Viva Cuba! Part 2

Captain's Log 05 March 2014 @ 0600 hrs

Whakaari slipped out of Santiago de Cuba with three souls aboard, under the ever watchful presence of Fort El Morro, its ramparts bristling with cannons.

Rory, Lizzie and I were bound for new adventures along the south coast of Cuba with 3 days to cover the territory to Manzanillo where Annika was supposed to join us.

One refreshing aspect of sailing in Cuba after 6 weeks in the Bahamas is the topography -hills at last, and not just small hills – Cuba's tallest peaks are on the southern ranges, particularly the Sierra Maestra, the highest being Pico Turquino at 1972m. Not only is the scenery dramatic but sailors benefit from katabatic winds flowing down to sea level, countering the eastward current. We flew the assymetrical spinnaker a lot along this coastline, in good depths (another nice change from the Bahamas!) allowing us to sail close to shore.

Siesta time in Manzanillo 

The south coast has very few marinas so the Frontera has to accept that boats will be anchoring which means fewer boardings and paperwork as well as a chance to interact with the friendly locals in small undeveloped towns. We stayed in Maria de Portillo ( a night entry with no beacons) and Cabo Cruz (in the lee of an offshore reef, anchored some 4 miles off the coast) and both times enjoyed meeting local villagers, trading grease to repair a bore pump, fishing nylon and hooks for a big fresh fish, or t-shirts for lobsters. I never felt that we, my yacht or tender were threatened.

Fidel Castro and Che Guevarra are constant images whereever one goes in Cuba, and their legendary exploits were laying down a path for us. Santiago de Cuba was the site of Fidel's failed attack on the Moncado Barracks in 1953, as he set about toppling Batista the puppet dictator. Cayo Granma gave her name to the boat Fidel and Che would use to transport their small revolutionist army, and soon we would be anchored at Los Colorados where they were ambushed as they landed, losing most of the 81 men and the rest fleeing into the mangroves and fighting starvation instead. But from these early attempts came huge changes for the people of Cuba.

-A small memorial had been built here but only the foundations were visible under the water. Both Rory and my cameras lost battery power when we arrived on-site by dinghy so no photos were taken. The sombre nature of the place was further reinforced for us soon after as Frontera guards came out to the boat and forced us to anchor further away “for our own good”. However the Playa (beach resort) nearby was busy and I think they feared young Cubans might try to come aboard, as we were told to “have no contact”.

Locals coming to town

Manzanillo was our next port, where Annika would join us, and that became a troubled visit as the Port Captain decided she could not board the yacht and would have to travel back to Ceinfuegos to join there. No amount of discussion or even subtle attempts at bribery, could change his mind. This decision cost us all time, money and lost opportunities, and we later found out that he had no right to prevent her joining the boat. Annika had to ride a bus for another 22  hours and take a cab for 160km (amazingly this only cost US $20).
However, the town was delightful, totally unaffected by tourism, instead reliant on sugar production, dotted with grand colonial buildings, Moorish architecture, and a grand Jose Marti town square where people throng to in the evenings for Salsa dancing.

Siesta brings an odd quietness across the town, but in the early evening everyone is out on the streets enjoying neighbourly meals, games and music, many older men and women are smoking big Cuban cigars, and the horse & cart taxis are everywhere with revellers partying aboard.

There was nothing for it but to make for Ceinfuegos, which we did quickly, covering the 230 nautical miles in 38 hours. We negotiated the 6 mile long harbour approach at midnight, and were just anchoring and hoping for a good rest when the Frontera boat pulled alongside, the Port Captain came aboard and directed us to the dock for immediate processing.

So began two and a half hours of enthusiastic Frontera guards searching the boat with two dogs, detailed recording by two officers of yacht specs I had never been asked for before (mast height, hull construction, engine serial numbers, makes of all electronics on board, etc- I supply most of this on a printed form, with crew list etc, but in every port they insist on handwriting it out themselves in full, questioning the spelling of every word)

The dogs were climbing over the now sleeping forms of Rory and Lizzie, the guards leaning over them to open storage areas, and the cockpit full of officials – all very friendly and just doing their jobs – at two in the morning?!

"Black Pearl" aka Cayman Valhalla 

Ceinfuegos meant shore time, and where Rory and Lizzie would depart for Havana for some Cuban culture then back to New Zealand. For Annika & I it was a good place to leave Whakaari on a safe anchorage and go inland to Trinidad to explore the World Heritage city, and hike into the mountains. But first we soaked up the sights and sounds of Ceinfuegos, Rory and I adding to our Cuban cigar collection along the way.

Our initial dockside mooring was alongside a sinking galleon, not dissimilar to the “Black Pearl”, but her yardarms threatened my rig so we opted for an anchorage instead. This dying ship was a ghostly and foreboding sight in the moonlight. I'm sure her skeleton crew were active while we slept!

Annika flirting with TriniDADians

Trinidad – surely the most beautiful of Cuban towns – was one of the original seven colonial garrison towns built by the Conquistadors, inhabited by rich Spaniards who thrived on its sugarfields worked by slaves. Now its cobbled streets, squeezed between pastel painted three storey mansions, are crowded with vendors making money off the tourists on foot, while big American Chevrolets and Fords of the 50s era grind their way slowly in & out.

Quinteto Cohimbre and guest flautist

Trinidad's restored buildings
 and cobbled streets

Just travelling inland was a treat, crossing many miles at open road speed, watching the landscapes change so quickly, fleeting glimpses of people going about their day. Such a contrast to cruising along at six knots when the view took hours to change.

Our 'casa particular' (like a B&B, but only $20 a room) was in the heart of Trinidad, with a rooftop patio where we could soak up the sounds and smells, and see the mountains where we would soon be hiking. The streets radiated out from the central square, so we just kept walking. Soon all sense of a tourist trap disappeared, and real Cuban life was laid bare before us.

To get to the highlands a car was necessary. Our host had the usual contacts – its all part of making do – and a young trendy man with a 50 year old Russian Lada took us into the Escambray mountains where we would see the second highest peak “el Tope de Collante”, enjoy some fantastic scenery, and a skinny dip at a gorgeous waterfall.

Natural Piscina

Limestone overhang

The trail was a solid four hours return, giving us a good work out. Near the trailhead locals set up stalls outside their homes, or even within the park, selling trail snacks, fresh juices, and fruit.

On the drive out the expected breakdown occurred, and though they work miracles keeping these old cars going, it wasn't to be this time, so our driver arranged a jeep ride back to town. In hindsight it was a miracle that car coped with the hills, especially the downhill bits! A good driver thankfully.

Our last experience in Ceinfuegos was the modern ballet “Possibly Impossible” at the restored 19^th Century Tomas Terry theatre, at nine pm. The building is a delight, but the quality performance was even more so. Visitors pay 10x the local price but that still was only $10 for a show of international standard.

We walked back to the boat along the malecon (seawall) where all the young Cubans party and strut their stuff, past the stunning 1920's yacht club, collected our zarpe from the Port Captain and were soon making the run out to sea, past the huge “Bienvenidos to Socialist Cuba”, and on our way to Cayo Largo and then Isla de Juventud, the Island of Youth.

Cayo Largo was a paradox, no Cubans live there but commute to service the tourist resorts, all are foreign owned (German, Italian, French) and all-inclusive , yet there seems very little that speaks of Cuba.

We met up with the young cruisers on 'Libertad' we'd met in Santiago de Cuba, sponging their way at these resorts. They spent every night partying for free at a resort as if they were guests, sleeping the day away then hitting the next resort that wasn't onto them. It could've been anywhere. We enjoyed some gunkholing in the dinghy photographing wildlife, then moved on quickly.

White Heron

Iguana

Isla de Juventud was a highlight of our Cuban visit, a surprise as other cruisers we'd met had said not to waste our time going there. We met some wonderful people, cycled a full day visiting Santa Fe and discovered the rural Cuba. Everyone seemed to have meaningful employment, tending crops and livestock. While cycle touring, 60 miles or more, we passed half a dozen unfinished communist-style high-rise housing complexes that were intended by the Castro regime to support intensive farming operations. They seemed to be sitting waiting for completion and the locals were keeping up the maintenance on the fencing and irrigation systems -waiting for markets to open up?

Our cycle trip in the heat was becoming exhausting, the deteriorating roads wearing us down, when we chanced upon a farm homestead where we were welcomed and given beautiful bore water and shown a rideable foot track that saved us tens of miles. Our offer of money was refused-they had everything they needed.

After some tricky footwork by a german expat taxi driver, known to locals as “The German” Annika obtained a seat on a 'fully booked' flight to Havana, and left bound for the Bahamas.

I set sail for Los Morros, the last possible clearing out port before crossing the Yucatan Channel to Mexico.

Single handed sailing is so dreamlike. At times reminding me of quotes by various adventurers of

“long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror”, and at other times just pure bliss.

One morning I communed with a huge pod of dolphins, riding the bow as they performed their aquatic and aerial ballet.

I baked banana bread, made numerous sail changes, clicked away on my Nikon, and snatched power naps while the radar and AIS kept a lookout for other vessels.

Making landfall at 0200 hrs at Cabo San Antonio the boom vang broke while fighting the counter currents as the Caribbean Sea squeezed through the entrance to the Gulf of Mexico.

Los Morros is a far flung outpost with spartan facilities, and a nasty concrete pier ready to tear holes in your floating home. A Norther was forecast, making it an even nastier proposition to dock there so after clearing in, I followed another yacht “Quitico” to a hurricane hole in nearby mangrove islets to wait for a weather window for the Yucatan crossing. Kathy & Rob were great company over the next five days as the winds raged, and the mangrove lagoons were perfect for paddleboarding.

One paddling session turned into an all day mission when I became disorientated. I was forced to climb trees, retrace my strokes for many hours, soak my burnt tired muscles in crocodile infested waters, and at times consider overnighting on my board. But thankfully I made it back to Whakaari, sunburnt, dehydrated, scratched up, and completely exhausted.

Ever since that experience I stick a handheld compass on the deck of my SUP, doh!

The day finally arrived for Whakaari to depart Cuban waters, and I cleared out ready for Mexico somewhat anxious after reading all the cautionary tales about the notorious Yucatan Channel. I did score two fantastic langostas (lobsters) for ten bucks from a fisherman at the dock before leaving – dinners en route sorted!