by C J Schnier
Overall, despite the less than perfect conditions, my only regret was being at sea alone. Kelly's death still haunted me, but at least I was doing something more than sitting in a bar and climbing inside a bottle. She would have hated to see me like that.
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The green mountains of Cuba sprang from the hazy horizon. It was my first sight of land since Key West nearly a week before, and as I sailed closer, more and more details of the island popped into view. The tallest peaks were the first to show themselves, and then, one by one, the lesser peaks formed an undulating barrier to the interior. An unbroken blanket of trees shining in the midday sun covered each mountain. The entire island, from horizon to horizon, glowed like a raw uncut emerald.
As I drew closer, it was more than just my eyes that were overwhelmed. Smells of land filled my nostrils. Dirt, trees, grass, all smells we take for granted until we have been deprived of them. These smells, and countless others, mixed with the salt air and ocean musk, creating a heady and intoxicating aroma that set my mouth watering for a meal that didn't come from canned goods.
An alarm on the chartplotter warned me I was nearing my final waypoint twenty miles south of Punta Gran Diablo. This would set me up to make the run to my final destination past the entrance to a river so small the chart didn't bother naming it. According to the information Pruitt had given me, there wasn't much in this stretch of coast. To the west was the city of Cienfuegos, but everything to the east was rural fishing villages and unsettled jungle. A lone marina was nestled up the river a short way, and this is where Pruitt and I had decided to hide Paramour while I searched for the idol.
There were only a few miles to go until I crossed into Cuban waters. Pruitt had warned me there was a significant military presence in Cienfuegos, but this far east was much less covered. I hoped that was the case. I didn't exactly trust Pruitt. I would have twelve miles to traverse before I could disappear up the river. At maximum speed, it meant two hours of exposure, and with my masts and sails I wasn't exactly hard to spot.
Scanning the horizon with my binoculars, I made mental notes of the few boats I saw. A loose clump of vessels to my starboard caught my eye, but they were simple wooden fishing boats, their bright paint schemes clashing strongly with the water. Past the group, watching over them like a shepherd, was a wholly different boat. Instead of bright blues and reds, it was painted a plain drab green. Smoke streamed from its stern as it worked its way through the group. From my distance I couldn't make out too many details, but this was no fishing boat. Mounted on the bow was the biggest gun I had ever seen.
Immediately I disengaged the autopilot and flung the wheel hard over, executing an emergency tack. Both the main and mizzen booms switched sides forcefully as the wind moved from one side to another. I reached for the jib sheets, letting one run free while pulling in the other to trim the sail. The whole maneuver took less than fifteen seconds, and then I was heading back out to sea. I knew the patrol boat would have seen me, but I was a couple of miles from Cuban waters and getting farther away by the second.
I watched the gunboat through my binoculars for a long while, waiting for them to turn and pursue me, but they never did. Within an hour they were slipping back over the horizon, and I kept Paramour on her heading while I went below to fetch the satellite phone.
I turned it on and dialed the first number saved to speed dial. Pruitt answered before the completion of the first ring.
"Chase! I've been trying to call you for hours. You really should leave the phone on." he said, scolding me. "I've gotten some interesting news from my sources in Cienfuego."
"Does it have to do with the patrol boat camped out right where I need to go?" I asked, a little annoyed with myself for not leaving the phone on.
"So, you already know about that. But, I'm afraid that's not all the bad news. You now have competition. General Bardales, the so-called Minister of Antiquities, is apparently searching for the idol too."
"Why doesn't that sound good?"
"Bardales and I have a, let's say, history together. He's cunning and ruthless, if I were you, I would avoid him and his troops."
"What do you think I'm trying to do? I had to tack back offshore to avoid the patrol boat, and I'm pretty sure they saw me. I need you to do something to get rid of it."
"I can't just make them disappear, Chase. I don't have that much influence. You're going to have to wait for them to head back in for fuel, or sneak past in the dark."
"Sneak past in the dark?" I asked incredulously, "Have you never heard of radar?"
"That isn't my problem. It's what I'm paying you for. I'm sure you'll figure out something. Just get to the marina and don't get caught. If I hear anything else, I'll let you know," Pruitt said, and then added, "And Chase, leave the phone on."
The line went dead before I could reply, leaving me standing on the deck of my boat staring at the phone. The urge to chuck the phone into the ocean and sail on to Jamaica or the Cayman islands came over me, but I fought it back. I could barely afford to clear into either country, much less stay there. Pruitt had given me enough to prepare for this trip, not enough to disappear with. Sneaking into Cuba was the only option open for me.
I let Paramour sail herself for another couple of hours before once again turning around and heading towards the shore. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the water by the time I neared Cuban waters again. I glued my eyes to the binoculars, scanning the waters relentlessly, pausing only to check my instruments. The radar was set to its longest range, but so far the scope was clear. My chart plotter ticked down the distance to my waypoint until Paramour crossed the invisible border into Cuba. The knowledge that every bit of distance sailed would be that much more distance I would have to cover if I had to flee gnawed at me, but I pressed on.
Time crawled by, slowing with every minute that passed. I worried about every contact the radar displayed, at one point searching the water for five minutes only to find a flock of seagulls feeding on bait fish three miles away. The tree covered cliffs of Punta Gran Diablo came into view when I was five miles out and I tweaked my sails, trying to eek out another quarter knot of speed. The sooner I was behind the cliffs, the sooner I could relax.
Two miles out, the radar picked up another target. This one glowed solid and bright on the monochrome screen. It was no flock of birds. This was something solid. I watched the dot on the screen as the screen refreshed itself, watching it move closer and closer with each pass. I had no way of knowing if it was the patrol boat or some other boat, but I didn't want to take any chances. The radar display showed it was twenty miles away, too far away to see me visually, but at the speed they were moving they would be in visual range by the time I made it to the mouth of the river. If they had radar, they already knew I was here. I jammed the throttle all the way forward and then rolled up the headsail and wrestled the mainsail down. Bare wooden masts would be much harder to see against a backdrop of trees than towering white sails.
The boat's bearing remained steady, moving down the coast in a straight line, neither heading towards the river, nor directly towards me, but instead, angling slightly out to sea. That was a good sign. If they had radar, they weren't interested or hadn't noticed me. I had sacrificed a little speed by dropping the sails, but Paramour continued to bound through the seas, making good time under engine power towards the cliffs already starting to tower over me.
The entrance to the river was not marked with any navigational aids. There were no buoys or markers to help guide me in, and the digital charts on the chart plotter were not nearly as detailed as they were for the US. Normally I would have slowed down, taking my time as I searched for a safe path into the river, but with the blip on the radar now within just a few miles of me, I didn't have that luxury. I would have to do my best to read the waters until I could get out of sight.
The setting sun didn't help my situation. The dark waters of the river had turned into a rippled golden mirror of sunlight, a
nd even with polarized sunglasses I couldn't see below the surface. Instead, I was forced to keep a watchful eye on the depth sounder to avoid running aground while I made my approach. Rivers are notoriously difficult to navigate, but there are some tricks I had picked up over the years and I used them all as I barreled up the river at full speed.
The looming cliffs slipped by unnoticed as I concentrated on keeping the boat off the bottom, steering wildly in the river's current. My radar was now occluded by land on all sides, the bright moving dot of the unknown boat replaced by the solid outline of the cliffs. The sole break in the line of land was the opening where the river spilled into the sea, and that too disappeared as I rounded the first bend. As soon as I slipped behind the cliffs, I pulled back on the throttles, bringing the boat more into control, and allowing myself to take the precautions necessary to forge my way through the unknown waters.
I had made it.
◆◆◆
I found the marina two miles up the river. Unblemished floating docks anchored in place by gleaming white poles lined a man-made cove carved out of the river bank. Twin rock levies diverted the water, protecting the basin from the river's current. Dozens of slips jutting from floating docks lined the harbor. All of them sat empty and lifeless upon the obsidian mirror of the marina's still waters. Metal ramps leading to shore gleamed in the late afternoon sun. It was near one of these ramps where I spun Paramour around and backed her into a slip, a maneuver I would never try in a crowded marina, especially alone. She was not a nimble boat, even in forward. She was downright unruly in reverse.
Working the throttle and wheel, I managed to swing her stern into the slip on the first try. Within moments I had my old boat tied off securely. My ratty sun-faded dock lines completely out of place on the sparkling stainless steel cleats bolted to the dock. I laughed at the juxtaposition of my weatherbeaten old boat sitting alone in the posh new marina and gave my vessel an affectionate pat. "This place isn't good enough for you," I told her. I meant it too.
Nobody came to greet me, and after a few minutes, I climbed up the ramp to the flat expanse of land that made up the resort. Half a dozen newly erected buildings were scattered around the grounds, along with a few pieces of construction equipment. Along one corner, the foundation of an unfinished building butted up to a chain-link fence surrounding the compound. Following the fence, I spotted a gate and a tiny guard shack. I was halfway to it when I heard a voice calling from behind me.
"Señor! Señor!" a clean-cut young man yelled as he jogged toward me.
I waited for him to catch up, put on my friendliest smile, and held out my hand. "Hi, I'm Chase Hawkins. I was wondering where everyone was," I said, not attempting to speak Spanish. In my experience, playing the dumb American tourist normally worked to my advantage. People didn't expect much from hapless tourists.
The man, a kid really, looked to be about twenty years old. He looked at my outstretched hand, and timidly took it in his own, giving me an uncertain shake.
"Señor Hawkins. Welcome. I apologize for chasing after you. We did not expect you until tomorrow," he said in perfect Cuban-accented English.
"That explains why the place seems deserted. I made better time than expected, I'm sorry if that causes any problems," I looked down at the embroidered name tag stitched to his dark blue polo shirt, "Enrique."
"No, no! No problems, señor. Welcome to Boca Sucia. I believe you are our first guest," he said with a pleasant smile.
"Well, it's always good to be first for something," I quipped. "I wasn't sure if you were open."
"Oh! We are not open to the public, yet. I have been told we may open this fall for the winter cruising season. But the owner called and told us you would be coming, and to help you for as long as you needed."
"That was nice of him," I said, wondering if Pruitt knew this owner, or if it was secretly him. Neither would have surprised me.
"I can show you around if you like, señor Hawkins. Of course most of the buildings are closed, however."
"That shouldn't be needed, Enrique. However, I have friends in a village nearby. Can you tell me the quickest way to get there?" I asked.
"Of course, Señor. Most of the laborers come from the village, and they cut a direct path through the jungle. If you go out of our main gate, and down the road for about a kilometer, you will see a path leading off to the right. This leads to the airfield. If you continue on to the other side, it will take you to the village."
"How far is the village?" I asked.
"It isn't far, five or six kilometers," Enrique said.
"And the road? Does it go to the village too?"
"Si. But it is a much longer trip on foot. I will tell our security guard you will be coming and going. Boca Sucia is a very private resort and we take our security seriously. I must ask, for your own safety, please do not go wandering around the grounds unattended."
Something in his voice sounded more like a veiled threat than a warning. For a moment I wondered what kind of place this was, but dismissed it. The resort's business wasn't my own. I just needed a safe place to leave my boat.
"You've got my word, Enrique. I'll stick to the path between the docks to the gates. Thank you for the heads up." I turned towards the entrance to the compound but only made it a couple of steps before Enrique called after me.
"Señor?" he said, getting my attention.
"Yes?"
"If you are trying to go unnoticed, I suggest you change. Shorts are not normally worn here unless at the beach. If you go out like that, the locals will know you are a tourist and may try to take advantage of you. Also, it is getting late, and the road isn't always safe. There has been increased rebel activity in the area and the military has been patrolling more. You might want to wait for morning."
I did not want to risk a run-in with Bardales' men. But I also didn't want to give him any more of a head start on finding the artifact either. I was ready to ignore Enrique's warning when the exhaustion of the voyage and the stress of nearly being spotted hit me. The idol had been hidden for hundreds of years. It could wait one more night. And Enrique was right, I would look suspicious anywhere except a barstool in Marathon.
"Thanks for the heads up, boss. Sometimes us sailors have to be reminded we're in civilization. You know what would be nice? A shower. Is there a water hookup on the docks?"
"Yes, of course, but I can do better. There is a bathroom with hot showers right near where you docked," he said with a hint of pride.
"Hot water? Enrique, I'm liking Boca Sucia more and more. If you keep this up, I'm going to leave a glowing review." I said with a smile. An unlimited hot water shower was exactly what I needed after a week at sea.
Enrique walked with me back to the docks, pointing out the various buildings. He mentioned the owner had hired him to be the concierge and manager for the marina resort, and as part of his job he had his own room here on site. His family lived in the village, but now that he was busy helping oversee the construction, he rarely saw them. His English was perfect and in our short walk I discovered he also spoke French and Portuguese. He bid me farewell and headed for the building he had designated as the marina office while I gathered some clean clothes and enjoyed an invigorating shower.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sweat poured down my back within minutes of starting down the dirt road, drenching my shirt. The heat and oppressive humidity had been bearable in the marina where there was a steady breeze, but here, in the country's interior, it sapped my strength and was nearly unbearable. I could feel my body struggling to adapt to the climate and my exertions. I hadn't had a drink since leaving Boot Key Harbor, and I attributed my condition to my newfound sobriety.
Just as Enrique had said, one kilometer down the road there was an obvious path leading off to the right. It was merely two sandy ruts laid down by some off-road vehicle, but it was clear of vegetation and the walking was easy. On both sides, dense jungle threatened to overtake the trail, creating a green tunnel that scattered
the sunlight into a moving mosaic of light and shadow. The shade it provided, however, was much appreciated. Here and there, vines and other growth encroached into the trail, and if not for regular trimming, it would reclaim the pathway within weeks.
I walked for half an hour until suddenly the path burst into a vast rectangular clearing of grass and dirt. The dense jungle formed a nearly impenetrable green wall around the clearing. The majestic mountains of Cuba towered over the trees and airfield like mammoth green sentinels. This was the first decent view of the mountains I had since spotting them in the distance when I approached the coast by sea. It was a strangely beautiful, if foreboding, place.
At the end of the grass, all by itself, sat a small single-engine plane, pointed towards the far end, ready for a quick departure. A dirt road snaked back through the bordering grass and jungle to the main road a few hundred feet behind the plane. Though slightly overgrown, the tracks through the grass made it obvious the airfield was still in use.
The airplane was generic. It was painted white with dark green accents and an alphanumeric code plastered down the side with large vinyl decals. Small airports throughout the world were filled with planes exactly like it. But I hadn't expected to see one in this remote part of Cuba.
Trudging through the thigh high grass, I moved in for a closer inspection. I was no expert in planes, but it appeared to be at least fifteen years old and well used. Much to my relief, it did not strike me as a military craft. I glanced in the windows and found the interior completely empty, but cared for. All four seats looked worn, but not so bad as to be coming apart. The plane struck me as neither flashy nor derelict enough to draw attention. It was almost as if someone purposefully chose it to blend in.
