Offshore Islands

by John Francis Kinsella

Arrowsmith coughed and slowly took in his surroundings. He was in the sea, he had been unconscious. For how long he did not know. He remembered the storm, the boat capsizing. He gasped for breath, the sea was heavy but seemed to be calmer, the sky looked to be a degree less dark, perhaps it was an illusion. He seemed to be floating without difficulty. His life vest gave him good buoyancy. He remembered having firmly tied it on in the storm before being pitched overboard.

  For a moment he imagined he had vaguely seen a light. But it disappeared as the sea fell; perhaps it had just been his imagination. He simply needed to hang on. He wanted to live. He felt a force within and he instinctively knew that he had a chance. The sea was warm. His head hurt he must have been hit by something as the boat capsized.

  He remembered the balseros how they had survived storms during days and nights. Where were the others, he called out. It was useless, the effort hurt his throat and the noise of the sea swallowed his shout in the darkness. He needed to conserve his energy. He felt thirst, it was a strange feeling surrounded by water. His lips, mouth and throat were sore from the salt.

  He had seen the pictures of the balseros on the TV, and thought of the thirst they had suffered and sharks, not to speak of the sub-tropical sun. His head was bare; he was only wearing a polo shirt and shorts.

  He had no feeling of time. He became aware of a tiredness that began to invade his body.

  Then the light was there again. It seemed brighter this time, he did not know if it was the Marie Gallant or perhaps another boat. He felt the sea tugging at him, there seemed to be an undercurrent. There was a break in the clouds and he saw the white foam of the waves.

  A powerful surge was pulling at him; the sea rose and thrust him under a huge roaring wave. Even his life jacket could not resist. He was propelled through the roaring watery darkness. After what felt like an eternity the force of the current slackened and a came almost to a stop. His lungs almost in his mouth he was shot to the surface gasping desperately for air. Then still gasping he realised that water was almost totally calm.

  Behind he heard the crashing of the waves and realised he had been carried through a gap in a reef. He was in a lagoon. The light was on the shore and he could see other dimmer lights nearby. He thrust out towards the shore. After a long effort his feet touched the sandy bottom. He waded up to the beach and fell down in a surge of heaving emotion and relief. He thanked God for the first time since his childhood.

  With the light of dawn he saw small houses behind a field. The sky was leaden grey and there was still a wind, it was dying, the tail end of the storm, he figured he must have been in the water for one or two hours.

  To his left, about three or four hundred meters away, was what looked like a hotel. It was about five or six stories high. It must have been that he had seen from the sea. A tourist hotel. It had a name on the roof.

  He struggled to take off his life vest and pull his ideas together. His lips were parched and swollen from the salt. He looked at his Breitling. It was 6.45. He was drying quickly in the warm air. He smoothed the wrinkles out of his polo shirt and shorts. Then smoothing down his hair, he walked up the beach to the vegetation and threw the life vest far into the grassy undergrowth, a wild mixture of cane and tall grass.

  He made his way to the hotel. He was now a guest, be it a scruffy one, having taken an early morning walk. A little unsteady on his feet he walked up the steps that led to a large open lobby. There was a night guard who nodded half interested to him.

  “Buenas!”

  “Buenas!” replied Arrowsmith forcing a smile and walking on. He was in Cuba.

  The guard looked at him as he proceeded up the steps. All tourists are crazy the Cuban thought. The gringo must have been up early inspecting the damage from the storm.

  Arrowsmith walked past the reception. He headed towards the restaurant. It was closed. He saw behind the glass doors waiters and waitresses setting out the breakfast buffet. To his right he saw on a door the sign for men’s toilets. He pushed the door and entered.

  His mouth under the tap he gulped down the water through his swollen lips. For the first time in his life he understood what real thirst was. He would have drunk anything and to hell with the ‘turista’ or any other water borne disease.

  In the mirror he combed his hair with his fingers, there was a bruise near the hairline, mauve, the skin open, though any blood had been washed away by the sea. He tried to make himself look respectable. A last look and he thought not too bad after a shipwreck and a night in the sea.

  His wallet was still in his buttoned down back pocket. He took it out and looked at the contents. Wet dollar bills. He smoothed them out. There were 432 dollars and 700 French francs, wet, but none the worse for wear. His credit cards and his identity card were present.

  He placed the notes between sheets of toilet paper and made a small roll. He left the toilets saw the restaurant open and he made his way in barefoot to the breakfast buffet.

  The tiredness that he felt sweeping over him would have to wait, he had spent at least a couple of hours in the water, he was not exactly sure how many, but the effort had exhausted him. He forced himself to think clearly, there were new dangers, first his illegal though unavoidable entry into the country, would the Cuban police be understanding, a balsero in the wrong direction? He needed time to think.

  Had Castlemain and the others survived? Had they made it ashore? In any case Erikkson was dead! What that implied he was not sure, but if Castlemain was dead the whole Ciscap project was in peril, how would El Commandante take that?

  There were so many questions it would be better to lay low for a few days. The last thing he needed was to fall into the hands of some local corrupt PNR; he had heard enough stories to give him serious doubts about what could happen.

  It would have been better to have landed on some other island, he thought, ungrateful to the gods who had saved him. Then it slowly dawned on him that he had been incredibly lucky to have come ashore anywhere at all!

  The waiter appeared at his table and asked him his room number, he responded almost mechanically with a number which seemed to satisfy the waiter, there were only a couple of early birds and the chances were that it was not their number.

  In spite of the difficulties with his lips he wolfed down the breakfast with a litre of fruit juice. He decided it was not wise to hang around any longer, he stood up and giving a friendly nod to the waiter he left.

  He explored the vast lobby where he found a brochure of the hotel. Hotel Ancon, Playa Ancon, Trinidad, it announced with a view of the hotel and beach with smiling guests. It was logical the Marie Galante had been south of the coast of central Cuba when it had foundered in the storm.

  A girl was setting up her souvenir stand by the steps that led to the beach. He bought a straw hat, a pair of plastic beach shoes and a tee shirt that sported a picture of the Che. He then collected a few tour brochures and headed for the entrance where he saw a couple of taxis waiting in the car park. He asked the driver to take him to the centre of the Trinidad.

  The taxi had pulled in behind a line of three or four ancient Buick’s or Chryslers. The street was cobbled with large uneven stones which were most effective speed breakers, it descended towards what he imagined was the centre of the town. He was on calle Piro Guinart. A couple of vendors were selling bocaditos filled with small slices of ham cut from the bone to the drivers and travellers.

  As he got out of the taxi he was accosted by a jintero speaking English who asked him if he needed a room. He felt tired and weary letting himself be convinced without any discussion. In any case that was how rooms in private houses were rented in Cuba, he had heard that on his previous visits.

  The jintero showed him to the large double door of a house, N°216, not more than a few metres from where the taxi had stopped, he called through a barred window and the door opened. A man of about forty-five showed him in into a spacious, sombre, but cool reception hall. After a few words with the jintero he clo
sed the street door.

  “My name is Rodrigez,” he said holding out his hand. How many nights do you want to stay?”

  “Three.”

  “You are alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s twelve dollars plus three dollars for breakfast.”

  He led him to a courtyard, off which were two rooms. He showed him the first, there was a double bed, it looked clean and comfortable.

  “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  “Can you pay me now?”

  “No problem.”

  “You have some luggage?”

  “It’s coming…my friends,” he said hesitatingly and paid Rodrigez from his fold of dollars which were now dry.

  The Cuban asked no more, he had seen plenty of tourists travelling lightly, it was not his problem, the gringo looked respectable, he had money, he turned and left him in the room. Arrowsmith closed the door and dropped onto the bed and almost immediately fell into a deep asleep.

  Chapter 82

  The Roccade