Cayo Garcia

by

John Messina

Scott was lying on the starboard settee of his Alden sloop, Bourré, and reading Riddle of the Sands for the third or fourth time when the baritone rumble of high performance engines disturbed his concentration. Peering out through a convenient porthole he saw that along side his slip the Trellis brothers were sitting high on the white bucket seats of their offshore racing boat, Cuba Libre. That type of watercraft has never interested Scott, all that he knew is that they are fast as hell on flat water – maybe 75 miles per hour, but are weak in a rough sea. He preferred quieter and more versatile boats such as those propelled by wind.

“Hey compa we are going to run out to Cayo Garcia for lobster. Come with us, Scottie,” screamed Luis, the larger of the two Trellis boys, over the deep-throated engine sound. Scott had never been to Cayo Garcia, but he knew that it was in international waters yet claimed by Castro’s Cuba. Giving its location, it was seldom fished, and lobster, unlike in the Florida Keys, was plentiful. He also knew that it was a long haul and a place where one did not want to get caught by the Cuban Navy. However, Scott’s indecision was adjusted by the sight of the stunning chica in a thong bikini sitting in the forward seat of the Trellis’s boat. “OK, vámanos hermanos,” he shouted over the engine noise as he stepped out into his boat’s cockpit.

Hector Trellis told Scott that, “Hoy, la mer está plano como el pechos de mi prima and we should be there in una hora, más o menos.” With that remark the chica threw a dirty look toward Hector. Then characteristic of him, he handed out a floatation vest to Scott but not to her, probably and ironically not wanting to obscure, in reality, her ample chupas.

Once out of the marina’s channel, Luis pushed down both throttles and the boat leaped up and out of the water like a hooked marlin.  It came down hard and flat sending out a gun shot like report, and then got up on plane at what seemed an unreal speed. Within minutes they had crossed Hawk Channel and the reef. Once in the Florida Straits, Luis steered 135 degrees and soon reached the Gulf Stream. At the speed he was pushing Cuba Libre there was no need to correct for the Stream’s current. They had been out for just about an hour when Scott spotted a landmass straight ahead. It was Cayo Garcia. The Trellis brothers, despite their reputations as screw-offs, were not bad navigators.

They anchored Cubra Libre about 100 yards from the shore, and jumped into the light green, clear water. The chica, whose name was Esmeralda, was posted in the boat as a lookout while the three guys dove down seven or eight feet to the coral bottom where they tickled lobsters from their caves and placed them into nets about the size of a tennis racket. In less than forty-five minutes, the portable bait box was overloaded, and there was already talk of a lobster boil for the whole marina. The guys were storing the face masks and flippers in a stern locker when Scott noticed something strange on the southern horizon. It was a small, low cloud of black smoke, not unlike what is often produced by a trash fire on land.

Hector broke out a pair of binoculars and glassed the area from where the smoke had appeared. “Mierda,” he mumbled under his breath. “It’s a boat with an engine that needs a ring job.” Luis snatched the binoculars from his brother and took a look. “Maybe it’s just an American sports fishing boat heading back to Key West,” he said without much conviction. “American boats don’t blow black smoke,” answered Luis. “They are well maintained. It too far out for a Cuban fishermen, it’s got to be their navy or coastguard. Let’s get the hell out of here. I have heard stories, from the old men who play dominos on Calle Ocho and had been captured at the Bay of Pigs, that Cuban prisons are living hell.” Scott noticed that Esmeralda was rapidly stepping into shorts and pulling on a T-shirt. He figured that she wanted to be properly dressed if we were boarded by puritanical Communists. She then covered her eyes with a pair of extra large sunglasses that made her look like a cute insect.

While Scott pulled up the anchor, Luis turned both ignition keys clockwise. Nothing happened. Luis tried again, and again, but nada. Hector again glassed the distant boat, and confirmed that it was definitely military. “How can you tell?” asked Esmeralda. “Because I can make out a canon on its bow,” answered Hector. Luis tried the two ignitions keys once more, but nothing. All four of them could now clearly see the approaching boat without the aid of the binoculars and it was closing fast.

Hector said, “Maybe we should dump the lobsters back into the water and just tell them that we are having engine trouble.” Too late for that,” said Scott. “They can see us better than we can see them with the optics that they carry.” Just then, Luis raised the cover of the port storage locker, reached in and threw a switch. He turned toward the console and turned both keys. The engines came alive like angry bears. The smile on both brothers’ faces told both Scott and Esmeralda that they had been had. The brothers had purposely activated the boat’s anti-theft device, in order to frighten their passengers. It was a sick joke. “You pendejos,” cried out Esmeralda.

Luis pushed down all the way on the throttles, and Cuba Libre leaped up, came down flat and hard before reaching a plane. Hector screamed aft toward the pursuing vessel, “Adios El Comandante,” meaning Fidel, as the Trellis boat quickly put distance between it and the Cubans. Scott and Esmeralda were silent the whole way back to the marina, and had little taste for lobster.

However, after the hour or so run back and a few cervezas later while Frankie, the proprietor of the Indies Marina’s Lighthouse Bar and Grill, seasoned his caldron of boiling water and prepared his famous butter and garlic sauce, everyone was muy simpatico. The whole marina had turned out for the lobster boil and Esmeralda was holding court, back in her bikini, telling the crowd how they had evaded the Cuban Navy.