That’s what I saw at the marina. And radar-controlled meant they could hit you in the dark, even with rough seas and fog. Not good. Maybe I should call for another round of drinks.
Felipe looked at Sara and assured her, “They’re not supposed to fire at boats that are trying to flee Cuba.” He looked at me. “You may remember an international incident about twenty years ago.”
I was fifteen. And totally uninterested in international incidents. “Refresh my memory.”
“There was a tugboat, named 13 de Marzo, stolen by Cubans trying to escape. A Guarda Frontera boat fire-hosed it, but it wouldn’t stop, so they rammed it and sunk it. Seventy-two people drowned, including twenty-three kids. There was a big international uproar, and since then the regime has promised not to fire on or use any force to stop a fleeing boat.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is that they’re full of shit. They may or may not fire warning shots that accidentally hit you, and they may or may not try to ram you, but they will definitely come alongside and board you.”
Sort of like Pirates of the Caribbean. “All right, I think we understand the threat assessment, but we’re not Cubans trying to flee the country. We’re actually Americans, and Fishy Business is part of the Pescando fleet, and you’ve gotten permission to go night fishing.”
“If they see us on radar, they don’t know that. They’ll try to call us on the radio, or hail us on their bullhorn and order us to stop. At that point, we can stop and explain on the radio who we are and hope they don’t come aboard and start looking at passports and cargo, and looking for a donation. But—”
“They’re not coming aboard,” I assured him.
Felipe nodded.
Sara looked at her Cuban boyfriend and said, “I will not be taken alive.”
Felipe didn’t know how to reply to that, but said, “The choice may not be ours to make.”
She looked at me.
I said, “If I can get into open water, The Maine can outmaneuver a bigger craft, even if it’s capable of forty knots.” Which was true. But we all knew I couldn’t outrun radar-controlled rapid-fire cannons.
Felipe said, “We have another issue. Fuel.” He explained, “We’ve been keeping the fuel light.” He looked at me. “On your orders. But we always had enough to make it to Key West. Except tonight.” He further explained, “We came in about four this afternoon, and as always we pulled up to the pumps to put a few hundred gallons of diesel in the tanks, but the pumps were closed.” He added, “Probably out of fuel.”
“What do we have?”
“We have less than three hundred gallons.”
“Okay . . .” So, depending on winds and tides, at a speed of twenty-five knots we might have a cruise range of three hundred miles. It was about two hundred and fifty miles to Key West, but the rule of thumb is always to have one hundred and fifty percent of the fuel you think you need, particularly for a blue-water trip. But to radiate optimism I said, “We’ll make it.”
Felipe looked doubtful, thinking, I’m sure, about his side trip into the mangrove swamp, rough seas, winds, and maybe outmaneuvering a faster patrol boat.
“Or close enough,” I said. “We’ll be in international waters in less than an hour, and U.S. waters in about six hours.”
He nodded, but we both knew we didn’t want to be towed in by the Coast Guard. Not only was it embarrassing, but if they had to tow us they might also ask questions. Like, “Where were you and what do you have onboard?” Or, “Are those bullet holes in your hull?”
Well, that was a worry that wasn’t worth worrying about. We should be so lucky as to get that far.
CHAPTER 52
I decided we could all actually use another drink, though I insisted it be beer. You can’t get drunk on beer.
I glanced at my watch. We’d been here close to an hour, and though we weren’t attracting attention, we should think about splitting up—Sara to the room, and me nursing a beer and keeping an eye on the Buick. Felipe needed to go back to the marina.
Our beers came—Coronas—and we clinked bottles and Sara said, “To a happy voyage home.”
Anchors aweigh.
Felipe took a piece of folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Sara. “That’s the map. It’s easy. You go west on the beach road for about two miles and you’ll see a sign on the left that says ‘Swamp Tours.’ It’s about a half mile on the dirt road to the dock.”
That sounded close to where I’d taken my siesta in the thick brush. “Anybody go there at night?”
“I checked it out two nights ago at eleven. No one there.”
I had to admit that Felipe was competent. Or he was a jerk-off who was motivated. I mean, like Jack, Sara, and me, he was putting his life on the line, so he had motivation to keep his head out of his ass. And why, I wondered, had he volunteered for this? I’m sure for the money. And maybe for the cause. But also because he couldn’t stay in Miami while his girlfriend was risking her life in Cuba. She might think less of him. Or even cheat on him.
I asked him, “How do you get around the island?”
“Everyone rented bicycles. That’s how I got here.”
“And Jack’s with the boat now?”
He nodded. “Someone has to stay onboard.” He explained, “The Cubans are not thieves, but they take things.”
I could use that line at the Green Parrot. “Any problems with the guns onboard?”
“They’re still there.” He complained again, “We have to tip the Guarda Frontera every time we cast off and tie up, and we make donations to keep them off the tournament boats.”
Fishing for peace was expensive. “Any mechanical issues?”
“I would have told you.”
We were in a little bit of a pissing match, which we would not be in if Sara were named Steve. Men are assholes.
Felipe took a key card out of his pocket, gave it to Sara, and said, “You go first. Room 318. I’ll be up shortly.” He looked at me. “And you can watch the car. Then it’s your turn to use the room.” He asked, “Is that okay?”
Actually, no. “Let’s finish our business here.”
“What else do you need to know?”
“How was the fishing?”
“It’s been excellent.” He let me know, “We were in third place, but today we’re in second.”
“Congratulations.” Jack has an uncanny knack for finding fish. “Too bad you can’t stay a few more days.”
He smiled, then looked at the key, which Sara had put on the table. He really wanted to get laid.
I glanced at her and saw she was . . . tense? I think, too, that Felipe was baiting us. Or running a test.
I asked him, “How was the Pescando Por la Paz received here?”
“There were a few government press photographers when we arrived. But no one is covering the tournament. Why?”
Sara replied, “We were worried that the fleet might be kicked out of Cuba.”
Felipe nodded. “Well, that would have left you both high and dry.” He asked, “What would you have done?”
Fucked our brains out until we figured out how to get out of Cuba. “I was thinking we could make it to Guantánamo by land.”