North of Havana

by Randy Wayne White

  “You get me there alive, I’ll recognize it. And if something does happen to me”—he was reaching into his day pack—“you got this. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  It was a topographical map, not a coastal chart. But that was fine if it covered enough area. I slowed the boat but still had to battle the wind to get the map open and folded to the right sector. I held it in a tight little square and returned to speed, glancing from open water ahead to the coast of Cuba drawn in relief.

  It showed the village of La Esperanza—a tiny place right at sea level, with a marked channel to the northwest just off an appendage of land called Punta Lavandera. But it was all lowland; no headlands that could be easily recognized. If I passed by Punta Lavandera, what landmark would I look for?

  There was a large island just off La Esperanza that ran east and west, then jagged southwest A very strangely shaped island. Its name was Cayo de Soto. Cayo de Soto was maybe six or seven miles long, curved like an arched prawn, the eastern point creating the prawn’s horn, the broader southwestern section the prawn’s tail. No lighthouse on the eastern point of the island—a good place to put one—but I would know my location by the size and odd shape of the island and be able to turn into a bay… a place called the Bay of Playuelas.

  I folded the map, then put it into my pants pocket. I steered for a while, trying to ignore the back of Geis’s head, focusing on wave rhythms and optimum speed, seeing the bottom through a water stratum that thinned and deepened, jade tinted and clear, buoying us above deserts of white sand, mesas of coral, our boat shadow following the demarcations of light and depth far, far below.

  Then for no reason that made sense, I thought: Lighthouse.

  Why did a lighthouse come to mind?

  I thought about the map. There were several landmarks but no lighthouses. So why lighthouse?

  I kept steering, heading west. That word would come into my mind, stay for a while, then fade.

  But it kept returning.

  Lighthouse…

  I drove and let my subconscious work on it.

  We were a mile or so off the reef line that fenced mainland Cuba from open sea, two miles or so from what was now jungled shoreline. I figured we’d been traveling an hour and a half or so—it was now nearly three p.m.—and that we’d covered thirty, maybe thirty-five miles. Saw thatched-roofed shacks built among coconut palms on the beach. A lone man on a horse. Listened to Geis tell me about his prostitute in Havana—“Everything I told you was the truth; about her, about Castro, about Cuba, everything. That’s the only way to convince guys like us”—but I kept thinking: Lighthouse?

  Finally, I took out the map and looked at it again. I paid particular attention to Cayo de Soto. Yes, the eastern point of the island would be a good place for a lighthouse, but why did that strike a chord?

  I had almost put the map away a second time when I realized what the connection was. Made myself look away, then look again. Months later, I would find myself reviewing a map of coastal Cuba just to be certain I hadn’t imagined it: Cayo de Soto, shaped like an arched prawn, was the inverted twin of Sanibel Island. It was as if someone had inked a map, folded it, and stamped a carbon copy of Sanibel on the northern coast of Cuba. Sat there at latitude 22 degrees 45.7 minutes north, longitude 83 degrees 50.5 minutes west, for anyone with a chart to see.

  The islands of Florida and the Caribbean are often similar in shape. Forces of tide and wind are immutable, so the landmasses they contour become a repetition of theme.

  But not Sanibel.

  Sanibel, because it was formed over the millennia by an unusual confluence of river and tidal flow, was very different.

  So was Cayo de Soto.

  The lighthouse meant nothing—it was the distinctive eastern point of the island that had keyed the memory electrodes. And, perhaps, the smaller islands clustered around the prawn’s belly… and the narrow Blind Pass–sized opening at the western end. But none of that was as compelling as the amoeba-shaped bay—a Cuban version of Dinkin’s Bay—sitting just below the hump of the arched prawn. Sanibel’s mangrove littoral was on the northern side, Cayo de Soto’s on the south, but they were duplicates other than that. It was so obvious that I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it immediately.

  To me it was a geographical oddity. To a mystic like Tomlinson, under the influence of peyote and pressured to pick a spot on a map near La Esperanza, the similarities would register subconsciously—as they had with me—or consciously… something he would interpret as a divine message.

  I put the map away and said to Geis, “I know where they are.”

  Geis, for some reason, seemed concerned. He was looking past me off our stern. “I was hoping you’d noticed. Hotshot boatsman that you are.”

  What did that mean?

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw a cruiser a mile or so away, closing on us. A high-bowed patrol boat; the Guardia Frontera.

  “Slow down, let them pass us. Or stop and let them ask us for papers—what the hell do we care?”

  Meaning he would talk us out of it. Or shoot our way out of it.

  I twisted the throttle for maximum speed. “I’m not stopping. We can outrun them.”

  “The patrol boat, maybe. But not them.”

  I glanced over my other shoulder and saw some kind of small power boat—it looked like a Whaler—so overpowered that its engine threw a rooster tail of spray behind it.

  I turned sharply toward the reef line. Said, “We can try.”

  * * *

  The reef appeared as an extended hedge of black upon which ocean rollers exploded, throwing white spume that created a jagged and shifting border westward, down the coast. The way the sunlight caught the surf line, the breakers appeared to be moving in slow motion, like polar ice, mica and silver. I had to find a way through the coral into the calmer, much shallower water that lay between the mainland and the reef.

  “Stop, goddamn it! If we run, they’ll open fire without asking any questions. For all we know, they just want to search us because they’re bored.” Geis had turned to face me; he was sitting on the wooden decking, his back against the bow. Already, we were taking some spray and his shirt, his red hair were soaked.

  “Know what I think, Geis? I think they found those bodies back in Mariel and they’re going to shoot no matter what.”

  “Then why’s the fucking patrol boat already pulling off?”

  I took a quick look behind us. It was true. The cruiser appeared to have slowed and changed course. It seemed to be turning out to sea. Would they give up so easily if they had found the four dead guardsmen? It seemed unlikely.

  But the power boat was still on us, vectoring like a bullet. Less than a half mile behind and closing fast.

  “And choppers—you don’t think they’d dispatch a chopper after us if they knew? Hell yes, they would. Cuba’s still got an air force and those boys love to shoot. They wouldn’t miss a chance like this. A moving target? Shit.“As if he’d have enjoyed the chance himself.

  I turned my eyes toward the sky: high white mackerel clouds; sea birds kiting in the Gulf Stream breeze. No aircraft.

  Maybe Geis was right.…

  But what if they had found the bodies? Or what if someone found them while the Guardia Frontera had us stopped? The patrol boat would undoubtedly have a radio. It was possible that the Whaler had one, too. I wasn’t going to risk it.

  I looked past Geis; he was still scanning the surf line, looking for an opening. It appeared to be a solid line of coral, some of it exposed to the wind. Hit it at speed, the engine would be ripped off our boat and we’d be catapulted out, cut to pieces. I pictured us on foot, fighting the breakers, getting sliced apart with every step while the men in the Whaler took their time; sat off and opened fire.

  “Listen, you dumbass Yankee”—Geis was reaching for the fuel tank—“if you won’t stop us, I will.” He got his hands on the fuel hose, was
trying to rip it off, when I pivoted and hit him hard between the ear and the jaw. He sat back dumbly, trying to blink his vision clear. I watched him move his hands—for the automatic rifle still slung over his shoulder, I thought—but no; only to feel his jaw. “Goddamn,” he said, “that really fucking hurt!”

  My left hand was on the throttle; the .45 Browning was on the wet deck, my right hand touching it. “You try something like that again, I’ll throw you out of the boat. Or I’ll shoot you.”

  Still wiggling his jaw, he studied my eyes—no doubt; I meant it. Said, “Either one, try to throw me out or shoot me, that’s okay. But don’t you ever hit me again. Not and expect to live, anyway.” His eyes telling me, yeah, he meant it, too.

  I moved my right hand from the deck to the safety lashing on the Avon’s pontoon, holding tight. I was running parallel to the reef now, far enough off to avoid the breakers, but the surge and lift of every wave tilted us crazily to the left, our port side, causing the outboard’s propeller to scream when it broke free of the water.

  “They’re going to stick their bow right up our ass, Ford. If you’re going to outrun them, do it!” Geis was squatting now, looking behind us, both hands gripping the boat. A new objective, a new Geis—suddenly the cheerleader. “Three guys in uniform… yeah, they’re Guardia. And one of them’s bringing out a rifle… shit, no, it’s one of those damn baby machine pistols.”

  I swung my head for just a moment—the Whaler was no more than sixty yards back; too much of a blur to confirm what Geis was seeing. I was concentrating on the reef: a wall of brown staghorn coral; flashes of reds and greens as the waves broke over it. There had to be some kind of tidal cut.…

  But there wasn’t. None that I could see… not with my damn glasses coated with salt spray.

  “He’s bringing his weapon up, Ford. Trying to aim in this shit. The son-of-a-bitch, he’s—well, fuck him, I can play that game, too.” Now Geis was trying to unsling his MP5, bouncing around in the bow, his feet slipping, landing hard on his butt. “Stop this goddamn boat so I can shoot!”

  “Hang on! I’m going to try and jump the reef.”

  “What?”

  “I catch one of these waves just right, I think I can jump us over the lip. We make it, there’s no way they can follow us.”

  I wasn’t certain I believed it, but I was starting to panic. My muscles had gone rigid, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet at any moment.

  “If you’re going to do it, do it. Shit!”

  I was watching the swells rolling in off to my right. Pretty big swells, six- to seven-footers, that seemed to absorb elevation and pitch as they glided onto the reef. I was also studying the reef, looking for the narrowest band of staghorn. It didn’t seem to be much more than eight or nine feet wide here. I saw a large, glassy roller ahead and off to my right, way out, and I turned the boat toward it. Pounded full speed at what I hoped was a precise point of intersection, then I pulled the tiller hard toward me, turning sharply toward the coral… looked ahead and could see nothing but white spray… looked behind us and saw the wave gathering mass and height, and I twisted the throttle open, trying to match our speed to the speed of the wave. Heard Geis yell something loud and in Russian—an instinct probably keyed by fear—as the wave lifted us easily, carrying us crest-high, then surfed us onto the coral… then over and partway across it, where we banged down bottom-hard, engine tilted upward and kicking until I shifted to neutral.

  We were frozen there a moment, hard aground, but then the next decaying surge lifted us… lifted us a little more… and then I powered into deeper water and back onto plane.

  Geis yelled, “I’ll give you this—you’re a hell of a lot better in a boat than you are in a car.”

  My heart was pounding. We’d actually made it? I said, “I know.”

  The Whaler had stopped, was dolphining in the rollers, trying to hold its position off the reef: three men in uniform, just as Geis had said, one of them with a weapon aimed at us. I watched the man trying to balance himself as he leaned toward us; heard nothing because of the surf, but saw a line of angulated geysers streak the water ahead of us.

  “Shit, now they’re shooting at us.” We were in flat water; Geis had no trouble shouldering his automatic rifle, but I reached and batted the barrel away.

  “Stay down! If you return fire, they’re going to follow us whether they know about Mariel or not. And probably call in help.”

  “They shoot us now, what the fuck difference does it make?” He gave me a look—don’t interfere again—and raised the weapon. I ducked low, expecting him to shoot… but he didn’t. Heard him yell, “They’re moving. They’re under way now.” He was motioning to me, like get going.

  I had been zigzagging toward the mainland, trying to vary my speed and heading to make a more difficult target. Now I swung west, running fifty yards or so offshore. That little bit of distance, the air had changed. The rain forest was on hillsides above us and I could smell wet earth and leaves; brackish odors that were incongruous with the sea fans and flower-bright coral heads that blurred beneath us through the veneer of water.

  The Whaler was still on the Gulf Stream side, two miles off and ahead of us. It was working its way along the reef, trying to find a passage in. I watched the boat slow, retrace its own wake, then power bow-high toward the coral.

  “He thinks he’s got an opening,” Geis said. “If he makes it, we’re going to have to do something quick. Maybe beach this thing and hope they try to follow us up into the jungle.” He was looking in his satchel; plenty of ammunition since he’d plundered the base at Mariel. He said, “You think they’re that dumb?”

  I was watching the boat snaking its way through the coral. It stopped a couple of times with the engine trimmed… but no, they were through. Saw the Whaler lift and flatten, gaining speed. They were coming at us.

  I pulled out the map. “Take a look. Is that a river up ahead?” I could see a delta of white sand; a break in the shoreline.

  Geis took the map and held it low out of the wind, calmly unfolding it as I yelled, “Where the hell you think we are? Maybe fifteen, twenty kilometers from La Esperanza?”

  “Farther than that.” He was taking his time; didn’t seem to be in any rush. I said, “You mind hurrying a little bit?”

  “Then we’re probably off La Mulata—this shitty little village up ahead. Dogs and snot-nosed kids; I’ve been through there. Yeah, there’s not a river, but there’s like a creek that comes out, kind of winds its way back in.”

  “To where? The village?”

  Geis held the map out toward me. “What the hell you mean where? It’s a fucking creek. It leads to nowhere!”

  “Does it dead-end?”

  “Someplace it does.”

  I could see the mouth of the creek now: coconut palms throwing shadows on white sand and a conduit of dark water that vanished into the trees. The Whaler was blowing its rooster-tail wake once again, a mile or so away. I tried to estimate how close they’d be behind us if we beat them to the creek—a hundred yards, maybe less.

  “We’re going to try the creek,” I said. “Maybe we can lose them in the creek.”

  “Goddamn it, that boat’s too fast. Let’s stop—find a place up on that hill. Three of them, two of us. Then we take their boat, stop flying around in this little rubber piece of shit.”

  I didn’t reply. I swung out just enough to avoid the sandbar, then turned hard into the opening through the trees.

  At first, it was too deep and wide to be called a creek, then was immediately too narrow to be called a river. One of those black-water tidal streams that creates its own cavern through shadows and overhanging trees. Probably thirty feet wide, with rocks sticking out of the mud banks; higher banks set back in, overgrown, showing that the course of the creek sometimes flooded and changed, winding its way out of the headlands.

  I never slowed down. I kept the Avon doing at
least forty until I came to the first turn. Cut the inside bank a little too close, a little too fast, and the boat nearly walked into trees on the other side.

  I paid no attention to Geis when he yelled, “You want to fucking die, stop and let them do it! Hell, I’ll help.”

  I kept pushing the limits of the boat, knowing that I had to put more distance between us and the Whaler. I’d assembled the scaffolding of the plan when I noticed the creek; now I was trying to put it together in my head. I needed to be a couple of hundred yards ahead of them for it to have a chance of working. It was a very narrow creek with lots of twists and turns… and an outgoing tidal current.

  Maybe… it might…

  Geis was nearly on his belly, fighting to stay in the boat. Limbs were swinging past overhead… white birds exploding out of the tree canopy… cormorants, with gargoyle wings and cobra eyes, flushing ahead in panic.

  Because I hesitated, I did not stop after a series of turns that would have been ideal. What I needed was a place in the creek that had a stretch of fast straightaway, then a ninety-degree bend… and I needed it before the creek narrowed much more.

  I went through a series of S-turns, the wall of trees squeezing so close that I had to duck low to keep from getting knocked backwards out of the boat. For a terrible half-minute, the creek continued to narrow; I thought we had reached a dead end and were trapped. But then the partition of trees veered away, the waterway reflected a broadening expanse of sunlight, and we were into another long stretch—the straightaway I’d been waiting for.

  I got the Avon up to full speed before I kicked at one of the big khaki jerry cans and yelled, “Get that thing open. Get ready to dump it.”

  Geis looked at me blankly for a moment, then his expression changed. Now he was nodding, smiling—I like it; I like it.

  At the next bend, I banked wide, made the turn—a sharp right turn—ran upstream twenty yards or so, then immediately throttled down off-plane. Got the boat under control and steered toward the northern bank, the side invisible from the straightaway, and ran the boat under some trees. Geis had already wrestled the jerry can onto the downstream gunwale and was about to begin pouring, but I held my hand up. Said, “Wait.”