90 Miles to Havana
Read 90 Miles to Havana Online
Authors: Enrique Flores-Galbis
90 Miles to Havana
Enrique Flores-Galbis
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Roaring Brook Press
New York
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Text copyright © 2010 by Enrique Flores-Galbis
Published by Roaring Brook Press
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First Edition August 2010
Book design by Sonia Chaghatzbanian
Printed in June 2010 in the United States of America by RR Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia
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To my parents, who were brave enough to let go, and my older brothers
Anibal and Fernando: tormentors, teachers, and titans whom I will
always look up to and love.
90 Miles to Havana
We're fishing at the edge of the Gulf Stream two miles north of Havana. From this far out, the city looks like it's about to be swallowed by the waves.
“Havana is sinking,” I say to Bebo, standing behind the wheel.
“I guess Columbus was right. The earth
is
round,” Bebo says without a hint of a smile on his face. He hands me a nautical chart of the north coast of Cuba.
“Check the compass, and the chartâtell me exactly where we are.”
I run my finger across a dark gray band marking the Gulf Stream, then up to the last link in a chain of islands hooking south from the tip of Florida.
“Key West is eighty-five miles north-northeast of us,” I say, checking the big brass compass. “Havana is five miles due south.”
“You're getting the hang of it,” Bebo says. When my father yawns, Bebo nods toward the stern of the boat. “I think he's had enough for the day.”
Papi's been sitting in the fighting chair almost the whole day waiting for a bite, but he hasn't gotten as much as a nibble. He's not too happy about the possibility that we might be going home empty-handed. My father thinks that if we catch a big fish on December 31
st
we'll have good luck every day of the coming year.
My two brothers and I always go fishing with him on that day. We usually have a few big ones to show my mother and the Garcias, our next-door neighbors, when they meet us at the dock. After the fish are cleaned and put away, we eat dinner and celebrate New Year's Eve on the boat, with the carnival music and revelers playing and dancing in the streets above us.
Papi stretches, then yawns even louder. Bebo whispers, “Hurry, he's going to get up.”
I'm standing next to Papi smiling, when he starts to unclip the rod from the chair. The fighting chair is made out of steel and wood, swivels and tilts just like the ones at the barbershop, but it has no cushions. It does have straps and the hardware to clip the rod to the chair so you don't get pulled into the water when you're fighting a big fish.
“Of all the years to go home empty-handed,” he says, looking over my head at the horizon.
“Papi, can I take a turn on the chair?” I ask and look around for my brothers. I can hear Gordo and Alquilino, the oldest, buzzing around our next-door neighbor Angelita. They're too busy to notice that Papi has gotten up.
“I'm a lot bigger than I was last year,” I add, squaring my shoulders and standing up as straight as I can.
“I don't know, Julian. The fish out here are huge,” he says. “A flick of their tail and they'll pull you in!”
“Yeah, but I'm stronger now,” I say.
“It's late, Julian. Next time.”
“What if there is no next time? I heard you talking to Mr. Garcia on the phone this morning, you said everything is changing and this could be our last fishing trip.” Papi is looking at me but I can't tell what he's thinking. “I know what to do, Bebo explained the whole thing to me.”
“Bebo explained the whole thing?” he asks as the ends of his mustache start to rise.
“From beginning to end,” I say. “And you know how good Bebo is at explaining things.”
Papi is sizing me up as if he's never seen me before. “So, do you think you can handle a big fish?”
“I know exactly what to do!” I say with as much confidence as I can muster.
“OK, Julian,” he says and squints at the setting sun. “I guess we have time for one more pass.”
I jump into the chair as fast as I can, before my brothers can claim it, or Papi can change his mind.
“This is your big chance,” my father says and then helps me fit the end of the rod into the metal cup in between my knees. He clips the rod to the brass fittings on the arm of the chair. “There. Now if a big fish wants to pull you in, it'll have to take the chair, too.”
I grip the rod tight and set my feet. “I'm ready.”
My father smiles at me. “Good. You know the rule, right?”
“Yell, even if it's just a nibble,” I say, repeating what he tells everyone that climbs up on the chair.
Papi is staring out at the horizon again but now he's shaking his head. I know he's thinking that it's over for the dayâfor this year, but you never know. If I catch a big one Papi will get a year's worth of luck, and they'll take a picture of me standing next to the fish hanging upside down on the dock. Out of respect for the fish I'll look real serious to show he put up a good fight.
“Don't worry, Papi. I'll catch one for us,” I say to cheer him up.
“That would be nice,” he says, and then pats the two cigars in his shirt pocket. He and Bebo always light up on the way home.
Holding the rod firmly in my left hand, I pinch the line between my right thumb and forefinger, just like my
father does. The fishing line is slicing into the waves, the green lure spinning beneath the wake, and I can almost see a big silver blue marlin lurking right behind it.
“Julian,” Bebo calls. “Don't look at the water. You'll get seasick.”
He must have read my mind. “
SÃ
, Bebo,” I yell and then look up, not at the horizon, but just above it.
Bebo taught me that trick and a thousand others.
He used to drive a truck for my father, but when Papi heard he was a great cook, he convinced him to give up the truck and take up the spoon for our house. Now he cooks, takes care of the boat, and teaches me things. Ever since my brothers stopped letting me hang around with them, Bebo makes sure I have something to do. It doesn't matter what he's doing, he always lets me help.
If he's cooking a paella, he'll show me how to cut the peppers and onions and then leave me alone. Unlike my parents or my brothers, he knows that I'm smart enough to figure out how to do the job without cutting all my fingers off.
My father and Bebo have lit up their cigars, the smoke is billowing around my head, mixing in with the thick exhaust fumes coming from the engine. I hope I get a bite soon.
“You feel anything yet?” Bebo asks as he opens up the engine hatch just below my feet.
“No, the only thing I feel is seasick from your cigar,” I answer.
Bebo sits down next to the ticking engine. Gasoline fumes are wafting out of the open hatch, and my head is starting to spin. I sit up, shake the rod, and set my feet, hoping that'll make me feel better.
Bebo chuckles at me, as he pulls a dime out of his pants pocket and then reaches around the carburetor. “Let's see if I can make this engine run smoother.”