Just like home...
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Sun 17 Apr 2011 13:16
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The wind went down during the night. And when we
woke up after nearly 11 hours of much-needed sleep, the sun was streaming in
through the portholes. On the unused pontoon behind us, a noisy argument broke
out among the resident terns. Their agitated squawking is more Keyhaven than
Cuba. A bevy of silent, patrician pelicans stood by haughtily, ignoring the
fuss.
Anyway, that's enough scene setting. We've now
officially arrived on Cuban soil and are free to go ashore. It took a whole
afternoon, but we were tired anyway, so sitting about on the boat was no
hardship. The problem was getting hold of the doctor, without whom no-one else
can come aboard, for fear of scurvy, plague or other unlikely infectious
diseases. It was a bit of an anticlimax, though; when he did arrive, the doctor
simply wanted to know if we 'felt alright'. He gave a few half-hearted
suggestions as to ways in which we might not feel alright; we smiled and
declined. Then he left.
After that, chaos descended. First up, a severe
looking man with a grade one hair cut and khaki fatigues came on board with a
very perky looking spaniel, to look for narcotics and arms. The dog sniffed
about the boat for about 5 minutes before returning to the pontoon to be made a
fuss of by the dozen or so onlookers. Next came three customs people who
installed themselves around the saloon table and spread out their paperwork. At
the same time, a veterinary expert and a phytosanitary expert leapt into the
cockpit to present us with further forms to sign about illegal plants and meats.
Then, a grave and earnest chap rootled through our much-depleted fridge, looking
for dangerous foods. In this list, apparently, come unopened Kosher beef
frankfurters, unopened packets of industrial cheddar, cottage cheese and
lardons. Lemons, limes and chorizo apparently don't qualify.
Nor did anyone seem very interested in the drinks
cabinet, which looks fairly well stocked with rum and whisky at present. Hey
ho.
We left the marina complex finally at about 7pm,
tiptoeing round the immediate neighbourhood with a kind of
I-can't-believe-we're-really-here wonder. However, the accumulated tiredness of
eight nights at sea caught up with us quickly. Aware that I probably only had
another hour on the clock before sleep overwhelmed me, we ducked into the marina
restaurant - an Italian joint boasting Cuban beers, but Italian-style pizza,
pasta and ice cream.
Today, we must sort out money, transport to the
airport to meet Dom and the boys, internet and shopping. We've got a guided tour
of Varadero arranged with some kind Canadians we met on the dock (there seem to
be an unfeasible number of Canadians here). Meanwhile, another Canadian we met
here has already pointed out the former home of Chicago crime kingpin, Al
Capone, on the beach a few hundred metres away.
The view as we left the BVI
 Still, spirits were high
 Soon, the spinakoo was aloftand the Dominican
Republic huddled under cloud to the south
 We took advantage of light winds for
washing...
 And swimming
  An exhausted barracuda we hooked, then released off
the Cuban coast
 More hard work for the First Mate
 Our first encounter with the locals
 Part of Varadero beach
 Our first dawn on Cuban soil
 Marina Acua
 Al Capone's house on the beach
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