by Patti Sheehy
For years Frank had wracked his brain for ways to get his relatives out of Cuba and had come up with nothing. It seemed well-nigh impossible. But in the spring of 1980, a glimmer of hope surfaced.
In early April, almost a thousand Cubans stormed the Peruvian Embassy, located in an upscale suburb of Havana. They were protesting the living conditions in Cuba and the policies of the Cuban government. Soon ten thousand Cubans petitioned the Peruvian government for political asylum. The media dubbed them the “Havana 10,000.”
In response, Fidel announced that anyone wanting to leave Cuba could do so as long as they obtained an exit permit. It was his way of ridding the country of “troublemakers and undesirables.”
President Jimmy Carter agreed to welcome up to thirty-five hundred refugees from the embassy. No one could foresee that one hundred and twenty-five thousand Cubans would eventually leave the country as a result of these events.
Frank soon realized that this was an unprecedented opportunity. He spent two sleepless nights thinking about it. Timing was such that he couldn’t get word to his family in Cuba that he was coming, so he decided to wing it. The next night after dinner he told Chris he was leaving for Florida to bring his relatives back to the States—come hell or high water!
Chris hung up the dish towel, looked at Frank, and said, “I think you’re crazy. What if the authorities figure out who you are and arrest you? They could throw you in jail and torture you. You are risking your life. You might not get out alive.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Frank, hoping his words would reassure her.
Chris shook her head. “It could be very dangerous. What if Pino finds out you are there?”
“It’s been a long time,” said Frank. “I’m sure Pino’s forgotten all about me. Besides, the authorities probably executed him for treason or sentenced him to life in prison.”
“Still—” said Chris.
Frank cut her off. “Don’t worry, honey, I won’t get off the boat.”
Chris thought for a moment. “Make sure to bring your American passport. You can’t be too careful.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.”
Chris placed some dishes in the cabinet and asked, “How will you get to Cuba?”
“I don’t know yet. But if there’s a way, I’ll find it. The important thing is to take the first step. I’ll figure out the rest when I get to Florida.”
The next day Frank hopped aboard an Eastern Airlines flight for the Sunshine State. The plane was populated with Cubans hoping to rescue their relatives. When Frank arrived in Miami, he called his Uncle Luis. He was living in Miami with his new wife. It had been a long time since the two men had spoken. To Frank’s delight, Luis sounded like he had mellowed over the years.
After a few minutes of small talk, Luis told Frank that he was planning to go to Cuba on a shrimp trawler to rescue his former wife, Rosa, and their two daughters. He apologized that there was no room on his boat, but he suggested Frank contact his Cuban friend, Rolando, a man who had captained several boats and had excellent navigational skills.
Frank spent the night of April 25 at a Holiday Inn in Key West and called on Rolando the next day. As it turned out, Rolando wanted to go to Cuba to bring back his brother. While he was an experienced captain, he did not own a boat. He was willing to serve as the captain if Frank purchased the boat. Considering the risk of traveling to Cuba alone, it seemed like a reasonable offer.
After making several inquiries, Frank bought a twenty-five-foot boat from an old, sunburned fisherman. Boats were in high demand and price gouging was rampant. He paid eight thousand dollars. The boat was in fair shape and the price was outrageous, but it was the best deal Frank could make.
Approximately thirty years old, Rolando was amiable, smart and handy—a winning combination. The two men worked well together and spent the next day fixing and preparing the boat for the journey. They tuned up the motor, bought life jackets and floatation devices, and obtained three fifty-five-gallon barrels that they filled with gas.
They collected kitchen items—cutlery, bowls, aluminum glasses, and a can opener. They filled a cooler with ice and secured an ample supply of water. Rolando donated two flashlights and a ragtag collection of towels from his house. Once they put these supplies in order, they went to a general store for sunscreen, blankets, and hats. The lines were horrific. It took them almost two hours to check out.
They had no idea how long they might have to wait for their relatives’ paperwork to be processed, and Frank knew it could be a death sentence for him to step foot on Cuban soil. So they needed to bring enough food to sustain them.
They purchased canned goods at a local supermarket—tuna fish, ham, salmon, beans—as well as peanut butter, crackers, nuts, and other nonperishable items. They put some fruit in the cooler, including apples, which Frank thought would be a nice welcoming gift.
Frank and Rolando named the boat My Way in a gesture of defiance to Fidel. Rolando attached an American flag to the back of the boat to signal American citizens were on board. Frank imagined how happy his family would be when they saw the flag. His chest swelled with pride as he watched the flag flap in the wind.
The morning of April 27, Rolando placed his compass on board and studied a map of the ocean. By lunchtime boats were lined up on trailers a hundred deep, waiting to be launched. Everyone was headed southbound. The circuslike atmosphere led Frank to believe it would be hours before their boat touched water.
Shortly before one o’clock, the sky darkened and a ferocious wind kicked up. Rain followed in blinding sheets, pelting windshields, flooding boats, and drenching people to the skin.
Boats already in the water became swamped, and people hastened to get off them. Several boats had slammed into each other and littered the beach like dead fish. People swore, shielded their heads with newspapers and umbrellas, and scrambled for safe haven. Fortunately, the mini hurricane was short lived and was over in a couple of hours. Frank and Rolando bailed out their boat and waited to depart.
On Chris’s advice, Frank had taken a couple of Dramamine pills to ward off seasickness. Although they made him feel a little loopy, it had been a good idea. Once Frank and Rolando launched their boat, they found themselves battling the waves. The water was choppy, and they struggled to stay afloat. Their small boat bobbed in the ocean like a rubber duck. They motored past many boats that had capsized and been abandoned.
The American Coast Guard was out in full force, rescuing people in trouble and towing disabled vessels back to Florida. The skies were filled with planes and helicopters conducting aerial reconnaissance and radioing the Coast Guard for assistance.
The water was dark and treacherous, and their boat rocked incessantly from the wakes of other boats. The combination of sun, waves, and the churn of the sea soon lay waste to Frank’s stomach. The Dramamine helped, but, to his chagrin, he became well acquainted with the side of the boat. It was a long fourteen hours.
Frank felt a welter of emotions as they approached the coast of Cuba. As soon as he saw the lights on the Havana harbor, a thousand memories washed over him. He remembered kissing Magda on the Malecón, her lips soft and warm and her hands caressing his back. He remembered fishing with his grandfather on warm spring days and eating lunch with him out of a lunchbox decorated with Lone Ranger stickers. He remembered playing baseball with his cousins and friends, not ending the game until the last ray of sunshine departed and the ball was impossible to see.
But, most of all, he remembered his time running from the force, the waiting, the hiding, the fear. Lieutenant Pino’s face floated before his eyes. He had a hard time pushing it from his mind. For a moment his stomach constricted—he knew he would dream about his escape that night.
Weaving among many boats, Frank and Rolando made their way to the Mariel Harbor, twenty-seven miles west of Havana. They arrived around eight p.m., tired, eager, and excited. Frank was thrilled at the possibility of seeing his family again.
Despite the size of the harbor, they had difficulty finding a place to anchor their boat. Once they did, they sighed in relief, leaned back in their seats, and surveyed their surroundings.
The sight was astounding. Hundreds of boats—pleasure boats, motorboats, shrimp boats, catamarans, fishing boats—had arrived, almost all flying Cuban or American flags. Some had suffered mechanical failure and needed assistance. Frank estimated that more than a thousand boats were waiting to retrieve loved ones from Cuba.
The moon slipped from beneath a bank of clouds as gentle waves lapped the My Way. Arcs of searchlights cast a silvery glow upon the water, and flashlights winked on and off like fireflies. The atmosphere was festive. Cuban and American music filled the air. People hollered back and forth to each other, some in Spanish, some in English, offering information and assistance. Frank almost expected fireworks to explode.
Frank and Rolando looked at each other and smiled. Frank grabbed two bottles of beer and offered one to Rolando. Melting ice floated at the bottom of the cooler.
They opened a couple of cans of tuna fish and drained the oil into the sea. Frank unscrewed a jar of peanut butter, slapped some on a hunk of bread, and shared it with his boat mate. They wanted to eat the bread before it got stale. Oranges and bananas completed the meal.
Frank looked at the patchwork of stars overhead and his heart ached for Magda, his father, and Abuelo—three people he loved so dearly, now gone. He thought about Chris and Darlene and smiled.
After Frank and Rolando satisfied their hunger and quenched their thirst, they settled down to sleep, hoping tomorrow would be a good day.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The next morning the port was abuzz with activity. Small government-sponsored boats cruised from vessel to vessel, selling cigarettes, cigars, water, and fruit.
Water taxis took people into the port to buy foodstuffs, gas, and other essentials in government-run stores. Everyone who went ashore complained of unconscionable price gouging.
People were conversing freely from boat to boat—the rumor mill was at full throttle. Frank heard they might have a long wait since Cubans wanting to leave the country were required to have their possessions inventoried before departure, ensuring their property reverted to its true owner, the State. He recalled Magda’s family enduring the same tedious process before they left Cuba for America.
A patrol boat came by at mid-morning on their third day in port. An official with a brown clipboard recorded the name of Frank and Rolando’s boat and the names and addresses of those they hoped to claim.
The young man held a thick pad of loose-leaf paper containing a long list of names. Rolando gave him the name of his brother, and Frank gave him the names of eight family members whom he thought would want to leave Cuba, including his mother, siblings, nieces, and nephew.
The official, who looked about eighteen, appeared overwhelmed and disorganized, wrongly repeating the names he was given. He appeared to have no idea what he was doing, and Frank wondered whether he could actually spell. His papers flapped in the wind, and he held them down with his thumb. Frank feared the list would blow into the water.
“We’ll get back to you in a day or two,” said the official. Frank and Rolando looked at each other, hoping their paperwork would be processed properly.
On May 1, a series of thunderstorms battered the seas from Key West to Cuba, kicking up high winds and twelve-foot waves. The storms lasted for several hours, starting and stopping intermittently. Frank and Rolando watched with apprehension as vessels banged into each other. Several boats were smashed beyond repair. Fortunately, theirs sustained little damage.
About a week later, Frank and Rolando heard that Fidel had opened the prisons and mental institutions, releasing the inmates to go to America. The authorities warned those waiting in the harbor to prepare to transport hardened criminals and lunatics back to the States. The two men looked at each other in alarm. Not in their wildest dreams had they thought Fidel would do such a thing.
A young man in the next boat told them that refugees were required to report to a fountain in Havana before being sent to a “holding camp” called El Mosquito where their paperwork was processed. On the way to the camp, pro-Castro Cubans pelted their fellow countrymen with eggs and tomatoes, deriding them as worms, and harassing them for abandoning their country. They’re up to their old tricks, thought Frank. They did the same thing when I lived in Cuba.
Once the refugees arrived at El Mosquito, they were required to sleep on dirt floors and to consume a diet of rotten eggs, raw potatoes, and uncooked rice. The water was filthy, rats were ubiquitous, and guard dogs attacked people trying to use the toilet. Frank shuddered to think how his mother was faring.
A couple of days later, the patrol boats announced that due to the volume of requests for exit permits, it could take a month or more to process the paperwork required for people to leave the country. No one could predict the time frame involved. The authorities urged people to go home and return in a month or two to claim their relatives.
Frank’s mind immediately turned to Darlene. Her grandparents were babysitting her, so she was safe. That was a given. But Frank had not anticipated such a long wait, and he had not prepared his daughter for the possibility of his extended absence.
He hoped the delay in taking people out of Cuba was being reported on the news back in the States, and that Magda’s parents had reassured Darlene that her father would be home as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he couldn’t count on media coverage of the event, especially when dealing with Fidel.
Frank faced a terrible dilemma. If he remained in port, Darlene might fear something happened to him and would feel abandoned. She was still struggling with the loss of her mother, and Frank did not want to add to her suffering.
But if Frank departed, he would leave his mother to an uncertain future. People who tried unsuccessfully to leave Cuba were shunned and scorned by their neighbors and friends as being disloyal to the cause. By not waiting, Frank was creating an untenable situation for his mother and his other relatives for whom he had placed a claim.
Making matters worse, Frank knew Fidel was so unpredictable he could seal the exit channels at any time. Policy decisions were determined by the dictator’s slightest whim.
Frank decided to sleep on it. The following morning, he discussed the matter with Rolando. Both men faced similar issues. Rolando didn’t want anything to happen to his brother any more than Frank wanted anything to happen to his relatives.
They each had concerns about work, but nothing that couldn’t wait.
Frank had arranged for an employee to run his sandwich shop in his absence, and he assumed that person would continue to do so until he returned. Frank decided that the possible consequences of leaving were far more serious than those for staying, and Rolando agreed. They would see their plan through.
Frank and Rolando had the will and the wherewithal to stay in port. But many people appeared to have neither the time nor the resources to wait. The two men watched with sympathy as men in boat after boat lifted their anchors, started their motors, and turned their empty vessels in the direction of Florida.
Days passed and Frank and Rolando received no word about their family members. Twice, different officials requested their relatives’ names and addresses, acting as if this were the first time the information was obtained and recorded. Frank and Rolando became increasingly afraid that their paperwork had been bungled or lost. Other boats had received their passengers, but they had not.
After twenty-three days of waiting, the authorities announced over a loudspeaker the names of the boats that would form the next flotilla. Due to the noise in the harbor, Frank found the news difficult to understand. Although he and Rolando paid close attention, they failed to hear the name of their boat.
Finally, the official announced Me Why. The name didn’t register with Frank, but Rolando stood up and beamed. “That’s us!” he said. Frank looked at him and realized that the Cubans were pro
nouncing My Way as Me Why.
Rolando pulled up anchor and motored to the dock to see about their passengers. The guard handed him a list of eighteen people, twice their carrying capacity. Frank figured that overloading the boats was Fidel’s way of making life miserable for anyone wishing to leave Cuba. There was no use protesting. Frank closed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, dreading the trip ahead.
Frank and Rolando eyed their passengers. Rolando’s brother was nowhere to be found; neither were Frank’s relatives. Frank shook his head. Several burly Haitians climbed aboard, swearing and sweating profusely. Their stares were hard. Their arms were well muscled.
The men had shaved heads, indicating that they might have been released prisoners. Frank and Rolando had no idea who these people were or what they had done. Their passengers could be rapists or murderers for all they knew. Frank tensed and watched Rolando’s throat work, fear entering his eyes.
The rest of the group comprised middle-aged men, several housewives, three teenagers, and two children. A little boy clutched a teddy bear, the only passenger carrying anything more than the clothes on his back. Frank wondered who had granted this gesture of kindness.
The last one to climb aboard was a pretty young girl wearing a yellow sundress and red plastic sandals. She looked about eight. She was unaccompanied by an adult, and carried herself with poise and determination. She asked for Frank by name. Rolando ushered her to Frank’s side and her eyes grew wide.
“Are you Frankie Mederos?”
Frank nodded, surprised that she knew his name. “Yes, and you are—?”