I looked out at the water, which was partially blocked by high sand dunes. There were wooden walkways going out to the beach, and someone had built a lookout tower where I saw people with binoculars and cameras. This was a nice piece of the world.
So we sat there, smelling the fries and salt air, and listening to the surf and the hyperactive children. We could have been anywhere on holiday in the Caribbean or South Florida. But we weren’t. We were, in fact, in Cuba, where, as Sara once said, the police state is not always apparent.
I noticed that the dozen or so customers were dressed in casual beach attire, including bare feet, whereas Sara and I were dressed more like hikers, complete with boots. Also, I was fairly sure I was the only person on the deck with a gun in my backpack. Fitting into your environment is more a matter of state of mind than of attire, and trying to be inconspicuous draws attention.
A young waitress wearing black pants and a pink T-shirt came over to our table and wished us buenos días as she checked us out, maybe trying to determine our national origin. I’m Canadian.
Sara returned the greeting in Spanish, then said in English, “We’d like to see a lunch menu, por favor.”
“Sí, se?ora.”
I thought Sara was se?orita. This trip must have aged her.
“Meanwhile,” I said, “I’ll have a beer. Do you have Corona?”
“Sí.”
There is a God. I asked Sara, “Have you thought about what you would like, Anna?”
“Well, Jonathan, I’d like a daiquiri.”
“Just like in Toronto.” I said to the waitress, “A daiquiri for the se?ora, por favor—eh?”
“Sí, I will return.” And she left.
Sara said, “You’re an idiot.”
“You have to immerse yourself in your cover story. Didn’t they teach you that?”
She had no reply.
“Can we hang out here until seven?”
“This place closes at four-thirty.” She looked at me. “Sometimes, before a clandestine rendezvous, it’s best to be static. Sometimes it’s best to be mobile.”
“They taught you well.”
“I read Richard Neville novels.”
“Don’t confuse fact with fiction.” Which reminded me of something. “Do you have our group roster?”
“I do. I took it in case we could use it for cover. Why?”
“I want to get a Hemingway postcard from here and send it to Richard.”
“Please focus on the mission.”
“I have many missions in life.”
“Not if you don’t complete this one.”
“Right.”
I looked again at the beach. The sand was almost iridescent, with a touch of blue and pink, and the water was a deep aquamarine. But farther out, I could see whitecaps and wispy clouds scudding quickly from east to west. There was a weather system on the way.
The waitress returned with our drinks and two lunch menus, and I noticed the prices were in CUCs only, which effectively barred Cubans in their own people’s republic. The waitress said she’d come back for our orders, but we didn’t let her get away. We both ordered the specialty of the house, which was a lobster salad, and I ordered two bottles of water and papas fritas—french fries. I asked the waitress, “Do you know where I can buy postcards?”
“Sí. Inside you will find these.”
“Gracias.”
Sara asked, “Los ba?os?”
The waitress directed us to the ba?os, took our menus, and left.
I asked, “What are we going to do with all our Cuban pesos?”
“Save them for next time.”
Send me a postcard.
Sara took her backpack and stood. “Keep an eye on our cargo.”
“Find me a Hemingway postcard.”
So I sat there, rehydrating with my Corona, which, though it came from Mexico, brought back memories of home. And I looked out at the sea in the same way that the Habaneros on the Malecón stared wistfully at the Straits of Florida. So near, yet so far.
Actually, Cayo Guillermo was about three hundred and fifty kilometers from Key West—about two hundred and fifty miles from Cayo to Key. That would be about a ten-hour cruise at twenty-five knots, depending on winds, waves, and tides. If we left here at midnight tonight, we should be at Charter Boat Row no later than 10 A.M., and at the Green Parrot in time for lunch. And Fantasy Fest was still in full swing.
More important, we should be in international waters an hour after leaving here, theoretically safe from Guarda Frontera patrol boats.
I wasn’t sure what the plan was to transfer our cargo to Fishy Business, but we’d find out at 7 tonight, and I hoped the plan didn’t rely too heavily on a prayer to the Virgin Mary. If it did, I, as captain, would change it.
One of the obnoxious kids ran over to me, a six-or seven-year-old porker wearing only a bathing suit. He had a paper cup of french fries in his hand that I would have broken his wrist for. He stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth and inquired, “Where are you from?”
“Canada. Can’t you tell?”
“We’re from Hamilton. Where are you from?”
“Toronto.”
“You sound like an American.”
“Go play in the riptide.”
“You’re an American.”
“Are you a chivato?”
“What’s that?”
“Give me a french fry and I’ll tell you.”
“You mean a chip.”
Busted by a six-year-old. “Right.”
He stuck the cup toward me and I grabbed a few fries—chips—before he pulled them away.
“What’s a . . . chovi—”
“Comemierda. It’s a smart person. In Spanish. Say it.”
He got it right on the second try and I encouraged him to use the word with the waitstaff.
His mother called to him to stop bothering the nice man and he ran off with his chips, yelling, “They’re Americans!”
Thanks, kid. Well, it wasn’t a crime to be an American in Cayo Guillermo, but it was a crime to be Daniel MacCormick and Sara Ortega in Cuba. I should have shown the kid my Canadian passport. If it fooled him, it would fool the police.
Sara returned and I decided not to mention the kid. She didn’t spook easily, but she might want to leave before I got my lobster salad.
She put a stack of postcards on the table. “Pick one. We’ll keep the rest as souvenirs.”
I was hoping for three million dollars to remember Cuba by, but I wasn’t allowed to say that.
I flipped through the postcards and found one of a fishing boat that said, Cayo Coco and Cayo Guillermo, Where Ernest Hemingway Loved to Fish. Perfect. “Dear Richard, I hope you liked your T-shirt and I hope you and Cindy went to Rolando’s.”
“And I hope you get to mail that postcard from Key West.”
“We will.”