Boy Who Said No : An Escape to Freedom (9781608090815) (24 page)

Suddenly, a large wave caught us off guard and smacked us all square in the face. Joey and I were able to handle it, but Pedro swallowed a mouthful of water. He cried out in fear. He was losing control, flailing his arms, and splashing helplessly against the white-capped waves.

“Hold on, Pedro. I'm coming,” I screamed.

I swam as fast as I could toward Pedro, fighting the turbulent sea. I grabbed him by the hair and wrapped my arm around his chest, doing the sidestroke while I pulled him along. He was choking and sputtering, but luckily he didn't fight me, a common reaction of a person who's drowning.

I could barely see Joey in the darkness. He looked afraid. I wiped water from my eyes. “Tread water for as long as you can,” I hollered. “I'll come back for you soon.”

“I'm okay,” he said. He appeared stronger than I would've expected. “Just take care of Pedro.” His voice was thin and tinny and was soon swallowed by the wind.

I swam away slowly, dragging Pedro along with me. I was fighting the waves every stroke of the way. The water was getting rougher, slapping my face and forcing its way up my nose. I worked to blow the water out of my nostrils without using my hands. My calf suddenly cramped, and I fought hard against the pain.

When we got to the boat the fisherman helped pull Pedro out of the water. Pedro moaned, and his legs thumped against the bottom of
the boat. He scrambled to right his body. A moment later I heard the pitiful sound of retching. The fisherman held his hand on Pedro's back to comfort him, while I hung on to the side of the boat for a minute, kneading the muscles in my right leg, and catching my breath before swimming back for Joey. I just hoped the wind hadn't made the water too choppy for me to save him.

I pushed off from the boat with my feet and swam toward the boy who was struggling to stay afloat. “Hurry,” screamed Joey. His voice was ragged. He looked like he had not an ounce of energy left.

“I'm coming,” I said. “Just don't fight me when I get to you.”

I grabbed Joey around his chest—the way I had his brother. White foam capped the black water. I inched Joey toward the boat. The fisherman had started his small outboard motor and was heading our way. Within a few minutes he was alongside us.

He took the motor out of gear and idled it before lifting Joey out of the water. Pedro helped pull his brother aboard and I waited, holding onto the rail, exhausted. I lifted my one leg over the side of the boat and pulled myself in. My clothes clung to my body and water ran in rivulets down my hands and feet. My arms and legs ached and my head was pounding. I worked to catch my breath.

The fisherman blew out the lantern, and we sat in silence for a minute, trying to regain our composure. The boys had wrapped their arms around themselves. Their bodies were shaking and their teeth were chattering from cold and fright. The wind whistled and blew a cold drizzle around us. Pedro and Joey huddled close together for warmth. They looked to me for solace, but I had little energy left to give them.

“It's going to be okay,” I said. “You were both very brave.”

Joey and Pedro glanced up at me and nodded. Joey was blinking, his eyes wide with fright. There was no reason to smile.

The boat was only thirteen feet long, and it took water over its sides with every crashing wave. I looked around, found a pail, and
started to bail. Joey stood shakily, grabbed an old rusted coffee can and began bailing beside me. I was very glad for his help.

Without saying a word, the fisherman steered the boat away from land. It slapped against the waves and pitched against the wind, its motor lurching and struggling. We fought the wind for more than two hours, bailing, battling the waves, and inching our way toward the Straits of Florida.

The boat we met was not much bigger than the one we were on—only twenty-feet long. We made the transfer successfully, and the smaller boat headed back to Cuba. We listened to the hum of its motor as it disappeared into the distance. The wind finally consumed its drone. The evaporation of the sound into the night was eerie.

The boys and I were freezing, and I was afraid we were all suffering from hypothermia. We sat shivering and looking up at lightning, which zigzagged across the sky, revealing fast-moving clouds. The wind picked up. Thunder boomed its arrival like a large kettledrum. Rain would soon follow.

Our clothes were sopping wet, and I wasn't sure whether we'd be better off with or without them. Pedro's lips were turning blue. Joey looked terrified. Suddenly, the captain, a big man nicknamed Macho, cut off the motor. We sat in silence, listening to the waves whipping the sides of the boat. We were all only one large wave away from death.

“Why are you stopping?” I asked.

“I'm waiting for the patrol boats to cross.”

At least Macho sounded like he knew what he was doing.

I looked to the horizon and saw the patrol boats in the distance. I remembered Ralph cautioning me that this would be the most dangerous part of the journey. I sucked in my breath in apprehension. I could see a large ship much farther out, my ticket to Magda, and I longed for its safety and shelter.

Suddenly, the skies opened up and pelted our faces with a stinging
rain. It came sideways like crystal needles, pounding our shoulders and rocking the boat. I was afraid we were about to turn over. Joey began to cry and Pedro admonished him to be quiet. Joey bit his lip and stopped sobbing. I was amazed at his bravery.

Macho struggled with the steering wheel, trying to turn the boat around. The motor was straining. Pedro and Joey clung to each other like Siamese twins, looking forlorn and helpless.

The waves knocked us from side to side and, for a moment, the motor sputtered. Another wave hit us, and Joey was thrown to the side of the boat. He had lost his balance and was about to go over. I lunged for him, grabbed him by the back of his shirt and steadied him until he regained his footing. I turned around and looked at Macho.

“What are you doing?” I screamed.

Macho hollered back against the howling wind. “We'll never make it. The storm is too bad. I'm taking us back.”

I quickly assessed the situation and knew he was right. The patrol boats crisscrossed every half hour, and we could never make it into international waters in time. We would surely be apprehended. There was no time for escape and no time to wallow in disappointment.

Macho worked to keep the boat from capsizing, while I tried to comfort the boys. I was praying the motor would hold. Otherwise, we would be all lost at sea. The wind whipped the waves to new heights. They blasted the sides of the boat with such force I feared the wood would crack. The howl of the wind bellowed in fits like a wounded animal caught in a trap.

We clawed our way through the choppy seas for two hours before we spotted the lights of Cojimar. The water calmed considerably and the rain slacked off as we approached the port. We were headed for the coast guard station where the boat would be inspected for escapees like us. Joey and Pedro exchanged frightened looks. They knew the danger we faced.

“You'll all have to hide,” hollered Macho.

“I know. Where?”

“Put the boys on the side of the boat under the ropes.”

Pedro and Joey scrambled to hide where they were told. They were as quiet as cats stalking mice.

“You,” said Macho, looking directly at me. “Get under here and don't make a sound.”

He pointed to a compartment on the floor, directly under the steering wheel. I bent down to enter the cramped and foul-smelling space. I wiggled my body to find a comfortable position, but it was no use. I just wanted to be able to curl up without pain. I managed to get into a position where my legs were turned to the side. I was facing upward.

Slits in the floorboards enabled me to see the yellow light from the inspector's flashlight as he walked back and forth on the deck of the boat, checking for fish and anything else he might find. Macho did his best to distract him by talking. Another guard stood on the dock, overseeing the inspection.

“So how's your family?” asked Macho. I was impressed with his feigned nonchalance.

“Don't worry about them,” said the inspector. “I want to know how many tunas you brought me.”

“None this time,” said Macho with a sigh. He chuckled. “Hell, I brought you a bunch of fish the last time I went out. I must've given you enough for a week.”

“Well, a man has to eat.”

“Sorry, it was terrible out there. I couldn't even fish for the waves and the rain.”

“Is that so? It wasn't bad here.”

“Take my word for it. It was like a hurricane. Thunder, lightning, the works.”

I heard the guard walking back and forth as he shot the breeze with Macho. The hold was full of gasoline, kerosene, and tar that clung
to my clothes, my skin and my hair. The fumes were making my eyes water. I was hoping against hope I wouldn't sneeze. If I did, it would be death—for all of us.

“I'll tell you what,” said Macho. “I'll bring you twice the number of tunas next time I'm out. How's that?”

“All right, just make sure I'm on duty when you come in.” The inspector shook hands with Macho and climbed out of the boat to open the way for us to pass.

When we pulled into the dock, Macho took his time cleaning the boat and putting things away, while I remained hidden in the hold. I didn't know whether he didn't want to appear to be in a hurry or whether he was waiting for prying eyes to depart. After forty-five minutes, he opened the hatch to let me out. I was covered from head to toe in vile odors and substances. I feared I'd never be able to remove them.

The boys and I walked back to the bar and Macho arranged for the boys' father to come and pick them up. I found a blanket in the basement and threw it over their shoulders to keep them warm. Pedro was shaking violently, and Joey's eyes were full of fright. He stood and gave me a hug. I tried to comfort him as best I could.

The boys' father arrived to get them. His face was ashen as he scooped them into his arms, telling them that everything was going to be okay. Señor Lopez nodded to me briefly before he left, obviously more concerned about his sons' welfare than in talking with us. I watched in sympathy as he led his boys down the path.

I was wondering what I would do next when Macho turned to me and said, “You can come back to my house for the night. I don't live far—just up the hill.” It was about three in the morning, and I was glad to have a place nearby to stay.

We walked through the rain to his small cinderblock house that butted up against the street. Three steps lead up to the doorway. It was dank and dark inside. I could hear the muffled sounds of children
sleeping. A light rain pattered the windows and palm fronds lightly whipped the side of the house. I removed my wet clothes, and Macho switched on the light and opened the door to the bathroom. It was small and dimly lit. A rubber duck sat on the ledge of the tub.

“You can take a shower in here,” he said, picking his children's socks off the linoleum floor. “I'm sorry I don't have any soap. What with the rationing and all—”

“No problem. I understand. The shower will be fine.”

“I'll leave a change of clothes on the chair.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling grateful for the hospitality. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

“My kids sleep in the other bedroom, so you'll have to sleep on the floor in the room with my wife, Ana, and me. You can sleep on the throw rug. It won't be too comfortable. I hope you don't mind.”

“No apology needed. Any port in a storm.” We both smiled briefly.

Macho got me a blanket and pillow from an old wooden chest, and I put on the clothes he had given me—a Hawaiian shirt with big yellow flowers and pants too short to cover my ankles. But at least they were clothes. I was grateful I wouldn't have to sleep naked in somebody else's house.

Macho turned and looked at me. “One thing,” he said before he climbed into bed.

“Yes?” I said. All I wanted was for him to turn off the light so I could go to sleep. I felt like I could not keep my eyes open one minute longer.

“My wife and I have to leave early in the morning. We have some business to conduct in Cojimar—fishing affairs. I'd like you to get out of the house before my kids get up. My little boy frightens easily.”

“I'll do my best. Right now I'm just dog tired.”

Macho nodded. “Please do. It's important.”

“Okay. How many kids do you have?” I asked, although I was just being polite. I was far too tired to care.

“Three. One son and two daughters.”

“That's nice,” I mumbled. My eyelids were very heavy.

I buttoned my shirt, adjusted my pillow, and fell immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I woke up the next morning with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. I had been dreaming of the day I first saw Fidel and how my grandfather had shielded me with his body. Only this time Fidel was a monster, his eyes fiery red, and his body covered in fish scales.

Macho and his wife's bed sat empty, their bedclothes tangled in a messy pile. I could hear a great deal of commotion outside. Sunshine warmed the bedroom floor and the curtains billowed in. When I turned toward the window, I could see faces of people peering inside. I stood up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Drowsy and disoriented, I stumbled toward the living room.

The front door was open and Macho's four-year-old son was standing on the sidewalk in his cotton pajamas. He was holding a tattered brown teddy bear and sobbing to a crowd of about thirty people that a stranger was in his house. He said his parents were missing, and he thought I had killed them. A woman stroked his forehead in an effort to soothe him. As soon as he saw me, he clutched his bear to his chest, pointed a small finger at me, and began to cry harder.

In this neighborhood, like others in Cuba, people knew who lived among them. I was a stranger and many of them assumed I was something worse—a criminal.