Spring 1996. It was finally baseball season in my native Havana. The grass was a lush green, and the spring birds had returned for the season. This was always the most joyous time of the year, though things were not exactly improving in my hometown. Fidel Castro was the leader of our country then, and we had been in an economic depression for several years. My parents were diligent workers but they could barely keep up with the mounting payments on our tiny apartment. The space was not ample for two adults, let alone my entire family. My older brother, Jose, was intelligent, but at 18 ended his education to put food on the table for our family. My father worked at a body shop but had been laid off due to the depression. He was on the wrong side of 60 and, in Cuba, it was survival of the fittest.
Given the harsh economic conditions, we had been planning to flee Cuba for the opportunities in the United States for quite some time. Unfortunately, in 1995, there were harsh travel restrictions. The U.S. had implemented the “Wet Foot Dry Foot” policy. The policy stated that if you were caught in the waters between the United States and Cuba, you would either be sent back to Cuba or a third country. However, if you made it to shore, you could qualify for permanent legal residency in the United States. To us, the hunger for freedom greatly outweighed the consequences, and my family was determined to do whatever it took to make it to U.S. soil.
My uncle, father, brother and I felt as ready as ever to go on a journey that would alter our lives forever. That fateful night, everything had happened so quickly and the rumors of our plan soon reached our neighbors. They provided us with food and drink for the long trip over to Key West, Florida. Tears flowed down my mother’s eyes as if a waterfall had overtaken her eyes. My mom would be staying in our lonely apartment. She felt she did not possess enough strength to go on the treacherous journey. My mother had provided so much to my family and I loved her dearly. It was tough leaving her at home.
“I’m too old now,” she had stated. “But I’ll always be in your heart.”
I hugged her for what was the last time I would ever see her aging face. I kept telling her I would come back to Havana. If only I knew that this would be the last time I would see her, I would hug her 1,000 more times.
As I walked out of my apartment building door for the last time, sentimental feelings rushed through my body. I would surely miss the place that had raised me for over 16 years, a feeling I still have today.
My father pushed my head forward and said, “Esperamos nino vamos a ser libres.”
Translated to English he stated we would be going to the land of the free! I had to look forward to all the new, excellent things that would occur ahead of us. Looking back would just hinder our journey.
I remember these memories vividly, almost like it happened yesterday. My uncle picked us up with his old, electric blue, Chevrolet Bel Air. It was past 11 p.m. by now and the sky was dark with only a few illuminating stars piercing through the night sky. We drove down to the northern tip of Cuba and took the four-person canoe out of the trunk. My brother and uncle brought the heavy canoe down to the sandy tip of the beach. Nerves crept through my body.
My uncle, the expert of the trip, informed me that the trip could take over 10 days. We entered the large canoe, and just like that our journey began. The dog days of spring, which brought harsh sea weather, seemed to last forever, finishing as leisurely as dripping molasses. Seasickness possessed my father’s body, and he constantly had to stop rowing to take a rest. My nose was possessed with the pungent smell of the saltwater. Our abundance of food had seemingly disappeared and immediate rationing was our only option. My father would no longer eat and did not have the strength to row the oars of the boat. I later learned from the letters he sent from Cuba that he had lost 15 pounds when measured by the patrols. My uncle constantly urged us to keep on fighting, as we were almost there. Then, I believe it was the 13th day.
Our 13th day mirrored the previous 12, as we continued to float in complete darkness. We had been casually floating along the Florida Straits for some time when my brother saw it.
“Lights!” he warned.
My father slowly rose like a sloth, as he had not eaten in over two days, even when we urged him to. My uncle tried to convince us to stay calm, but it was impossible with thoughts of returning to Cuba and the punishments we would receive there. We took a closer look at the source of lights—a large patrol boat. U.S. Coast Guard was printed in large red letters. I remember turning my head toward my father for the last time. He jumped into the water. As we slowly floated away from him, sacrificing himself our futures. My uncle had to hold me back. I felt like I was moving in slow motion as I tried to jump into the water and save him.
“Father, we’re almost there!” I yelled to him with no avail.
It was inevitable. My father swam toward the boat, risking his freedom to distract them so we could continue to the shore. Apparently he told my uncle what he wished to do and my uncle accepted it. He knew my father was too weak to go on. My father was returned to Cuba two days later, as he stated in his letter to me. He did not detail any punishment he faced, and I could only imagine his pain. Nevertheless, he stated that our mother was fine and that they wished us the best.
The hatred that I had for the Americans and their divisive policy during this time burned with passion. Why would they not want to let my helpless father enter the United States? Certainly they knew he would be punished.
My uncle assured us that we would arrive in Florida soon, but he never told us when. I was eating one of our last rations of ropa vieja, a delicious meal that my mother had prepared and stored for us.
“Land!” my uncle exclaimed with joy in his voice.
The food left my hands, and a surge of excitement rushed through my body. Hunger no longer eclipsed my mind, as getting to land was the one and only priority. I jumped into the friendly, clear waters of Key West. Nearby patrols spotted us and took toward us. My uncle had later told me that I was swimming too fast to be caught. Once I touched the soil I knew I had made it! Oh, how joyful I was, even without the presence of my father. I could not pass up the celebration with my brother and uncle. We were in America! We were finally free!