¡Cuba Sea, Cuba Sí!

Written by Captain Jeff Werner

“Bienvenidos. Welcome,” came the Guarda Frontera’s friendly response when we radioed them from just outside the twelve-mile limit of Cuba’s territorial waters. It was the spring of 1994 and three of us had embarked on a 685-nautical-mile journey halfway around this intriguing island, the largest in the Antilles and, because of the United States’s trade embargo, officially off limits to Americans. But this forbidden status was precisely my reason for visiting Cuba. I wanted to explore its mystique, meet its people, learn about its way of life—and sail its waters.

Santiago de Cuba

Our first stop was Santiago de Cuba, the country’s second largest city. Entering a new port of call always holds a certain level of excitement for me, but as we motored into Santiago Bay I felt as if I were entering another world. Old fishing dories with one-cylinder gasoline engines chugged through the still, hazy air. Morro Castle—built by the Spanish in 1640 to protect the port from pirates and corsairs—loomed in front of us. The dilapidated remains of once-thriving cottages and small hotels lined the shore, and a thick coat of black crude floated on the oil-slicked water, coating everything it touched, including our hull. The Cuban tourism bureau, Cubanacan, is trying to redevelop this harbor into a recreation area, as it was before the revolution, but during my visit it was clear that it was a hard-working commercial area.

After we tied up at the marina, we began the process of clearing customs. Visiting yatistas, as the Cubans call recreational boaters, will find this procedure a bit different than it is in most Caribbean countries. During an hour-and-a-half period, we were called upon by representatives of customs, immigration, the port captain, the police, the coast guard, and the sanitation and health department. Even the marina manager came aboard. We were thoroughly searched, and then we filled out a variety of forms and crew lists in order to get our cruising permit. We would repeat this process at every anchorage and marina we visited during our three-week cruise.

While on board, the director of sanitation and health, Dr. Luis, befriended us and invited us to his home so that he could practice speaking English. The next day he also became our unofficial tour guide as we drove our rental Jeep around town, sharing the road with some buses and trucks, a few Russian-built motorcycles with sidecars, and an occasional horse-drawn cart. Due to Cuba’s chronic fuel shortage, many people were either riding Chinese-made bicycles or walking. It was Sunday and it seemed as if everyone was either traveling to parks with their children, listening to music in public squares, or queuing up outside small cafeterias with their ration cards.

Cubans like Americans and the citizens of Santiago are particularly fond of them, one reason being that the treaty to end the Spanish-American War was signed there, liberating Cuba from Spain. Cubans call this fight the Spanish-Cubano-American War, and after showing us the commemorative plaques where the treaty was signed under a spreading banyan tree, Dr. Luis insisted we drive up a hill. Once on top I asked him where we were. “San Juan Hill,” he replied—the exact spot where Teddy Roosevelt led his famous charge with the Rough Riders. A statue of a Rough Rider stands there now, overlooking the battle site.

Baracoa

Sailing eastward past Guantanamo Bay along the Windward Passage, we soon rounded Punta Maisí, Cuba’s easternmost tip. Our destination was Baracoa, where Columbus first landed on the island. We arrived in the pitch black of night, feeling our way into the bay and dropping anchor. When we awoke at sunrise we found ourselves in a commercial fishing harbor filled with old wooden catboats and vintage 1950s trolling vessels. The dark-sand beach was lined with tin-roofed shacks and coconut palms. It had the feel of Southeast Asia, surrounded by hilly jungles and, to the west, a huge flat-topped mountain named El Yunque.

As we awaited boarding by the local police, I noticed a rocket launcher sitting on the quay. After we dinghied ashore we were swarmed by a group of teenage boys and caught up in their whirlwind of questions and energy. They escorted us up and down the clean streets of their small town and proudly pointed out the school-bus depot, bakery, pharmacy, and post office, and gave us a guided tour of the local history museum. To return the favor, we took our new friends—Fernando, Rogelio, Renan, and Reider—to a hilltop tourist hotel with a commanding view of the harbor. The hotel had originally been a fort, built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers before the turn of the 20^th century.

The boys then invited us to see where they lived. Some lived alone and others lived with their parents. Their apartments were small and sparsely furnished, with bare wires running along the walls and ceilings to provide electricity. Kitchens were outdoors in the backyard, supplemented with an indoor hot plate. Over a bottle of strong Cuban rum and a pot of Cuban hot chocolate, we discussed life in Baracoa, Fidel, music, sailing, politics, and women.

La Habana

A week later, as we motored westward close to shore in calm seas, we peered through the binoculars and saw a baffling sight: 20 to 30 people floating on car-tire inner tubes. At first we thought we’d come across a group of balseros, Cubans trying to float to Florida, but on closer inspection we realized that they were fishermen with intricately designed inner-tube rafts. Some of the vessels even had a bicycle-frame element with paddles, instead of wheels, suspended under water for propulsion.

Finally we arrived at Havana’s harbor, also guarded by a Morro Castle. As we glided past the city parallel with the Malecón, the main waterfront boulevard, we saw statues, buildings, cathedrals and homes that were hundreds of years old. The vacant U.S. Embassy, with its bas-relief American eagle, stared out at sea. We docked at the Hemingway International Yacht Club, a facility just east of town and with an eye toward international sailors. The compound boasted an outdoor night club, a few restaurants, a swimming pool with a poolside bar, and hot showers supervised by an attendant.

Havana is still one of the most vibrant cities in the Caribbean. The music and arts scenes are flourishing, and despite the hard times of el bloqueo—the American trade embargo—people know how to enjoy themselves. After meeting three couples from Havana by chance at the marina, we piled into their tiny Lada and sped into Havana to explore its nightlife. We wound up at an outdoor cabaret in an old Spanish fort along the waterfront, where the entertainers included a Latin jazz group, an Afro-Cuban dancing and singing ensemble, and a stand-up comic. Then we danced to Madonna until the wee hours of the morning.

That trip to Cuba was the most interesting cruising I have ever done, bar none.

And these stories are only the tiniest taste of what the visit was like.

Useful Resources for Your Trip

USCG Travel Restrictions to Cuba: www.uscg.mil/hq/cg5/cg531/CubaTravel.asp

Hemingway International Yacht Club of Cuba: www.cubaseas.com

Cuba Nautical Charts: www.nv-charts.com, nauticalcharts.com, www.sailgb.com

Capt. Jeff Werner, a licensed USCG Master, has sailed professionally throughout the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Great Lakes, Gulf of Mexico, and Eastern Seaboard, and has two trans-Atlantic crossings under his keel. He is also the Diesel Doctor, helping to keep your boat’s fuel clean and bright. For more information, call 239-246-6810 or visit MyDieselDoctor.com. All Marinalife members receive a 10% discount on purchases of equipment, products, and supplies from Diesel Doctor.