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.
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| 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”.
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| 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.
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?!
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| "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!
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| 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.
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| Quinteto Cohimbre and guest flautist |
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| 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.
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| Natural Piscina |
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| 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 19th
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.
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| White Heron |
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| 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?
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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!
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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!
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