why, the man stated that every time he went to sleep he dreamt of a ghostly figure looking over him from atop a pile of something that looked like charcoal. He concluded that the homesite was haunted by the ghost of Old Man Vison.  He packed his belongings and never returned.

Fast forward a few years, a cousin of mine named Becky, who was too young to know of Old Man Vison, began having dreams. She had these dreams repeatedly and to the point that she began to tell people of it. My cousin, Frankie, overheard her telling the dream. She described an old man standing atop a pile of treasure behind a house with an avocado tree in the front yard. He knew exactly what she was dreaming about as she described the old man in detail. She was dreaming of the home of Old Man Vison.

He quickly grabbed another cousin and knowing where the property was located gathered what they could to go and dig for treasure. All they could find was a metal cup and a bowl, but it would have to suffice. They enthusiastically took off running down the road to the old homesite of Old Man Vison. They began digging, and as they did clouds began to move in, the wind started to blow and rain and thunder began. They dropped their utensils and took off running back where they came from. 100 yards down the road, the rain stopped, the sun was shining and there were no signs of it having rained at all. They stopped and stared at each other in amazement.  After a few minutes, they got spooked and both ran home.

My cousin Frankie, despite several attempts, never found treasure there. Later he found something better, freedom!  He was able to escape communism/Socialism and several years later, his wife and kids did the same and, today, they all live happily in Florida.

We walked a little further and as the road turned to the left, Mongo pointed into the jungle and I could faintly make out a path. We took the narrow path about 50 feet into the woods and I found myself standing next to an old tree. The canopy of the jungle darkened out the sun and the temperature seemed to drop about twenty degrees. There was an eerie quietness to the jungle here that had me perplexed, but before I could have time to ponder the situation, Mongo pointed ahead and I could make out a hole, obviously man-made, about 3 feet deep and 15 feet wide. There was an old cup and bowl laying there.  Mongo pointed out that he's done all of this digging and found nothing but coral rocks, He's given up on finding the lost treasure of Old Man Vison. I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy standing here.  I was waiting for something or someone to jump out at me, for lightning to strike or for a snake to squeeze out from the rocks below.  But also, a part of me wanted to start digging.  Mongo had the deflated look of someone that had lost something valuable and I couldn't help thinking that this "treasure" was probably a desperate search for something that would make his life a little easier.  Maybe something that would validate his years of struggling and ,perhaps, give him a few years of a better life.  A life that has always been unobtainable for him and my family living here. I couldn't help but feel sad for my uncle and with sadness and a heavy heart, we left the area.

We made our way back to the road and began walking back to Mongo's house. The sunlight was coming in through the trees and its rays danced across the road as the gentle breeze swayed the branches of the surrounding trees. Being in the jungle made me think of deer hunting in Georgia, so I asked about deer hunting in Cuba.  Mongo stated that there used to be a healthy population of deer, but they are extremely rare since people began hunting them for food. "I haven't seen one in years," he said, "they're probably extinct as far as I know."  "What a shame!" I thought. It seems like many of Cuba's good things are gone and what is left is nothing but a mere shadow of what it once was.

As we returned back to Mongo's house, we made plans to go to the beach in the afternoon. I couldn't wait to go fishing off of the coast and, like when I was a child, the excitement began to build.

Upon arriving at my uncle's house, my cousin advised us that the government's meat provisions were in and he had better go to the store to pick up his ration. Before I could offer him a ride, he grabbed my cousin's bike and took off down the road. I smiled watching my now enthusiastic seventy-something-year old uncle riding a bike down the dirt road with the energy of a child.

When he returned from the store, he had a small plastic sack and he motioned me over to look at his ration of meat.  I looked inside, expecting a package of ground meat wrapped in plastic with its strands of red meat packed into a Styrofoam tray, but instead I saw a brown blob of something, wrapped in nothing but thawed out juices.  Seeing the confused look on my face, he said it was ground meat. I said, "I know, but it looks different." He pointed to it and upon a closer look, it was mixed with oats. It looked different than anything I was used to and in the same bag were a couple of chicken quarters, also thawed out.  Most of the people in the US would riot if they were forced to buy or eat this.

As we walked towards his house, he asked if I was ready to go to the beach. "Of course!" I said, "I'm always ready for that!"  He went inside to change and moments later, Mongo, Onelio, Loli, Eric and I piled into my rental and headed for the beach. I couldn't wait to fish and see the beautiful ocean.

As it turned out, the road to the beach was the very dirt road we had walked in the morning. The dirt road makes its way through the dense jungle for about 6 miles.
About a mile into our drive, we came upon a group of lumberjacks. They were all wearing military type uniforms and carrying axes, which they used to harvest the nearby trees. I don't think I saw a single person smiling - they looked more like prisoners than working men.  They actually looked like they would kill somebody if they had the chance.  As some of the men cut down a tree, another would load it into the bed of the trucks parked by the road. They worked with no enthusiasm and stared at us as if we were in a forbidden area. By the look on their faces, it was as if they were asking us to take them with us, their motions robotic and uncaring. I drove a little faster until they were out of sight. 

About every half mile or so, we came upon a small open area that would contain about 12 or more bee boxes.  Before I could ask, my uncle explained to me that my cousin, who we would be seeing later, raises bees and collects honey as his job. He does everything from building the boxes to collecting and packaging the honey.
 
As I was scanning the area, I noticed a large group of crabs in the roadway.  As a child, I remember seeing pictures of the crab migration in Cuba. I always thought they were tiny hermit crabs, but these crabs were large, the size of a blue crab. I asked about them and they explained to me that these are the very crabs I was seeing in pictures.

The crabs begin their migration in the spring when millions of them make their way to the ocean to release their eggs. They are land crabs that live in the jungle floor in holes in the coral floor. They must keep their gills moist or they will die; however, they can not survive in the ocean. Their journey to the ocean is only to release its eggs and then return to the forest.  Many of them will travel 6 miles or more in huge groups that completely cover the ground.  Below is a video of them:

https://youtu.be/7efaivmilno

The first thing that I asked about was their edibility.  Before they could answer my question, I glanced at one I had just ran over and oozing out of its shell was a substance that not only stunk, but it looked like snot.  Mongo laughed when he saw the look on my face. "No, they are not edible."  He continued to tell me that when they swarm, they come through the house, through windows, over furniture - they are everywhere.  He said, "All we need is a good rainstorm and the migration will be in full swing!"  I prayed for sunshine and no rain.  No way was I going to add "looking for crabs in toilet" as part of my checklist for daily toilet use.

As I made my way down the dirt road trying to avoid the crabs so I wouldn't get a puncture in one of my tires, I realized it was soon becoming impossible. What in the world would I do if I had a flat tire, in the middle of the jungle with no spare or AAA to bail me out?   That would make for one horrible story that I did not want to be a part of and I thanked God when we pulled up to the deserted beach!

It was a very windy day, as I stepped out of the car and glanced at the coast. The shore was not sand but a shore of dark coral rocks. It made for a beautiful contrast against the sapphire-colored water. The waves would roll in and as it crashed against the shore, a white spray of water would fan upward pushed towards us by the heavy wind.  What a beautiful sight! There wasn't a single person to be seen and as far as I could see, there weren't any people or buildings, just beautiful, seemingly-endless coastline. 

When I reached where the rocks met the ocean, I glanced down and saw two small crabs making their way through the rocks. I also noticed that the water, right next to the shore, was at least 20 feet down. I later learned that ships, because of the depth, could anchor close enough to the shore here to just put a plank to reach the shore. It was rocky, natural and untouched by mankind. It was, simply-put, majestic! 

Fishing the Cuban coast with my son was going to be one of the highlights of my trip. Untouched for who knows how long. The anticipation was killing me and I quickly made my way back to our car to assemble my fishing rod with visions of catching fish, visions of holding up my catch for the camera, the storytelling at the dinner table as we ate my catch.  I was like a child with excitement.  When I opened the trunk, my heart sank. Remember the suitcases I had unpacked earlier this morning?  Well, they contained my fishing reel and some small tackle I had brought. All I was left with was a fishing rod with no reel, no line and no tackle.  What would have been an opportunity of a lifetime became an epic fail of a lifetime.

As I was kicking myself for my misfortune, my Uncle Mongo motioned me to follow him. I grabbed my glasses and made my way across the rocks and followed him along the shore. After about one hundred yards or so, we came across an opening in the rocks. It was a shallow area, about the size of a swimming pool, that was filled with water from the waves as they crashed against the shore. The bottom was mostly sand and the depth was about 3 feet. I couldn't believe it, it was beautiful!  Eric and I decided to go for a swim and enjoy this incredible location. I placed my glasses on the rocks and jumped into the water.

The water was sky blue against dark rocks that glistened with the overhead sun.  One end of the pool acted like a trough and every time a wave came in, it would splash against the rocks and the water in the pool would be replenished. I could see some small fish swimming below, shells dotted the bottom and some bristle worms were moving in the rocks along the sides. It was like swimming in a salt water aquarium.  It was amazing!

After about 15 minutes of swimming, we climbed out of our private swimming hole and made our way back to the car. Once there, I realized I didn't have my sunglasses. At the very mention of this, my uncle made his way, barefoot, back across the rocks next to where I had jumped in and found them for me.  What amazed me was how he moved with the quickness and nimbleness of a gazelle!

The disappointment of not being able to fish didn't last long as the beauty of this place, the time shared with my son and family, was something I will never forget.

Driving back with grins on our faces, the wind blowing through the open windows was meditative in a way. I simply drove and took in the surrounding jungle. My brain taking snapshots as if it was a camera.  A couple of miles in something amazing happened. A deer ran right across the front of our car.  It was no more than 20 feet from the hood of the car.  My uncles gasped, as did I, as the beautiful creature, believed to be extinct by my uncles, ran across the road we were driving on. It was as if we had seen a unicorn. "Wow!" I thought, "God, now you're just showing off!"

We spent the remainder of the day reliving our trip, drinking coffee, smoking cigars, sharing stories. I saw most of the people in the village that day as they stopped to share stories of my father and uncles. They shared their lives, their opinions and their experiences with me.  We laughed as we watched my cousin's kid playing with a little puppy and we cried as my aunts talked about my grandmother passing away.  The emotions were raw, the love was real and it touched my soul.

I began this trip thinking I would maybe enlighten my family on how the world away from Cuba really is.  I thought I might be able to drive up in my rental car, like a savior, and share my knowledge of the outside world with them, but instead I was the student.  I learned about how love can keep a family together during the toughest of times and how it drives a person to want better for them, even if better is just giving up your month's ration of meat to someone else.  I learned about God's beauty in the untouched.  I learned what a precious gift the love and compassion of family and friends can be, the blessings that come with it, and how, when everything is all said and done, those are the things we will truly miss.

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 8)

"Men are like the stars; some generate their own light while others reflect the brilliance they receive." - Jose Marti

As the ashes of the cigar fell away and the stories turned to talk of food, I realized I was hungry. I wasn't sure how things were going to be here as far as food went. My father had assured me that they would take care of us and that we wouldn't go hungry. He was right. No surprise to him, I'm sure.

To my delight, my aunt, anticipating our arrival, cooked dinner for us. I really didn't feel comfortable eating their food knowing how little they had. But you can't tell them no. They will sit you down and force-feed you.
 
As I sat down, they placed a plate in front of me with rice, some beans and a chicken thigh. I stared at the food knowing that between Eric's drumstick and my chicken thigh, someone had given up their entire month's worth of meat. I also noticed that there were only two plates of food served. Eric's and mine. I was told to not wait on anyone so we began to eat.

I mentioned to Eric that we should only eat what is on our plates and not get seconds, no matter how much they insisted. The food, to my surprise, was delicious. I tried to figure out how, with such limited resources, the food could taste so good. By the end of my trip, I came to the conclusion that it had to be the freshness of the food, the spices, though simplistic, seemed to impart more flavor. We were, after all, eating organic.

As I was nearing the end of my meal, my aunt insisted I eat more food. As she made her way to me with a pan of rice, I told her I was stuffed. Without saying a word, she put a heaping spoonful of rice on my plate. Well, some things are the same here. You can't argue with the cook. By this time, my uncle Mongo had prepared a plate of rice and beans and sat down to the seat vacated by Eric. I asked him why he wasn't eating chicken and he stated that he doesn't eat chicken. He explained to me that as a young man he got gravely ill. That coupled with a food shortage, (there always is a food shortage), the only thing he was allowed to eat for months was chicken broth. He didn't just not like chicken, he despised chicken.

As we ate and talked, it began to get dark inside so my uncle stood up and twisted a couple of wires together on the wall and the small eating area was softly illuminated by a single bulb, hanging by its wire above our heads. After I finished my plate, everyone else served their food and sat down around the table or stood and ate as we continued sharing stories. These stories were mostly centered around food, but I was doing most of the talking. I told a story of my grandmother from Cuba visiting the US.

I remember when I was about 21 years old and living in Miami, My grandmother from Cuba was granted permission to visit us in the U.S. One day, we took her to a grocery store. She stood in awe at the size of the store and the quantity of food on the shelves. Her entire life, she had been told that there wasn't much food and rationing was done so everybody could get their equal share. Imagine being in your seventies and realizing you'd been lied to your whole life.  They nodded in agreement, but nobody there had ever been to the U.S. so I felt as if my story had lost some of its significance.  They echoed the same story as it was told to them by my Grandmother after her return.

My grandmother also had to learn to use modern plumbing. She had no idea how to use a faucet, much less one that has hot and cold water. You'd think that with her husband dead she would have stayed here, but she returned to Cuba. "I wonder why," I often thought. But living your whole life in the same area surrounded by family, I can see why she returned. She returned and lived till her eighties. I never saw her again. When she passed my Father wasn't allowed to return for her funeral. Any family that was here in the US was unable to properly say goodbye. That just doesn't sit right with me, but if the government doesn't care about you while your alive, why would they care about you when your dead?

We stepped outside to talk some more as the sun finished setting over the jungle - red and orange hues painting the sky like a water color painting. What little light it offered seemed to last for a few minutes as it clung to its last existence. I was tired and we needed to wash up and get ready for bed. We decided to wash up and my aunts had already began to boil some water from the well. Eric was first and I knew that this would be a new experience for him. Since there was no running water in the house, there was no shower head.

I'm the type of person that likes to stay in the shower with hot water raining down on me. Sometimes it's as if the water is washing away the stress from the day. It's therapeutic in a sense.  They brought in a large container of water with a cup for us to scoop the water up to rinse.  Both utensils, having been used for years for this purpose, wore the scratches from falling or rubbing against the concrete floor in the shower.

The bathroom, for lack of a better word, was simply a small room with a small hole in the corner where you bathed. There were a couple of ropes stretched across the bathroom, I assumed, for them to dry their clothes and a small bench. There wasn't a sink or a toilet since the house didn't have running water and there wasn't any electricity so there wasn't a light either. There also, wasn't a door. You simply pulled a curtain across the entrance for privacy.

When my aunt took the water into the bathroom, she saw Eric looking towards the ceiling with the light from his cell phone and busted out laughing. She assumed he was looking for a shower head. Through her laughter and her broken English, she tried to explain to Eric that the bucket in her hand is what he uses, there is no shower head. Eric, to his defense, was looking for a light. I went in and explained to him that there isn't a light, showed him where the bench was where he could place his clothes when he undressed and explained to him how to bath with the bucket of water.

We were still laughing when Eric exited the bathroom a few minutes later. He tried to explain through the laughter that he was looking for a shower head. It's difficult to change a Cubans mind especially if it's something amusing.

After Eric was done it was my turn to bathe. As I stood in the pitch black bathroom, I thought of a trip I took a few years ago to Las Vegas. At night the city shone like a beacon through the sky reaching, it seemed, into outer space and beyond. I thought of night time airplane flights -- how you can look down and see the city shining through the night with lights flickering as if a billion lightning bugs are flying by.  How much light we waste with our night lights and motion sensor flood lights. I was also thinking, "Don't drop the soap!"

I got out of the shower and, after more stories and questions, the fullness of the meal, I quickly began to tire. Another Uncle, Onelio, whom I had shared a cigar with notified me that we would be sleeping at his house which was built behind my cousin Julita's house. Her house is where my Grandmother lived in before she passed away.  As we all walked out of Mongo's house and began making our way down the dirt road, Onelio explained to me that we would be sleeping in his bed.  He had a single bed that he would be sleeping in. I protested but Julita and Onelio insisted. Tired and knowing it was a lost battle, I didn't argue back.

Walking down the dirt road, I remember looking at the few houses along the way and wondering how each family survived. My only conclusion was that they survived by helping each other. Could we do that in this country?

Hurricane Andrew, as tragic as it was, did bring most people together. I remember the solidarity amongst the people during that time. The determination and the willingness to help each other rebuild. It seems, however, that sometimes we quickly forget about our fellow man. About helping each other. I felt helpless as I continued walking down the road and seeing the homes in which my family lived. God, as if knowing my thoughts, gave me silence.  Not by shunning me, but by making me realize that there wasn't a single sound. No noise pollution of any kind, an eerie peaceful silence.  The tranquility of the night air made it seem as if my voice would be carried over a thousand miles.

Onelio broke the silence when he began sharing stories of him and my father, of his life after my father left, of a life that I knew nothing about, but desperately wanted to know. He primarily did thatch roofing when he was younger.  He still would if his children didn't get on to him so much when he climbed a ladder, he joked, which garnered a smack from Julita.  He enjoyed his cigars and flirting with the women, he told me to which my cousin agreed. I smiled and quickly realized that humor must be hereditary, since my father would have said the same thing. 

As we approached his house I was overcome with the unmistakable smell of a farm - you know, the smell of manure, mud, animals, of stagnant water and decay.  On this small piece of property, there was a horse, several emaciated dogs and several chickens. The farm smell, for lack of a better word, was a little overwhelming at first, but I got accustomed to it. 

We made our way around the main house and into Onelio's house and as I glanced in, I noticed he had a cot of some sort with a mosquito net over it. To the room behind it was a double bed and it, too, had a mosquito net over it.  "The double bed," he said, "is for you and Eric."  He noticed my inquisitive look at the mosquito net and he explained "the mosquitos here get so bad that sometimes you have to wear a mosquito net over yourself just to eat!"  He continued, "In another month, it will be unbearable for those not used to it."  He showed me his bathroom which consisted of a toilet and a wall hung sink. There was no running water, but he had a couple of buckets full we could use to flush the toilet if necessary. Eric and I brushed our teeth with our treated water and settled in for the night.

As I lay down to go to sleep that night, I began thinking of all the stars I saw walking down that dirt road. Shining down on us were millions of magnificent stars.  Away from city lights or the illumination of neighborhoods, the stars shone so much bigger, bolder and brighter. I thought back to a night when I was 12 years old and my father had taken me fishing in the Florida Keys. I remember the stars from that night as we lay down on the catwalk looking up at God's creation.  Just like these, those stars seemed to be within arms length, brightly shimmering as if they were a reflection on a glass-smooth pond. I wonder now, what my father was thinking as he looked at those dancing stars those many years ago. Was he lost in their tranquility as I was, or was he yearning for his family? Perhaps, tonight, we were all glancing at the same stars and thinking of each other.  To my memories of family, of love and those dancing stars, I fell asleep.

My Trip To Cuba - (Part 7)

"People are like stained glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." Elisabeth Kubler-Ross

As we returned to the road, I glanced for the last time at the beautiful beach we just visited. It slowly faded away in my rear view mirror as did the exuberance of the experience. The next town we were to drive through was Playa Giron or Bay of Pigs as it is commonly known.

My father, as a young teen left school to help his family by working in the sugar cane fields. He would also help his Father, who made charcoal, along with his brothers when he could. As a teenager, he dreamed of freedom and a democratic government. Batista would never offer these freedoms, but during these years someone was gaining popularity. It was Fidel Castro. Fidel promised these things and more and people began supporting him in what would later be known as the Cuban Revolution.

My father, like most at first, was in support of Fidel and ended up working for a key supporter of the revolution. All was well until Castro failed to keep promises and changed his tune by favoring communism. My father and others realized that he was another dictator. My Father, along with many of the farmers and workers in the area would later join with the Brigade 2506 in the Bay of Pigs conflict.

The Brigade 2506 was a CIA-sponsored group of Cuban exiles that were trained in Guatemala to overthrow the Castro regime and bring freedom to the Cuban people. They were all told that on April 17th, 1961 they would, along with US forces, overthrow the government of Fidel Castro.

The US support never came ashore, President Kennedy went back on his word and 72 hours later Fidel Castro fended off the attack. Just writing those words down takes my breath away.

Somehow, Castro had gotten word of the attack and had troops already in position. My Father was captured and put in prison. He escaped prison, not once, but twice and eventually made it here to the United States.  His story is incredible and one that I will begin to write once I'm done with the story of my trip.

Playa Giron is where the final battle took place and a place I had many mixed emotions about going.  As we were approaching Playa Giron, I began noticing tombstones along the road. Upon closer inspection, I noticed these were actually monuments, very large monuments placed by the Cuban government to honor Castro's troops who died fighting for him.

No monuments for the freedom fighters who were either killed in the 72-hour conflict or later killed by firing squad or tortured in prison. Nothing to commemorate them.  








 

As I drove closer to the center of town with these thoughts in my head, I came upon a sign that said "Bay of Pigs, A Victory For Socialism".

The sign to the left says: "Giron, First defeat of the imperialistic Yankees in Latin America"

 

I had thoughts... no, I had visions of destroying the sign and lost in that vision, I wandered into the other lane.  It made me angry, so very angry.  I had just left a beautiful postcard scenery beach and I reflected on that, which helped me focus on the task at hand. I was soon to be face-to-face with family that I had never met and I began to feel a nervous excitement.

Despite the surrounding beauty, I would always feel anger as I drove through this town.

The town of Playa Jiron, the largest I would visit other than Havana, was smaller than I would have thought.  Along the main road, there were people holding signs up advertising the daily special of the restaurant that they ran out of their roadside house. It reminded my of the sign shakers we have in town in the states, only less enthusiastic and no gorilla suits. There were also signs on a few houses that advertised rooms for rent. The Government was allowing citizens to run businesses out of their houses, for a fee of course, and along this street most of the houses were also some sort of business. Most were restaurants and room for rent homes. The houses on the main road were the nicest houses I saw, but once you got away from this small 1/8-mile stretch of road, the scenery changed. Most of the houses away from the main stretch had thatched roofs and looked as if they've never been painted since they were built, if at all.

In the small towns I would visit over the next few days, I seldom saw a car. The only cars I saw were those passing through.  No one in any of these towns seemed to own a car.  I mostly saw people walking on foot with an occasional bicycle or horse-drawn buggy.  I remember my Father talking of walking to Playa Giron during the April 17th conflict, so I knew we had to be close to the small village where my family still lived.


Being close to the ocean, I rolled down the windows to take in the ocean air. It was salty, crisp and very refreshing. There was a steady breeze coming off the ocean and the palm trees danced to an imaginary song as they swayed back and forth.  With the Caribbean blue background and the waves crashing harmoniously against the shore, it was a beautiful sight to see, smell and hear.  I wanted to be a passenger on this stretch of road, so I could daydream and absorb this beauty that I may never see again.  And if Lora were in the car with me, she would tell you that I do drive as if I am the passenger, daydreaming and absorbing the beauty!


As the stretch of road took me away from the beach, we rolled the windows up and drove the short distance back to Cayo Ramona, where an Aunt and several cousins live.  We stopped at my Aunt's home, but she wasn't there, so we decided to continue driving towards Bermejas. On a map there is no name for the small village my family lives in, but it is closest to Bermejas, so that's what we call it.

 
I didn't know exactly what to expect when I arrived at the small village that most of my family lives in.  Even in small towns here in the US, there is usually a gas station, a small grocery store, a blinking red light, train tracks, a church... something.  Something that marks the center of town or something that brings the community together. There was nothing like that here.  The only thing I noticed was a bus stop and a dirt road that left from the two-lane road we traveled on to get there. 


The small village is made up of approximately 20 houses, a small store where rations are distributed and purchases can be made. There was also a bus stop and a small soda stand, for lack of a better word, where sodas and snacks could be purchased.  On occasion, you can get a sandwich or small snack there also.


As I turned down the dirt road headed south, my anticipation grew even more. I glanced at the houses as I drove by and I felt as if I was in a dream. I've wanted and prayed for this moment for so many years and even though my Father wasn't here with me I was supercharged emotionally. I was finally going to meet my family and learn about my Father's upbringing. I would finally be able to put faces with the names that I've heard countless stories about.


I took the fork in the road to the right towards the last set of houses.  We were going to Loli's Dad's house first. I only knew him as Mongo and he is the oldest of my Dad's siblings. As I looked down the road, where the road curved to the right and disappeared into the jungle, I saw a small house with sky blue siding and white horizontal stripes. "That's it!"  Loli said and I slowed to a stop in front of the house.

Upon hearing the car my Uncle, Aunt and a couple of cousins came out.  I think the only times in my life I smiled as big were when I got married and when my children were born. And just like then, my eyes were burning as I fought back tears of joy.  I hugged my Aunt first, then my cousin and made my way to my Uncle.  When Mongo hugged me, I could feel love --the kind of love that you only get from family.  It was as if he didn't want to let go.  It was as if he, like me, had dreamt of this moment and he was trying to make up for all of the years that time had swallowed.  I could see the moisture in their eyes as well and the love I felt was unmeasurable.  There is nothing like family I thought, there is nothing like family!

"Where's your Dad?" they asked and with sadness I informed them that he couldn't get his visa and that he was hoping to come in the near future. Without a phone, there was no way to let them know what had happened.

The kitchen

I took out my camcorder and decided to film as I walked through their home. I stepped through the front door into the small living room and noticed that there was no ceiling. All of the walls were about seven feet tall so the entire house was open from the tops of the walls to the roof. The roof was constructed from local timber and all of the support was round lumber and it looked like bamboo construction. There was a small eating area behind the living room and behind that, I was told, was the kitchen. I eagerly made my way to the back of the house and my heart sank. The kitchen, as they called it, was nothing more than a shelf with an open window.  Outside the window was a vessel for holding water. They had a small table set up with a rice cooker and an electric eye for cooking. A small refrigerator sat in the corner and the other corner had a small washing machine that was like nothing I had seen before.

Washing Machine

I slowly lowered the camera, I couldn't film this. I couldn't believe that I had family that didn't even have running water in their home. I had a pain in the pit of my stomach for all of the wasted water, food and other things we take for granted in this county. I felt guilty for all of the complaints I've voiced that, after seeing this, I should never have spoken.

They ushered me through the house and we made our way to the back. Behind the house was a small work shop* where my uncle worked as a carpenter. Beyond that, there were a few banana trees then the thick jungle which continues about six miles till the jungle meets the ocean.

 




*As it turned out, the shop is actually the remnants of the house was where my father grew up. There was nothing left of it but a roof, its supports and the dirt floor my father walked on.  

The shop had a homemade table saw with a small router type bit sticking out to the side and another table had some sort of sander with an exposed sanding belt. None of the equipment had any safety features as my uncle pointed out to me with his two half-fingers.

In one corner of the shed was a small area where they would boil water for drinking and bathing. Their drinking water, when available, was delivered by truck and placed in two 55 gallon barrels on the front porch. Behind the shed were three small cages each containing what I thought were large rats. I was wrong, they were Hutia. Hutia is a moderately large rodent that nests in the trees or rocks instead of burrowing into the ground. I guess this is their equivalent to our squirrel. Upon closer inspection, they reminded me of the Nutria.  It is hunted in Cuba and used as a food source, which is against the law in Cuba, by the way, to hunt for your own food supply.  However, my uncle, was apparently a very skilled hunter of Hutia.  My uncle explained to me that Hutia are herbivores and when cooked properly were very tasty.  Everybody there echoed his sentiments and I was hoping I would get to eat some before I had to return home.

Mongo, Caridad, Onelio and Loli

Before I knew it, another Uncle, Onelio, and a few more cousins made their way to me and we went around to the front porch.  I was told to bring the car around the back of the house as to not garner any unwanted attention.  The chairs were brought from inside and placed on the front porch, I was given a cigar and the storytelling began.  I know Eric felt lost, not knowing the language and having difficulties understanding the conversation, he had to be.  But laughter is contagious, and the love shared that day can't be held prisoner by a language barrier.  He felt it, as did I, and I couldn't help but to think of my Father, my wife, my daughter and the rest of my family and how I wish they could be here. 


I thought again of all of the things we take for granted in life and how sometimes our priorities are misplaced.  My family cried as I asked about my Grandparents and what they were like, reflecting on love lost and the void left behind. We laughed as I mentioned our lack of hair in the family and that, at least not in my case, it is not malnutrition at play.  


During the brief moments of silence, I thought about how difficult it must have been for my father to leave his family and the only people he had ever known. To escape with only the glimmering hope of freedom and opportunity awaiting him. 

I puffed on my cigar as I sat in the same rocking chair my father once did, sharing stories the way only a family can do. Listening to stories of my father and his siblings' mischief growing up, absorbing the surrounding scenery and watching Eric trying to communicate with his new family.  Laughing, crying, smiling and building memories - as only a family can do. Because of this day, this moment, my internal light will forever shine brighter.

My Trip To Cuba - (Part 6)

My Trip to Cuba (Part 6)

It's funny how certain things become obsolete over time. I remember when growing up, you could dial 0 and get an operator to help you with your call. Then there was the rise and fall of the VCR, vinyl records and cassette tapes. Anybody remember the 8-track? Watches, thanks to cell phones, are also taking a hit. I don't wear one anymore because I can simply look at my cell phone and check the time. I could have used a watch on this trip, especially Tuesday morning.

I am awakened by a very loud "cock-a-doodle-doo!" this morning. It sounded like it was right outside my open window. It took me a minute to realize I wasn't dreaming. It was pitch black outside and as I searched for my nightstand, I realized I wasn't at home. I briefly wished I was wearing a watch.  I still kept my phone charged even though there was no service, but I was using it as a camera and a clock. I fumbled for my phone, and once I found it, pushed the button to see what time it was: 2:13 a.m.! "What the heck!"  This rooster must be drunk, or has come from a different time zone. And what is a rooster doing in the city of Havana anyways?  I quickly stopped my brain from asking too many questions.  If I kept that up, I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep from pondering all of the questions that come to mind when you're awakened by a confused rooster at 2:13 in the morning.

I awake later that morning to the whirring of two fans running and the occasional clicking as one of the fans changed direction. I picture it sweeping across the bed, like a lawn sprinkler then stopping and reversing it's direction. I lay in bed and kept my eyes closed defiantly as to not surrender to the dawn of the new day. It was useless, the excitement of the day quickly dissipated the sleepiness I was feeling.  The fans sufficed for our stay although it was a little hot when we first went to sleep.  Being April, I began to wonder how brutal the summers were here with no air conditioning. ,I didn't see a single air conditioning unit anywhere. ,I know some people had them, I just didn't see any. Enrique had a window unit on the floor of the living room but it was a 220 volt unit and there wasn't 220 anywhere in his house. ,He bought it, of course, on the black market a couple of years earlier. ,He was hoping to save to get a permit to run the proper voltage to his house and install the unit.  The humidity in July and August must be unbearable. I lived in Miami for a few years and the humidity there was stifling, like walking into a large oven when you went outside. I imagine it's worse in Cuba.

Breakfast consisted of some leftover bread from yesterday, some guava paste that I had bought, a single fried egg, and of course, coffee.  Over breakfast, Loli talked of a restaurant that is about 2 hours away on our three and a half hour drive to the small village west of Bermejas, where the rest of my family lives. She explained to me that it is actually a house that has a small seating area in front of it, where they serve home cooked meals. I had visions of Anthony Bourdain and me sitting down to enjoy a meal prepared in one of the most remote locations on the island.  He did a show about Cuba a couple of years ago. In his opening dialogue, he explained that he was only able to go where the government allowed him to go.  I wished I could drag him along with me to write about the real Cuba, the Cuba that the government doesn't want you to see.  I have a feeling it would be a real eye opener for many.

After breakfast, we gathered our suitcases and some fishing gear I had brought along and headed towards the rental car.  As we walked out through Loli's back yard, I looked down and there was Enrique's Pigeon. "See!" Enrique said, "They always come back."  I wonder why, I thought to myself.  If I could fly I'd end up in a palm tree by the beach for sure. 
I remember hoping the car was still there in one piece as we made our way through the narrow alleys and sidewalk out to the street where the car was waiting for us. 
As I turned a corner, there was a gentleman hitting a piece of cement with a hammer trying to get to the piece of metal rebarb that was encased inside of it. Enrique asked his neighbor what he was doing and the gentleman looked up at him and said "I need the piece of metal in here so I can make a part for my car."  Crazy, I thought, the ingenuity that grows out of desperation.

Honestly, I was a little nervous about driving in Havana. The person I rented the car from gave me a certification with his name on it and told me if I were to get pulled over to tell the police that I am his cousin visiting from the states and that I have permission to drive his car. Under no circumstances was I to mention that I was renting the car.  On the previous test drive through Havana, I drove upon a rear end collision and there was a passenger being loaded in an ambulance. I asked Enrique about insurance requirements in Cuba and he said there aren't any.  He further explained to me that a nephew of his was just in a bad accident and is still hospitalized requiring back surgery.  His nephew, who was fortunate enough to have a job, would certainly lose his job - not to mention his car was totaled. A wreck in Cuba could be catastrophic to a family.  "Great!" I thought, "one more thing to worry about."

We loaded up the car and the first thing I was asked was to turn on some music and turn on the air conditioner. Two things we take for granted that is a luxury to many Cubans, riding in a car with the air conditioning on and some tunes on the radio.  As I drove through the city streets, feeling like a teenage driver in a drivers ed class, I tried to take in the moments. Never did I think I would be doing this and to have my son along made it that much better. I started turning onto the on-ramp for the highway and I noticed more people than ever. The entrance to the highway was littered with people and animals. Many of the people had money in their hands or signs with money waving to us as we drove by. There were hitchhikers everywhere. Loli explained that these people are needing rides and are holding out money, hoping somebody will stop and pick them up. Under every bridge or shady spot along our drive were hitchhikers waving money just trying to get a ride.

As I entered the highway, called Autopista National, I didn't see a single car anywhere. The highway had 3 lanes on each side but they were all in need of repair. There were huge pot holes and sections that looked like they had forgotten to put asphalt down.
I accelerated and found a lane with the least amount of damage. As I drove with Havana to our backs, the view quickly changed. Houses became less sparse and pretty soon there was nothing but countryside and farms. Most of the land seemed unused. Occasionally, I would see some land that was being used for farming, but much of the land surrounding it seemed untouched.

Enrique said that even though they have more people farming, production is down. He said basically, there is no incentive to produce more. You aren't rewarded financially or even given more if you work or produce more so people have become lazy and only do the bare minimum. As a result, Cuba imports an estimated 80% of the food it's people consume. It's hard to believe that an area with such possibilities is handcuffed by the greediness of a Socialistic Dictator.

I continued driving and while avoiding pot holes, I tried to take in as much of the scenery as possible. I was worried about a flat tire since there would be no way to replace or repair a tire if we had one. I could picture me standing out by the road waving money with a tire in one hand trying to hitch a ride to the next town. That would make for a bad day. No AAA here.

After a couple of hours, Loli said to look to the left for a farm house that had a restaurant inside. We found the mile marker we were looking for and I pulled into the median. The restaurant was no longer there, only the charred remains of posts that previously supported the structure and a section of counter. The posts had been painted various colors but their ends were ashen like those of a cigar. The trees that previously surrounded the restaurant were burnt and mangled. It was an ugly contrast to the surrounding trees, flowers and buildings that made up the remaining homestead. I decided to pull in anyway and see if by chance they were still serving food.

There were about a half dozen tables and various chairs set about the yard and it appeared they were still open. Being a foodie, I eagerly exited the vehicle and grabbed a seat. The waitress, the farmers daughter, came and got our drink order and told us what they had. There were only two choices, pork chops or chicken. As I was deciding which one, I felt something walk across my feet and looked down to see a chicken walking past. Thinking of the rooster this morning and the chicken that just crossed my path were an omen I quickly said "I'll have the pork chops!"

One thing you get used to in Cuba is hearing "No hay" or "we don't have it." There wasn't a menu much less a list of side items. All plates came with sides of moros, (cuban rice and beans) and salad. They also had a few soft drink choices.  The food was fantastic. The meat and salad were on one plate and another plate came loaded with moros. I couldn't eat it all. The pork chops were lightly seasoned and cooked to perfection and the moros were fantastic. They were flavorful with a hint of garlic, onion and pork.  The salad comes without dressing and is eaten that way.  If you were to ask for dressing, you would here "no hay."  I ate and watched some workers and the owner trying to rebuild the burnt down restaurant.

Being a fireman, I had to ask the owner what had happened to start the fire. He said he was awaken by the fire one early morning and by the time he got outside it was too late. He didn't know what started the fire. He also talked about wanting to expand his menu to include pizzas and burgers, but the government wouldn't allow him to serve those items. Shortly after his request was denied, his restaurant burned down. 

I noticed he had some sort of welder with two wires that ran off of it. He was attaching two wires to a bundle of wires that ran across the tree next to our table. After a closer inspection, I noticed that these wires provided electricity to the farm house but two of them had bare spots on them and that is where he attached his wires from his welder.  In the video below, you will notice the man explaining how they use the wires for electricity that I'm referring to, along with some of the Cuban workers who were helping to restore the restaurant's tin roof.

After a few days, I noticed this use of wiring was very common. In some houses, they didn't have a typical light switch, they would just disconnect the wire and reconnect it when they wanted the light back on.  I had to remember not to go reaching for light switches in the dark.

Feeling full and in need of a nap, we loaded back up in the car and continued our journey. I don't think I saw more than 20 cars our entire drive down the highway. The only one that stood out was a BMW that flew by us doing well over 100 miles per hour.  "Maybe it was Jay Z and Beyonce!"  I thought later.

The roads are so void of cars that some farmers spread rice out on the highways for it to dry before they package it I was told later that day.  As we got closer to the coast, the drive reminded me of driving on US1 or Card Sound Road to the Florida Keys. I decided that I would stop at the next open area of beach, take some pictures and take in the scenery. We came upon an area called "Los Trailers," - yep, exactly like it sounds.  It was a small area with maybe 15 houses on it and a couple of old trailers.

There was a small cove here that had a little beach area. The view was beautiful. The water was a few different shades of turquoise. The water on one side of the cove was a darker blue and was lightly splashing against dark coral rock and mangroves. There were a variety of trees with their leaves having many different shades of green. There were some trees with green leaves, but were speckled with red leaves which the contrast made the scenery even more stunning.  On the beach area, the sand was light grey and the water was crystal clear. I looked out across the water and it was deserted except for a lone sailboat barely visible in the horizon. There were hardly any waves to speak of, the water was so tranquil, it was mesmerizing. I quickly grabbed my fishing gear and made my way to the beach. I felt like I did as a kid when the family was going to the beach. That excitement you feel in the pit of your stomach, I couldn't walk there quickly enough.

To say that I love fishing would be an understatement. My wife knew this when she met me and she will be happy to tell you of all the times during our marriage that I "let her" catch more fish than me.  We even went fishing on our honeymoon.  As I tied the jig to my fishing rod, I looked up and noticed my son was already about 60 yards out and Loli, in jeans and a shirt, was frolicking in the water with the smile and enthusiasm of a 6-year old kid. I grabbed the fishing rod and made my way out to where my son was.  It was still very shallow considering how far out we were, but I could tell that another 20 yards in either direction and it would be over our heads. The sand gave way to grass, which was great for fishing, but not so much for swimming. Further to our left, where the water was deeper and there was no beach, I saw a fish jump out of the water. I only made about 3 or 4 casts before my son asked for the fishing rod. I handed it to him and laid back in the water and took it all in again. Normally, I wouldn't give my fishing rod to anyone, but the beauty of this place was more important to me. I wanted to enjoy this in a way that I would never forget it. I wanted it permanently imprinted in my memory so I could recall it in moments of stress or insomnia. I took a few steps back and watched my son fishing, Loli playing in the water like a child, Enrique laughing at Loli and my soul was full. This is what life is about. Moments like this when, unexpectedly, beauty in all of its forms smiles upon your soul. The sound of laughter, the sound of the water, the clicking of the fishing reel, birds singing, the smiles on all of our faces. It was as if God made this moment just for me. 

I wanted to stay in this place forever, but we had to get going. I had so much family to meet this day and I couldn't wait to see their faces.  As I got back into the car with the smile of a child at an all you can eat ice cream buffet, I said a little thank you to God as I drove away.