NINETY MILES TO FREEDOM
Teetering between sleep and wakefulness, Juan Rodriquez Diaz tried to shake off the sensation that he was adrift in the middle of the ocean. His nostrils swelled with the thickness of salt air. Mist lay wet on his bare legs. He resisted full consciousness as he clung to a dream of himself as a young boy swaying in a hammock that hung between two palm trees. When he lost his balance and fell off the hammock, his arms hit the wood hull that was now cradling him. He thrashed out of his dream, into his nightmare.
With the thud of muscle against hard planks, Juan was abruptly transported from the family shack thirty miles from Havana to the makeshift skiff he had boarded the night before. The seat of his cut off jeans was soaked through. His neck was as stiff as the center beam it had rested on all night, and his head throbbed with the shocking realization that he was alone where he had never been alone before—in the middle of the ocean.
He sat erect on the sodden hull of the craft that had floundered way off course, and cursed his stupidity for having slept so long, and for not setting the tiller before he dozed off. He looked for the strongest ray of sunshine among the billowing clouds, and took a wild guess at which direction to point the bow. He pulled the cord of the motor and it only sputtered. He pulled again. Not even a hiss. He checked the fuel tank. Full. He yanked with all his might until life gurgled through the motor creating a pathetically small wake in the open sea. Under gray skies, on calm waters, with tiller in hand, the young freedom fighter had time to reflect upon his narrow escape from Fidel Castro only hours before.
##
For three years the short husky nineteen-year-old with an inordinate reserve of bravado and imagination had prepared to lead the coming revolution. Uneducated, tough and overflowing with zeal, he had battled the Communist regime as relentlessly and ineffectively as Don Quixote had fought his windmills. The government held him under suspicion, he was certain of that, for no one in Cuba wished to oust Fidel Castro as much as Juan Rodriquez Diaz.
He had imagined Castro himself lurking behind the banana plants, his spyglass on the young rebel who could be the next to be dragged away in the middle of the night. After all, Juan had called meetings of the simple villagers and his voice had rung out the loudest. But how could he have known that no one had taken him seriously? He hadn't cultivated the wits to incite, nor the self-awareness that he had been making a fool of himself. The neighbors had shown up to be amused—a night out.
For months Juan had been awaiting an omen, a message from God, for he was sure that Castro’s men were on his trail and there was no escaping his fate without an omen. One day, in search of a sign, he discovered the skiff that had been wrecked against a reef and abandoned. Two days later, a small motor was left behind after a fishing boat had been battered in a storm and loosed from its mooring. His omen was complete and heaven sent.
Weeks of surreptitious gathering of wire and planks and motor parts, laboring only late at night in the dim light of a gas lantern, had produced Juan's passport to freedom. By sheer gut and persistence he and his friend, Ramon, had repaired and patched until the boat held water. Ramon, a twenty year old fisherman, knew that Juan was not on Castro’s enemy list, but he went along with Juan’s self-delusion rather than dash the fantasy that, had God not intervened, he would surely have led his countrymen in revolt.
"It’s time, Papa," Juan had said the night before he found himself adrift. "The boat is ready.”
According to the paranoia of Juan Rodriquez Diaz, he must set sail this very hour or face the firing squad. He rambled on, unable to suppress his anxiety.
"Don't say a word to Mama until morning...listen, Papa, you can't even hear the sea, it's so calm, and there's only a slice of a moon...good. Fidel's men won't be able to see me when I set out.” He put his hand around his father's shoulder as if to assure him. "Don't worry, Papa. Don't worry. The U.S. Coast Guard will pick me up...they're out there, you know...all over the straits…yes, waiting for freedom fighters like me. Three days. Maybe only two and I'll be in Miami, USA. I'll send for you and Mama soon, I promise."
His father, mind-weary and physically worn out, nodded as if to say, "Yes I know you will, son," but he had battled life too long to have faith in his own words. He, too, had once longed to cross that ninety-mile stretch of open water, but false hopes for his homeland had kept him hostage. In recent weeks, he had stood watch on the dirt road to warn of intruders while Juan and Ramon worked into the wee hours. Now it was time for his son to do what the oppressed must do. Senor Diaz would not stand in the way of God's will.
"Remember everything Ramon told you about navigation, son. Follow the stars at night. During the day the sun will guide you," he had instructed, as Juan loaded the last of his provisions. “Row as long as you can. Don’t start up the motor until you feel safe. And God be with you. Yes, God be with you, my boy."
Senor Diaz had leaned over and kissed his only son on both cheeks. Then he gave the boat a final shove with his tire-soled sandal. In a few minutes Juan had been lost to his father on shore, and lost to himself. He had gone on short fishing excursions with Ramon, but never had he been alone with the vastness of stars and dark sea that surrounded him now. But by morning...ah, by morning he would have foiled the entire Cuban militia. God was on his side. Two hours after he had left shore he stopped rowing and slid to the sole of the boat. Drained by the weight of his delusions, he had fallen asleep with visions of a Coast Guard cutter blasting its horn to signal that he had been seen. Soon Juan Rodriquez Diaz would be in the construction business in Miami, and he would build a new life for his mother who lay sleeping, unaware that her fate was drifting aimlessly in the Florida Straits.
#
An hour after the engine sputtered to life, Juan heard the clatter of disaster. The mounting bolts had yanked away a small section of the rotting top rail, and the engine sank to the black depths, somewhere between Havana and Key West. Juan’s power was lost. His heart sank as deep as the engine but he refused to buckle under. No, he wouldn’t panic.
As long as I'm headed north, it doesn't matter. The Coast Guard will pick me up like all the other Cubans who live the good life in Miami.
All that day he rowed hard, stopping now and then to strain his eyes toward the horizon. He saw no other moving object except for the fleeting fins of curious sharks and the splash of small fish.
"I'm strong,” he said to himself. “I can row for days and days and my arms will not fail me.”
He slashed open a papaya but his mouth was watering for his mother's rice and black beans. As the paddles sliced through the rough sea, Juan turned his head east and west, north and south, although he was far from certain which was which. If only he could see one sign of life—the tall smokestack of a cruise ship or the mast of a sailboat, or a dinghy—anything navigated by a human being. In rhythm with the chop of the oars, he sang risqué Latin songs to cheer himself up, to keep negative thoughts from invading the armory of dreams he had been storing for those long weeks. Never had a day seemed so long as that first day on unfriendly waters, and never had he so desperately hoped that God would delay the darkness. Chances are I’ll see the United States Armada before they see me. I’ll wave the bed sheet I was going to use as a sail when the wind picks up.
No doubt about it. His rescuers would be along at any minute. As the sun set beneath a gathering wall of clouds, Juan placed the lantern in the bow and readied the matches so he would lose no time in swinging it when the big ship appeared on the horizon. Maybe the dark is better, after all, he thought. Yes, for sure, my signal will be easier to spot when the sea is black.
As he bailed a few inches of water, Juan wondered if his mother had flown into a rage, or had she wept inconsolably when she heard of his departure—wept as she had the time a hurricane had wiped out their small tobacco crop? In the stark emptiness, he sobbed for her until his thoughts wandered to Ramon. While they had labored on the skiff, his friend had teased him about the sexy girls awaiting him in Miami and they had counted his new wealth dollar by imagined dollar. But what he had to do now, if he were to realize his dream, was row and bail, row and bail until he could no longer lift his arms.
In one year, no more, I’ll save enough money to buy a truck and go into my own business, went his daydream, as he broke off a piece of hard bread and washed it down with cola. While bailing the water that was still seeping slowly through the new caulking, he remembered that Ramon had stored rubber fishing gear at the bottom of the crate. He tossed tools, papayas and a canteen into the stern before he felt the smoothness of rubber. He snuggled into the clammy warmth of the loose pants, stretched across the hull and rested his head against the bow, grateful for the comparative luxury of sleeping with a dry rear end.
The second day at sea the sun was ablaze and Juan knew for certain in which direction to row although he had no idea from what point he was setting his course. He recalled that Ramon was to have brought him a fishing rod but it must have slipped his mind.
"There's enough bread and water and papaya for days,” he said to the shimmering sea as if to call its bluff. "I'm strong and I can row forever."
God was on his side.
The young man who wasn't cut out to be a sailor hadn't counted on the hot sun nor the temperamental straits. In the afternoon, when he saw the long, white, frothy cascade rushing toward him he spoke to the heavens. “My God, it's going to swallow me up.” It was with great trepidation that he did what Ramon had told him to do. He paddled as fast as he could until the bow faced the roller. It was next to impossible to head into the mouth of the huge wave, but he could hear his friend's voice shouting, "Point the bow right into it, Juan...it’s a rogue wave...point the bow!"
Juan held as steady as he could while the flood engulfed him. After the deluge he praised God for his deliverance and took stock of his provisions. Food, water, lantern, oars had been washed overboard. Without the coffee can, how could he bail the half-filled boat? He opened his mouth to scream his frustration, and then realized that all was not lost. There was still one container on board. He yanked off the rubber pants and tied up one end. He filled the leg with water and dumped it over the side, half of it spilling back into the boat. He filled and dumped, filled and dumped. Thus, mercifully, his mind was taken for hours by the urgency of saving his life.
By dusk his T-shirt had dried. He rolled and tucked it under his head. He stared up at the starlit sky, exhausted to the core, his only desire to close his eyes and fall into a deep sleep. His muscles were a mass of knots. He ached from shoulder to ankle. He stared at the rocking moon and once more he felt as if he were in a cradle. Maybe I'll never open my eyes again, he thought. I'm so tired. The sea is so dark and I'm so tired.
The moon imprinted a bright orange sliver under his eyelids as he fell away and, for a fleeting moment, it occurred to him that perhaps the other rebels had been wrong. The straits may not be crawling with the U.S. military waiting to take him to safe harbor, after all.
Hunger and thirst played tricks. Nightmares taunted him. Every harsh word he had ever spoken to his mother repeated itself during the restless night, and now he heard his father's voice reprimanding, "Some day, Juan, some day you'll regret...some day."
"No, no, no,” he groaned, tossing his head from side to side against the hull.
The sun was rising but it made no difference which way was north now. He could not paddle with his bare hands. A devout Catholic, the time had come for Juan to test his faith. If he lived he would thank God for His guidance. If he did not, then it was God's will. He would pray. He would yell his lungs out if he saw the U.S. Coast Guard. He would do his part if a fish jumped into the boat. Otherwise, it was up to the Almighty who, on the third day, created a passing rain cloud. Juan held his shirt to the sky until it was soaked, then he squeezed the precious drops into his mouth. He laid the wet shirt over his face and that's where it stayed, for he hadn’t the strength to move it even after it dried.
On the fourth day he saw a ship far off. He waved frantically, and he shouted until his lungs nearly burst before he realized it was nothing but the shadow of a lone cloud. Then, on the fifth day, he saw another vessel halfway to the end of the earth, but when it came closer, it turned out to be a blob of flotsam and jetsam, trash and seaweed. And when the sixth day came, dehydrated and starved to mindlessness, Juan saw freighters; a blur of freighters that passed the bow and then the stern. He fell over the seat going one way and then the other, calling out, "It is Juan Rodriquez Diaz, the freedom fighter. I’m here below. Here! Can’t you see me?" He ripped off his shirt and flapped it until he collapsed over the seat, heaving short, dry breaths into the water-soaked wood until there were no more freighters.
Later that day a ship's towering hull drew so close he could almost touch the rope ladder that dangled over the side. He raised his head and saw, looming high above him in tall blue letters, the phantom words, "U.S. Coast Guard." He crawled to the bow and called out to the mate whose ghostly white uniform swayed with the clouds, but the words caught in his parched throat. Again and again, he formed, "Help me, help me" from the depths of his soul, but he could utter no sound. He sunk to his knees and prayed for he was convinced: God was on his side.
It might have been seconds that passed, it might have been hours. When Juan heard the captain shout, "Man to starboard,” a spurt of energy came from some deep reservoir, and he forced his knees to lock so he could stand up. Muttering, "Thank you dear Lord, thank you for saving my life,” Juan steadied himself, then leaped toward the ladder. But, alas, his curled fingers found nothing to grab onto except wisps of the lifting fog. The captain’s voice drifted off into the dark, still region of his delirium.
In his flight from all that was real, Juan Rodriquez Diaz, the freedom fighter, did not hear the sound of his own splash, nor did he see the small skiff as it drifted past, bobbing on the ripples above him.
On the seventh day he would rest.
