90 Miles to Havana (24 page)

“Tomás, just give me a knife,” I say and hold out my hand.

The sharp blade slices easily through the silky material, I pull it back and there it is—a tiny door. When I pry it open the sleeping bird tumbles out.

“It's here, it's really here!” I pick up my mother's golden swallow and then press it against my cheek. I can smell her perfume, see her teardrop face floating above me, hear her voice when she asked me to guard it for the family. “I hope you understand, Mami,” I say, then hand the bird over to Tomás as fast as I can.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tomás asks as he bounces it in his hands.

“You said yourself that those people are desperate to get out and if you don't show up they'll probably get arrested. You've got fourteen people depending on you. I think it's the right thing to do,” I say, trying to sound like I'm sure. I wish my mother's face wasn't floating above me, frowning at me.

“Don't you mean sixteen? Aren't your parents coming?”

“No,” I say, hoping he won't ask why. If I tell him what Ramirez said about my mother being here already, he might not let me go with him. There might be a lot of things that are gray and unclear but there is one thing I am sure of: Tomás wouldn't have hired Dog to go with him if he could make the trip alone. He needs me to go with him and I want to go.

Tomás cups the bird in his hands and looks up at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. “I admire you for wanting to help,” he says. “I know how much that bird means to you and your family but I have no choice. I accept your generous offer. Julian, if there's ever anything I can do for you or your family, just ask.”

I was waiting for him to say that. “Yes, you can do something for me. Let me go with you.”

“Julian, I have to get past the Coast Guard, motor ninety miles in this leaky tub, then sneak into Havana Harbor. No—no way, it's just too dangerous.”

“I know the harbor! That's where my father kept his fishing boat. Besides, now that Dog is out you'll need someone to help with the engine,” I say. Tomás shakes his head
and paces across the deck. He leans over the railing to check the swiftly rising water.

“Tomás, you don't have a choice about this either,” I yell and point up at the highway. “Ramirez is up there; if we don't leave right now you might never go!” Ramirez is now climbing over the railing yelling something down at us. Tomás finally looks at me. “I guess you are in,” he says as Ramirez slips and slides down the muddy bank in his nice black suit.

“Ready with the bowline!” Tomás yells and then starts up the engine.

Ramirez is skating on the mud down to the shore as I untie the line from the cleat on the bow.

“Where are you going? Didn't you hear me? Your mother is waiting for you,” Ramirez shouts over the roar of the engine and then pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This is her letter,” he waves an airmail envelope at me. “She's at your uncle's house in Connecticut!”

Now I believe him. It's not a trick. It's really her. I measure the distance from the boat to the shore. It's far, but I'm a good swimmer.

“Come back, Julian!” Ramirez says, tugging gently on the other end of the line. “Drop the rope and jump. I'll take you to her.”

If I drop the rope and jump, this sad empty feeling that's been living in my chest since I left my family will go away—I know it.

But I can't just jump and leave Tomás and those people on the dock; they need me.

“Tell my mother that I love her.” Then I toss my end of the line to Ramirez.

“Let's get out of here!” Tomás yells.

The vibration from the engine is buzzing up my legs like electricity as the boat nudges out into the middle of the river. I can feel the churning current pulling on the boat. We've hooked on to something even more powerful than a big fish.

As we rush under the bridge where we caught the shrimp, Tomás nudges me. “Look who's up there!” he says and points behind us. The black sedan has just stopped on the bridge. The door opens and Ramirez gets out.

The old boat is shaking as we speed out of the narrow river and into a choppy sea. Every time we slap into a wave it creaks and complains as if it's about to fall apart.

When we finally reach the gas pumps, Tomás maneuvers the boat up to the dock and jumps down to secure the stern line. “Julian, get the bowline. I'll go talk to Pops. We've got to get in and out quick. Ramirez is bound to show up here any minute.”

When I walk into the marine supply store, an old guy—Pops, I guess—is sitting behind the counter already inspecting the rubies on the wings of the golden swallow. His bushy eyebrows jump halfway up his leathery forehead as he bounces it in the palm of his hand and says, “Solid.”

“It's worth much money,” I say and wave my hand over the growing pile of spare parts and life preservers that Tomás is hurriedly collecting. “
Mucho mas
than this.”

“You're right; this is a mighty fine piece of work. The last time I saw a piece like this was in a museum,” Pops says. “Son, are you sure you want to leave this with me?”

The tone of his voice makes me think maybe it's a lot more valuable than even my mother thought it was. But I guess that doesn't matter, because we are trading it for something you can't add or subtract. How can you put a price on fourteen people waiting on a dock?

Tomás comes back with a rubber raft and a used compass cradled in his arms. “This stuff and two tanks of gas is all we need,” he says. “But you have to promise to give me one month to make the money to buy it back.”

“Tomás, you know me. I never promise nothing, but I always do my best.” He chuckles, and then shuffles out to the pumps.

While Pops fills the gas tanks, I bolt the used compass back on behind the wheel and try to keep an eye out for Ramirez at the same time. Tomás puts away the spare parts and then disappears into the cabin.

I make sure the compass is secure and then go below. Tomás is bending over a chart pointing at the end of a familiar chain of islands hooking south from the tip of Florida. “This is where we'll wait,” he says.

“That's Key West. It's ninety miles to Havana from there,” I say, and Tomás looks up, surprised. “We had a chart just like this one on our boat,” I explain. “Bebo was teaching me how to read it before we left. Why do we have to wait?”

“We can't wait here. Ramirez might just show up any
minute but if we leave now, we'll get to Havana too early. We'll motor south, keeping the Keys close to the west. That way if anything happens we'll be close enough to duck in and make repairs.” Tomás runs his finger over the empty, blue space between Key West and the north coast of Cuba. “Then we'll cross the Florida Straights, ninety miles of open water. If the engine holds together it should take fifteen hours each way.” Tomás narrows his eyes and looks at me as if he's measuring me. “Nothing but that old engine, this leaky boat, and this,” he says, pointing at his forehead, “between us and the deep blue sea,
comprende
?”

I nod.

“Good. We make the jump tomorrow morning before the sun comes up—no turning back,” Tomás says as he looks for signs of doubt or fear in my face. He wants to be sure he can count on me. I'm excited and afraid at the same time and I'm not sure which one he'll see on my face, so I turn away.

“No turning back,” I say as I step out of the cabin.

“Good,” he says and points me toward the cabin. “Now go below and get some rest. I don't want you falling asleep at the wheel.”

When I open my eyes the cabin is hazy; blue smoke is pouring in. I cough and then stumble up to the empty deck. The moon is still out but to the east delicate pink clouds are promising a beautiful sunrise. Tomás is bending into a cloud of exhaust billowing out of the idling engine.

“Did you stay up all night?” I yawn.

“
Sí
, I wanted to put in all the new parts,” he says, then shakes his head. “It's too bad that Pops didn't have a carburetor. This one is over the hill.” Then he opens a rusty folding chair, sets it up next to the engine, and pats the seat. “It's going to take a lot of tinkering and adjusting to keep
this old man running,” Tomás says. “Now we'll see how much your friend Bebo taught you about engines.”

As I reach around the carburetor I pull a dime from my pocket and adjust the hidden screw. Now the engine is idling a little smoother and not smoking as much, but if I had just the right paper clip I could make it run smoother.

“Good job,” Tomás says and then gently pushes the throttle forward, steering south of Key West into the open ocean.

The sun has just cleared the horizon, when the engine coughs once and then dies. I jiggle the wires to see if one is loose, then I tap the carburetor with my screwdriver and surprise, the engine starts.

For the rest of the morning I sit by the engine like a desperate doctor caring for a patient with a mysterious illness. I use anything I can find in the toolbox and around the boat to keep the old engine running. The nice white tape from the first-aid kit wraps around a leaky hose; the spring from a ballpoint pen keeps the throttle open. I bend the metal ink cartridge and it works almost as well as a paper clip—when it isn't slipping off. I use a coffee can, which I cut open, to cover a hole in the rusty exhaust pipe, and chewing gum to plug up a crack in the distributor. Tomás is amazed. “I would never have thought of that!” He laughs.

In between emergencies I keep busy checking and then tightening the nuts and bolts that the engine shook loose. By the end of the day, the engine is running smoother than
ever, so I sit down in my folding chair to rest and watch the sun set.

“Did Bebo teach you all those tricks?” Tomás asks.

“Some,” I say, “but most of them I had to make up myself.” He did teach me a lot of tricks but the most important thing he taught me was how to think for myself, how to invent.

“Now it's my turn to teach you a thing or two,” Tomás says as I follow him to the compass.

Bebo taught me how to find north, south, east, west, and what the points in between were called. He didn't have time to explain how to find your bearings, and then how to keep the boat on the right heading, but Tomás is as good an explainer as Bebo; everything he says makes sense to me.

When he finishes, Tomás takes off his blue captain's cap. “She's all yours, Captain,” he says and slaps the cap down on my head. “Keep your eyes on the water, and the lights off. We don't want the Coast Guard to spot us. Now, it's my turn to get some rest.”

Gripping the wheel with both hands, I check the compass and then listen to the engine purr. I might have to stand up on my tiptoes to see over the deck, but on this watch I am wearing the cap. I am the captain.

As I watch the dark sea roll by I realize that I never used the important things that Bebo taught me. Before my brothers left me alone I was just like a balloon on a string tagging along behind them. I let them decide, solve, and think for me. Out here, in the dark, if I listen past the drone
of the engine, I can feel the big silence rushing by and I can hear myself think. Maybe my brothers were making too much noise for me to hear my own thoughts?

When the moon peeks out from behind the clouds, threads of sparkling gems shimmer on the wake of the boat. I lean over the side to get a closer look.

Suddenly a rubbery black wall rises out of the sea close enough to touch. I jump back as a peaceful eye, the size of a garbage can lid, slides by. It is staring at me as it dips under the waves. Then I hear the sound of rushing water and bells. I look up just in time to see the bow of a freighter bearing down on us.

“Big ship!” I yell and turn the wheel as hard as I can to the right. Tomás runs up as the rusty hull churns by.

“I told you to keep your eye on the water,” he says as he inspects the stern of the freighter.

“I did,” I gasp. “I saw a whale, and it was looking right at me! Sorry, Tomás, I got distracted, it won't happen again, I promise,” I say, as I take the cap off and hand it back to him.

“It's my fault. I should have warned you. This is a shipping channel and, even if they were looking, they can't see us with our lights off,” Tomás says and then points at barely visible lights twinkling low on the horizon. “Look, I think that's Havana! Two more hours and we'll be there!”

As we get closer, the lights separate into a cluster of city lights and then a single bright one to the left.

“That is Havana,” I say. “The light to the left is El Morro.”

Tomás checks his watch. “It took us longer to get here than I thought it would. All the fishing boats are back in the harbor already. If we go in now the light will pick us up and they'll send a boat out to check us out.”

“We can wait out here,” I suggest.