90 Miles to Havana (25 page)

Tomás shakes his head. “It's too deep to anchor here, and if I shut down the engine we'll drift too far.”

“I know how we can get into the harbor without the light picking us up! There's a channel right next to the cliffs that will take us under the light. My father told me that pirates and smugglers used it all the time to avoid the light and sneak into the harbor.”

“Are you sure?” Tomás asks.

“Yes. We used that channel when we left the harbor to go fishing.”

“All right then,” Tomás says as he steps aside. “This is your home port. Take us in.”

Keeping the boat outside the reach of El Morro's roving beam, I head for the beach to the left of the harbor. Then with the engine idling, I glide into the dark channel between the slick black rocks and stonework of the old Spanish fort.

“Go slow,” Tomás whispers. “I can't see a thing.”

In the shadow of the light I can't see the cliff, either, but I can feel it. Just like Bebo taught me, I steer by the sound of the engine bouncing off the black walls.

When we slide out of the channel and into the harbor,
Tomás slaps me on the back and puts his captain's hat back on my head. “It's yours. You've earned it. Now, find us a place to anchor near the
Reglas
ferry.”

“No problem,” I say and steer toward the fishing boats moored by the ferry dock on the east side of the harbor. As Tomás carefully slips the anchor into the water, I cut the engine and nudge into a cluster of boats.

“Let's go below and wait,” he whispers.

The sunrise is just starting to paint the tops of the buildings pink and gold when the ferry starts up her engines. We have been awake all night. When we heard the fishermen rowing out to their boats we went up on deck and started getting ready. Tomás is looking toward the dock using a plastic toy telescope he found in the trash.

Just as the ferry heads across the bay, he calls out, “There they are! Look,” and hands me the telescope.

I scan the crowd on the dock across the bay. “I can't tell who is who. They all look like they're waiting for the ferry.”

“Right, this is the only way I could think of to get fourteen people and their luggage on the dock at the same time without the police getting suspicious.”

“Yeah, but what will the ferry captain say when they don't get on?” I ask.

“The ferry captain is on a tight schedule. He won't have time to get too curious. We'll swing by right after the ferry leaves.”

As the ferry glides into the dock a group of men, women, and children, each carrying a small suitcase, starts walking slowly down the long wooden ramp.

“Fourteen—they're all there,” I say and hand the telescope to Tomás but he waves it away.

“Start her up!” he yells.

The engine coughs and wheezes, but it will not start. I grab the screwdriver, fearing that last night's long trip might have been the old engine's last effort. I try tapping the carburetor with the screwdriver, but that doesn't work. Then I jiggle a couple of wires and the engine and finally starts up.

“Give me everything she's got!” Tomás yells.

As we chug across the harbor, Tomás waves at the captain of the ferry on his return trip, then cuts the wheel. My heart is thumping as we jump over the wake of the ferry.

“This is it!” Tomás yells and draws a sharp curve toward the fast-approaching dock. When he gives me the signal I slow the engine to an idle, and then run up to the bow. We slam into the rubber bumpers and Tomás yells, “Secure the bowline!”

I'm about to jump off when I see a man on the dock
wearing a white guayabera—he must be with our group, so I throw him the rope. The rope hits him in the chest. He grabs it as it falls.

Tomás is counting heads as he helps the women and children step into the boat.

I turn away when I hear the man on the dock say,“I—I can't hold this. . . .”

“Just hold it until we're ready to go, then you can jump on; we won't leave you behind,” I call to the man. He's holding the rope like he's posing for a picture.

Tomás helps the last couple aboard, then shakes the man's hand.

“I'm proud of you, son!” His mother gathers them all in her arms and they spin slow, like they're dancing to the thump of the idling engine. I can imagine how good that feels.

Then Tomás peels himself off. “We'll catch up later,” he says. “Papa, get everyone into the cabin. Julian, we're ready. Release the bowline!”

“Quick! Throw me the line; get on board!” I yell to the man on deck but he's not moving. “Hey, let go!” I yell and pull on the line, but the man pulls back.

“Julian, who is that guy?” Tomás asks.

“Isn't he with us?”

“No, we've got all our people,” he answers, and then he says to the man in the white guayabera, “
Hombre
, let go of the rope, now!” But the man will not let go.

“Let go of the rope, please?” I ask nicely.

“I can't!” the man yells. “I know what you're doing. If someone sees me they'll think I was helping you escape.”

“Come with us then!”

“Julian! Get back to the throttle!” Tomás orders. “We're ready to go! If he wants to hang on, that's up to him!”

“Why don't you come with us—there is room!” I say to the man.

“How could I?” he cries, as he hops from one foot to the other. “My family! I don't even have my toothbrush!” I can tell that he wants to come. “I wish I hadn't missed my ferry.”

“Come with us. You might not get another chance.” I feel sorry for him, he probably got up today—just like every day—thinking about his morning coffee, or maybe his job. He was definitely not thinking about leaving on a boat with a bunch of strangers.

“Julian! Someone's coming, get the throttle!” Tomás yells again.

I run back to the engine compartment, leaving the man holding the line.

“Don't worry about him! He'll either let go or end up in the water. Crank it up! We've got to get out of here!”

Tomás steers away from the dock but then the boat stops. I give it a little more gas, the engine strains, coughs once, and dies. I run back to the bow and find the man in the guayabera standing next to the big steel cleat and our line is now tied to it.

Tomás connects the ignition wires again and the engine groans.

“Julian, someone's coming!” Tomás yells. A man dressed in a tan uniform is walking down the ramp. He says something to the guy in the white guayabera, and bends over to untie the boat.

When he stands up I yell, “Bebo!”

“
Hola
, Julian. Didn't expect to see me here, did you?” Bebo smiles. Then he says calmly, “You don't want to make too much noise, somebody might be watching.”

“It's good to see you, Bebo,” I say, as Tomás runs up behind me.

“Bebo, I've heard a lot about you. I'm Tomás,” Tomás says looking around nervously.

“Mucho gusto, amigo,”
Bebo says and nods toward Tomás. Then he turns to me and smiles. “Good news, Julian, your mother left for Miami a week ago. I'd love to catch up with you but you better get out of here before someone sees you.” Bebo reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out his special paper clip. “Here. From the sound of that engine you're going to need this.”

I hold the paper clip as if it's made of gold. “Thanks, Bebo.”

“Don't mention it. You better go get that engine started. If they catch you here we'll all go to jail.” Then Bebo turns around and starts walking up the ramp.

“Bebo, do you want to come with us?” I call after him.

Bebo turns around and smiles. “Chico, I told you already: they're cooking the omelet just the way I like it.”

“Julian! We've got to get out of here!” I hear Tomás say from the wheel.

When I turn back, Bebo's already gone.

As I fit the paper clip into the barrel of the carburetor, I feel an emptiness in my heart. I pry the butterfly open so the right amount of air mixes with the gasoline vapors. That feeling in my heart has been there all this time. The engine sputters, coughs, and starts up. I guess it's like gasoline: it just sits there until you mix it with air and then it burns.

“Thanks, Bebo!” I call out.

Up on the dock the man in the white guayabera has picked up the rope again and he's doing his little shuffling dance, trying to decide if he should stay or go. A few of our passengers have come up on deck. They're talking to him, calling out reasons why he should come with us as Tomás steers the boat away from the dock.

Suddenly the man throws the rope down as if it's a poisonous snake, then runs across the dock. He doesn't stop at the edge. He jumps, his arms and legs spinning in slow motion, like he's swimming in air. He has just made the biggest decision of his life and he's definitely not thinking about landing.

Ten miles south of Key West the old engine thumps its last. Even Tomás's father can't get it started. We are drifting out to sea but we aren't about to give up.

Tomás and his father are pulling up pieces of the deck to make a mast and boom. Two of the women and I are collecting shirts and skirts to button and sew together with copper wire to make a sail, when we see the Coast Guard cutter.

As the Coast Guard tows us in, everyone on the boat is laughing and crying. One by one, the men and the women come over to hug Tomás and me, promising to one day repay our kindness. One woman says that she is going to name her first son Julian-Tomás so that no one will ever forget what we've done.

It's late by the time we get to the Coast Guard station in Miami. I am standing at the railing of the gray Coast Guard cutter, looking down at the dock crowded with policemen and firemen, when Tomás walks up to join me. He nods at a newscaster pointing a microphone at a large man gesturing theatrically toward our sinking boat.

“Do you see who that is?” Tomás asked.

“That's Armando! What's he doing here?”

“I hate to admit it, but I think he probably saved our lives,” Tomás says.

“What do you mean?”

“The captain of the cutter told me that they got a call to go out and look for us. Armando was the only person who knew about our trip. Knowing Armando, he called the T.V. station and gave them the story to make himself look good, hoping that they'd give him a job as a newsman. He knows that when a T.V. station gets a tip like that, they always call the police, and then the police call the Coast Guard.”

A small crowd has gathered around Armando; flashbulbs pop as he answers questions and poses for the cameras.

Tomás shakes his head and laughs. “Look at him strutting around the dock like the hero.”

“He looks like a big rooster to me,” I say.

“That big rooster probably saved our lives,” Tomás says and puts his hand on my shoulder. “But, if it wasn't for your gold bird and your help with the engine, I could never have
made the trip. The best part of it is that you did it because it was the right thing to do.” Then he nods at Armando. “He did it for a different reason. It's funny how things worked out.”

When they finally let us walk down the ramp, Ramirez is waiting for me on the dock.

“First a runaway, now a hero,” he says, then grabs my wrist and leads me to the car. “No detours today, right?”

“No detours; I just want to go home, and I'm not a hero.”

“Tell that to the fifteen people back there on the dock,” Ramirez says and then locks the door.

On the way back to the camp, we drove through the same neighborhood we passed on the first day. The houses, trees, the red tricycle, even the wooden sign at the gate were all the same. Everything out there had stayed the same, but I knew that I had changed.

When we got to the camp, the car door opened and a pair of beefy, red hands reached in and pulled me out. I grabbed on to the door handle thinking that it might be Caballo, but the smell of mashed potatoes and the stained apron put me at ease.

Dolores pushed me into the kitchen. “This is your lucky day,” she said as she slid a plate of steaming meat loaf under my nose. When I told her that I missed her meat loaf, she puffed up proud. “It is good—good enough for the president and the first astronaut,” she said with a mysterious smile on her face.

“Did the president remember? Did he call?”

She put her finger to her lips. “Shh, it's all hush-hush—top secret.”

Dolores sat down next to me and, as I stuffed chunks of meat loaf into my mouth, she told me about how our “little revolution” turned out. She said that Marta and Angelita had called every number on their list. At first, nothing happened, but they didn't give up. They made another list, collected more dimes, and kept calling until they finally found someone who could help. Dolores laughed and slapped the table. “Things started to change around here real quick after that! Before Ol' Caballo knew what hit him, he was on his way to that orphanage in Denver.”

“Isn't that where my brothers are?” I asked. It would be a sad day for them to have Caballo follow them there.

“That's where they were,” she said. “I heard they left last week and went to live with your uncle up in Connecticut. I'm sure the police told you that your mother's there, too.” Then Dolores dug into her apron pocket and handed me three letters. “Here—letters from your brothers. They came in while you were away.”

“Thank you, Dolores!” I said as I leafed through the letters.

“Don't thank me; Angelita collected them and then gave them to me before she left to go live with her brother.” Then Dolores looked up at the clock and said, “Now, if I were you, I'd go see if I could find my old friends, before I hang an apron on you. I got to get dinner ready.”

As I stepped out into the dusty yard Ramirez was just getting into his car.