We were fortunate to have the opportunity to visit Cuba on a people to people exchange. It is about 180 nautical miles from Great Inagua to Santiago de Cuba, with no place to stop along the way. The route goes south 100 miles through the Windward Passage, and then turns west along Cuba's mountainous south coast for 80 miles. The forecast called for east winds at 20 knots. Perfect. On April 12, we left Man of War Bay and sailed 100 miles south on a single port tack. The first night brought stronger winds, uncomfortable seas, a squall, and scary ship traffic. (I wish I'd added that AIS.) But the following day and night were wonderful sailing along a beautiful, seemingly uninhabited range of mountains. We found that the wind was more favorable, and the sea flatter, if we sailed close to the coast, so we gradually steered to within a mile and a half of land. Then, we were honored to have the U.S. Coast Guard escort us 4 nautical miles offshore as we passed Guantanamo Bay. They had a fast boat and a big gun, but were quite polite, so I put up no argument. We arrived outside Santiago Harbor, below Castile de Morro, at daybreak. We had some difficulty starting the motor, but finally dropped anchor at the marina at Punta Gorda by mid-morning on the 14th.
Cuba is a beautiful, fascinating country. Unlike anywhere else on our voyage so far, Santiago de Cuba is surrounded by gorgeous mountains. Nearby Pico Turquino is as tall as Clingman's Dome. Santiago de Cuba has a reputation as a filthy industrial harbor, but we found it to be clean and attractive. The people are friendly and hard-working. Crime is essentially non-existent, and we always felt safe. Of course, the socialist system works poorly and is rife with low-level corruption. (A small tip here and there makes the system work better.) Regular jobs don't pay enough to survive, so everyone - everyone - has some hustle going to make extra money. Offering tourists special deals on cigars or rum, or leading you on a tour, or doing your laundry, or delivering jugs of diesel fuel, or bringing customers to a paladar (a privately owned restaurant, usually in someone's home) are common. These are very enterprising people.
A highlight of our visit was being invited for dinner to the home of Pedro and Rosa and their three children Pochito, Roxanna, and Clara. We had roast goat, a beautiful tomato and cucumber salad, potatoes, and rice and beans. Maribeth brought a pasta salad and a bottle of wine. Pedro poured two fingers of rum, straight up. We struggled with language (our Spanish is worse than their English,) but managed to have a delightful evening, even managing conversations about religion and politics. By our economic standards, Pedro and Rosa are quite poor. But they are well-educated, curious about the world, open-minded, and amazingly resourceful. Wonderful people, and not so poor, really.
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| Shopping district in Santiago de Cuba |
The Cubans have devised a rather clever money system involving two currencies. There is the "CUC," pronounced "kook," exchangeable for other currencies and used by foreigners. And there is the "peso national," used by the Cubans. The effect is that foreigners pay much more than do locals for the same goods and services. After a few days, we learned how to play the system and things got drastically cheaper for us. We bought pizzas for 32 cents, ice cream cones for 8 cents, and splurged on large bottles of Havana Club rum for 6 dollars.
Regrettably, La Peregrina's motor issue got worse. I could no longer start the motor. The marina provided a diesel mechanic (no charge, though I privately tipped him $20) who determined that sea water was getting into the cylinders (but not, thank goodness, into the crank case.) The diagnoses ranged from "motor finit," to a blown head gasket ("junta",) to a bad mixing elbow.
So there we were in Cuba without a functioning motor, and no way to get parts. (Americans cannot have parts shipped into Cuba.) The Cubans assured us they could fabricate a head gasket or a mixing elbow, but they couldn't say how long it would take, or how much money. Or, we could sail to Jamaica.
As much as I despise running the motor, the prospect of sailing 115 nautical miles over open ocean and then entering an unfamiliar harbor in Jamaica without a motor was rather daunting. There was no other good choice.
The wind blows out of Santiago harbor each morning, and the tide would also be falling on the morning of April 20. We ensured the batteries were fully charged and the water tanks full, and unfurled the genoa at 9:00 am and drifted slowly toward open water. In an hour we had sailed through the narrow harbor entrance and sat just offshore, bobbing for 2 or 3 hours in dead calm air. Frustrated at noon, I opened a beer. Immediately, the wind rose and we set off on a southerly course toward Jamaica. Who says they don't brew good beer in Cuba?
The passage between Cuba and Jamaica was very pleasant. Maribeth has been a very competent sailor for a long time, but now has gained confidence, and she put her skills to good use on this crossing. We did 2 hour watches, and sailed fast through the night. At dawn, we were three miles north of the Jamaican coast, with its tall mountains and, that morning, looming clouds and rain. There, we hit a wall. The wind suddenly died, or blew on our nose, though 8 foot northeast swells remained. The current pushed us west. We tried hard to make way in the right direction, but could not. We sailed back north again, where we found the wind and made a second approach. Once again, we got close to shore and we could see the waves crashing on either side of the entrance to Port Antonio, but we could not get there.
I surmised that we were fighting the morning land breeze and that the afternoon would bring a more favorable wind. But Maribeth, who is smarter and less stubborn than me, chose not to wait. She radioed Port Antonio's Errol Flynn Marina and soon the Jamaican Coast Guard was on its way to rescue us. Four young men in an old 20 foot center-console motor launch soon appeared 50 feet to starboard. They had no lines, nor a proper cleat on their boat, and none of us knew precisely what to do. I rigged a bridle on the bow, attached a spare halyard, and with all my strength tossed the loose end into the Jamaican boat. Suddenly we were being towed, through the pouring rain, into the blessedly protected waters of Port Antonio. I sat on the bow, watching the tow line go slack and then tighten like a guitar string. Would it snap? And if it did, which way would we drift? "Joe, let's not tell anyone about this," Maribeth pleaded. (Ah, but the truth will set us free.)
By 10:00 on the 21st, we were tied up at the Marina. The senior coast guard officer, who may have been 25, came by our boat and had me sign a report describing the morning's event. He was professional and friendly. There would be no cost to us. "This is our job. We would do it again if you needed us." Maribeth offered his crew a small bottle of Jack Daniels, which they accepted graciously. I hired a mechanic, who has determined not only that the mixing elbow is bad, but that the turbocharger has been gone for a long time. Parts are not available in Jamaica, so we must find parts and get them shipped here.
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| Errol Flynn Marina in Port Antonio, Jamaica. La Peregrina is at bottom left, partially obscured. |
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| Clive the Banana Man stopped by our boat every morning, offering bananas and mangos for sale. |
We are very hopeful we can find crew for our trip to Guatemala's Rio Dulce. If you have interest, please let us know and we'll talk dates and locations. We miss you all a great deal.
Joe
