“No es posible” (that is not possible) is one of those
generic phrases that everybody who spends any amount of time in Cuba
learns to take in stride. In fact the answer to many questions often begins
with “no es posible” but the experienced Cuba
hand quickly learns that the objective is to maintain the dialog long enough to
arrive at the word “Pero…” (but…). If you are dealing with familiar persons,
then “pero…” arrives quickly, often in the same sentence as in “no es posible”
to take the local bus, pero most drivers will not say anything if you just walk
on and drop your money in the box.
When dealing with strangers however, there is a ritual
verbal dance which must be performed that in
some cases can last quite a long time. For example if one inquires where they
can buy some of the excellent local bulk rum (bring your own jug), you might
hear “no es posible” because you must
have a ration book which is only for the Cuban people. If an overpowering
desire to buy a 1.5 liter pop bottle of silky smooth rum for $1, causes you
challenge the response by saying something like, we have friends who bought it
last week and it was very good, the conversation will likely come to an abrupt
end. If however you say something like, ”yes it is difficult for everybody
these days” accompanied by an appropriate
sigh, you might get to “pero” or you might get another reason why it’s “no es
posible” requiring another tangential non sequitur with the requisite sighs to
keep the conversation flowing. Only when you demonstrate that you are
sympathetic and more importantly safe to talk to will you get to “pero” I have
a cousin who doesn’t drink but would be willing to part with his rum ration.
If a cruiser were to accept “no es posible” as gospel every
time they heard it, they will never leave their boat and eventually they will
leave the country completely frustrated , having
missed much of what the country has to offer. And
so it was armed with this deep knowled ge
of Cuban culture that Pat and I became acquainted
with the harbourmaster in Casilda, a small fishing village next to the UNESCO
heritage site of Trinidad in Sancti
Spiritus Province
It was shortly after 7:00PM
and I was feeling pretty mellow after having downed
a very large rum on the rocks in the cockpit of Threepenny Opera as she swung
gently at anchor in Casilda harbour. Pat and I had arrived
about 2 hours earlier after an extremely rough passage running down the coast
from Cienfuegos in 6+ seas ahead of
a tropical system. On several occasions I had considered
turning around, but since we had already spent 10 days in Cienfuegos ,
we were itching to see something new. Furthermore the swells at the entrance to
Cienfuegos would have been in the
10 foot range and bashing into them didn’t seem like a lot of fun, even though
the worst would have only lasted about 15
minutes.
The warmth of the rum and the gentle rocking of the boat was
lulling me to sleep when a deep voice reminiscent of Lorne Greene came over the
VHF calling for the “moto valero” (motor sailer) in Casilda
Harbour ed the cockpit mike and responded
with my best “Buenos Tardes El Capitan eso es La Valero Threepenny Opera” and
as I said it, I could hear the Homer Simpson voice in my head say ”Doh!!” as I
realized the purpose of the call.
There is loose rule in Cuba
that when there is a marina in the area a cruising boat is expected
to use the marina rather than anchor in the open. Our 1999 cruising guide did
not have many good things to say about the local Marina Cayo Blanco so we had
made a conscious decision to avoid it and drop the hook near where the local
fishermen anchored . As it turned
out that was a bad decision on two counts, firstly the local authorities are
sticklers for the rules (mentioned in the
guide) and secondly we were too close to an unguarded
shore where anybody could have swum out and climbed
aboard. I was just about to smack my forehead with the palm of my hand when I
heard the dreaded “no es posible” through the
speaker informing me that anchoring was forbidden.
We were not in a good situation. It was about 20 minutes
before sundown, we were in an unfamiliar and very shallow harbour with charts
that did not show the channel to the marina and the captain was half asleep in
a rum induced fog. We’ve all heard the
expression “it was the alcohol talking”, but in this case the alcohol was not
talking but rather yelling a belligerent “no es posible ir” (it is not possible
to go) There were no non sequiturs uttered , no
sympathetic sighs, just a ham fisted and
likely grammatically incorrect invitation to face off!
I will never know if a more diplomatic approach could have
changed the outcome but after 5 minutes of partisan “no es posibling” in increasingly louder tones, a hazy memory of
uniformed soldiers holding billy clubs swam
into my consciousness. I don’t know if Lorne Greene could have called
in the cavalry but suddenly the rum fog lifted
and instead of continuing to yell, I acquiesced
with OK OK OK we’re [expletive deleted ]
moving. I’m not sure how much English the harbour master spoke, but it was
either the OK or the VHF license revoking words that brought silence to the
airwaves. Pat could tell that I was more than a little perturbed
as she handed me my PFD in preparation for
engine start.
By the time the engine was started
and our anchor had been pulled it was about 10
minutes before sunset and the marina was at least 20 minutes away. As I pulled
back into the main shipping channel, I ran the throttle as high as I dared
to cover as much distance as possible in the failing light to get to the
approach into the marina before it became too dark to see. As the sun dipped
below the horizon I ed ged
Threepenny Opera out of the main channel and pointed
towards a marker about a mile away on the other side of a now invisible shoal
of mud and sand. Earlier I had seen a catamaran exit the marina on
approximately the same track so in the absence of any other information I
attempted to create a reciprocal path.
Pat was maintaining a bow watch as the twilight deepened
around us. By now the marker was only about ¼ mile ahead of us and we were
gliding slowly with about 1 foot of water under our keel. Suddenly Pat pointed
to port of the bow, and then she pointed to
starboard and started yelling Stop! Stop!
Stop! Instead of stopping, I found myself stepping away from the wheel to see
what she was pointing at when Threepenny Opera, like an obed ient
pet stopped all by herself as the engine rattled
and stalled . By the faint glow of sunset in
the west and the light of a rising full moon, I saw the line of floats
streaming away on either side of the boat. I had run into fish net and we were
caught like a fly in a spider’s web.
It was too dark to go into the water and after several attempts
at using our Spurrs line cutters to free ourselves it became obvious that we
were not going anywhere. My greatest concern was that our transom pointed
towards the prevailing wind which meant that a squall during the night could
easily flood our cockpit and possibly drive water down the companionway into
the salon below. Fortunately sinking was not a concern as we were almost
sitting on the bottom anyway.
I was growing agitated as I
contemplated going into the dark, and possibly
crocodile infested water with a flashlight and
a knife. Pat and I were discussing our options when I heard a small knocking on
our hull. I looked up to see an old man and a teenaged
boy, possibly his grandson standing in a small wooden rowboat. The old man was
pushing down on the top of the net with his oar while the young boy reached
into the water and used a rusty knife to saw
away at the net. I stood and watched in stunned
silence as I shone my flashlight into the water so the young man could see
where he was cutting. After about 10 minutes of cutting, the old man retrieved
his oar and made a shooing motion with his hands as Threepenny Opera began to
swing into the breeze.
The next morning in dead calm conditions I went over the
side and in short order I managed to cut about
20 pounds of fishing net free from our prop. With the remnants of the net piled
on our swim step we pulled the hook and motored
the short distance into the marina anchorage where we were to remain for the
next 7 days as torrential rain from Tropical Storm Alberto drenched
the area and caused widespread flooding.
In a country where “no es possible” is the order of the day
it is the simple things that stand out. Two strangers who came out of the night
to offer assistance without exchanging a single word and then gliding into the
night when their efforts were successful is just not something that happens in
more “civilized ” parts of the world. I have
never figured out who they were, but their act
of kindness will always be remembered . And it
is because of this and other simple acts
of kindness in the face of “no es possible” that Cuba
will always have a special place in our hearts.
After our week of drenching in Trinidad ,
we headed off for the Jardin de la Reina. The
adventure contines.
Have a great week, I know I will
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