Guillermo shoots... and scores! Two-nil to the Cubans
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Thu 14 Apr 2011 15:26
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22:42.76N
78:45.43W
The Cuban centre-forward Confites lines up for the
shot on goal... then passes the ball out to his left. Out on the wing, Paredon
probes the defenders for a gap... starts in once, feints for the lofted cross,
then slides the ball back to Guillermo, who has moved up from midfield.
Guillermo runs rings around the defenders; ducks to the left, then to the right;
circles back outside the box and then strikes the ball unerringly into the top
left-hand corner of the net, leaving the keeper looking angry and surprised. And
not a little weary of the whole metaphor.
This, in essence, is what the Cuban authorities
have just done to us. Having obtained permission to proceed into Cuban waters
yeasterday lunchtime from Cayo Confites, we motored along the coast towards Cayo
Guillermo. Around sunset, just as the martinis were being mixed on the cocktail
deck of Summer Song, we were hailed in wild English by a lighthouse at Paredon.
Across miles of static, poor reception and bungled lingo, we took half an hour
to communicate our name and destination to the lighthouse keeper.
Sun set with only 20 miles to go and a good breeze
sprang up. We doused the donk and sped through the twilight towards our port of
entry, Cayo Guillermo, at six knots. If the place was well lit and easy to spot
from a few miles out, we thought we'd try to go in when we arrived about 10pm.
If not, we'd bob about offshore until the sun rose and attempt it in the
morning. Naturally, the only lights visible were car headlights and hotels, so
we thought better of trying thread our way through unmarked reef in the dark. We
heaved to in a light breeze and spent the next 10 hours swimming in a figure of
eight at less than a knot.
At 8am, we tried hailing the marina. After half an
hour we gave up and motored in for a closer look... still no idea where the
marina was or how to get in. Then, a voice crackled over the radio: "Vita Sol,
Vita Sol, Guillermo Marina" On the offchance that this was intended for 'Summer
Song' we responded. over the next 20 minutes we were called Mira sol, Vita
Sol, Vina Sol - all variations on an incorrect theme. but it became clear that
we were not welcome in the marina. A tired sounding official confirmed that,
yes, Guillermo was an international port of entry, but no, the requisite
officials were not available at present.
"You can go to Puerto de Vita or to
Varadero."
"How far is Puerto de Vita?" I asked. Pause. "210 miles. West." In other words, exactly where we would like to have cleared in two days earlier. The problem was that the Cuban Embassy in St Kitts had ruled out Vita and urged us to go to Guillermo instead. This is not a consumer economy; the customer is not always right, especially if they don't speak much Spanish and come from the West. So with only the bare minimum of muffled nautical cursing, we turned tail and set a course east for Varadero, 160 miles away. This requires another night of watches and poor sleep. Two nil to the Cubans. As Alex says, ever keen to see the bright side, it
could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
"Why?" I asked in a surly, unwilling manner. "Well, Varadero is closer to Havana for meeting Dom and the boys. The guide says it has lovely beaches, fine museums about the revolution, caves and..." "And?" "...and, there is a crocodile reserve near the marina." It's just possible that this changes everything. Sadly, the other guide warns that the oil refineries of Varadero deposit a greasy coat on moored boats when the wind is from the south. Hmmmm. |