Storm Clouds Over Havana by Mike Marino (cat reading book .TXT) 📖

we make it non-stop. I mean not stopping for fuel at some fishing village that still thinks it’s 1898?” I guess the sarcasm was as blunt as a brick used to smash the skull of a high roller with pockets bulging with cash on a dark street in Manila.  

Pilar shot a look at me from her double barreled shotgun of big brown eyes. I took the hint and held my tongue when Buster filled in the blanks. “You are aboard the fastest boat around, my doubting friend. She’s got extra large fuel tanks making landfall frequency miniscule for this trip, and you have two motors. One a 40 HP for leisurely trolling for Brando the Marlin, and a hefty 75 HP job to get you to your destination in little time. Remember though, there are Castro’s spies along the coast as well ever vigilant, ever watching so we have to make this look real. Fishing along the way to interview Castro would only appear natural, leisurely, as they are already watching us.”

 

“Watching us? Now?” Pilar motioned to me to NOT look around and not to speak loudly. “Over on the beach, two people, an old man and old woman sitting. They’ve been watching us with binoculars since we got here. I was told by Victoria that they would be there and others will be watching us along the way. Castro is a very careful man, Mickey. That’s why we will be victorious in our battle to free the Cuban people!”

 

At that point Hem did a magic trick by pulling a “rabbit”  from his canvas bag….”Aha, to celebrate, I’ve brought along some of the finest sea-going rum in the hemisphere and a few of the finest cigars Cuba has to offer to launch the journey.” He pulled a couple of “ladies” as he called them and passed them out, ladies first to Pilar,  (yes she was a cigar afficianado as our apartment would attest to) and one to me and one to Buster saving the Queen Isabella for himself. The rum was busted open, formality was tossed aside to four winds as we began taking turns swigging the nectar of the Havana Club Rum letting it glide smoothly down our throats as the sun rose smoothly above the horizon.

 

It was time for Buster to leave us, as he bid us “Godspeed” and left. Hem dashed up to the flying bridge to crank up the engine, cigar firmly fixed clenched in his teeth. Pilar and I went forward to the bow to enjoy the emerging sun and the sea spray on our faces. We had our rum soaked breakfast with a side order of cigar. We headed out to the open sea and I the salt air, gasoline and oil smells couldn’t destroy the erotic aromas of Pilars bath salts, shampoo,  and the natural scents given off by her body. I was of course in love with her, and  now aboard the boat with the romance only  the sea can generate in a person I felt I was the luckiest man on earth. I was in love with two Pilars…Pilar the woman and Pilar, Hemingway’s boat. It may be the sun and sea affecting me….or perhaps….the rum!

Chapter 19 - Salty Dogs of the Caribbean

Setting sail into the Straits of Florida we began tracking a westerly course. Pirate waters at one time that were  alive with mythological mermaids singing songs of enticement to excite men devastated by scurvy and drink, as the ships danced on the waves while overhead they were witness to  lofty high flying, nose diving pelicans and perhaps the Ancient Mariners cursed albatross brought down with a crossbow of fiction and rhyme.

 

The “Pilar” left in it’s wake, land and safe haven as it’s bow plowed a path through turquoise waters and golden sun. At night, small patches of plankton would glow with a bio-luminescence creating a finger painting by the tiny liquid hands of an invisible concubine of King Neptune.

 

We dropped anchor the first night inside the harbor of La Fa. It had been a long first day. We were fueled by adrenalin, salt air and a few choppy waves, bow breakers as Hem called them, as we ventured further into the rich waters of the Caribbean. After a few hours, the waters decided to give way to a smoother cruise as we became flanked by Atlantic flying fish. The Royal Air Force of the Neptunian Kingdom accompanying us while entertaining us as the “Pilar’s” 75 HP motor raced in the middle of them. Churning up a white foam that left a temporary path off our stern, while her bow sliced through the waters as skillfully as a surgeon’s knife in the hands of Jack the Ripper on the prowl in London’s White Chapel district.

 

“Well, mates. How was your first day?” our Captain queried. Pilar had ridden with Hem before as I found out. Old friend of the family and all. As for me, “Hem, this is fantastic. I feel at home, content, relaxed out here. The fresh air and salt spray from the ocean. Builds up quite an appetite. A shame we can’t just keep going to the other end  of the earth.  Fall off even, I don’t care,” I said exuberantly. I even managed to do a little two step jig as though I was possessed by the spirit of a  midshipman on one of Her Majesty’s 1700’s Royal Navy sailing vessels searching for a port in old China to trade for opium.

 

We opened a few beers, light cigars and all sat back on deck chairs, Pilar and I with our feet on the sterns brass rail enjoying the gentle rocking motion of the boat as small sunset waves caressed her hull.  Hem had a beer and then went below to the galley. “Steaks, me hearties,” be bellowed from below. “Rare all around. Only way to enjoy them, spiced and red with blood. I’ve also got some plantain I’ll fry up to go with it. Mickey, grab one of those bottles of red wine from the cooler. Glasses are down here, I’ll bring them up.”

 

Pilar jumped up. “I’ll get the glasses and plates. Where do you want to eat, up here on down there.” Hem laughed a huge “HA” and made a proclamation, “We eat on deck ye pirates wench, on deck surrounded by sharks who can smell the blood of the steaks and will bump the boat to add some dangerous spice to the meal.”

 

Gawd, I swear this was the best meal I have ever eaten or will ever eat. Cooked to perfection, atmosphere convivial and romantic at the same time, and I never saw Pilar so beautiful. The gold and red of the setting sun played off her hair and gave her skin an extra layer of brown sensuality.

 

After a few more hours, the wine had completely overtaken me. It was now 10 o’clock and Pilar who had long since sat on the floor of the deck near my feet had fallen asleep, her head resting on my knee and I realized I had been stroking her soft hair for an hour. I could feel her upper torso against my calf, breathing in and out, peaceful, content. “Hem,” I said softly, I’m going to put her to bed and join her.”

 

“I’ll just finish another beer and call it a night too. Good day today Mickey, I must say, and please, you take care of that  little girl. She’s very special to me.” I was told never argue with a man who owns shotguns. In this case it didn’t matter. Pilar was half of who I am, was and ever will be. Without her, I’d never be whole.

 

“You don’t have to worry. She’s special to me as well. She is a treasure, and if we come out of this alive, I’m gonna marry her. Not letting this one get away.”

 

Hem smiled broadly. “Ah, for whom the church bell tolls….it tolls for thee Amigo!”

Chapter 20 - Latin Latitude Love & A Marlin Named Brando

Billfishing is the sea hunt for the Maltese Falcon of the sportfishing world in both Hemingway’s half of the hemisphere in the Caribbean Ocean and  the placid Pacific where Zane Grey pursued his quarry from the wild west depths of Davy Jones’ Locker. The turquoise waters of the Latin latitudes and longitudes of Cuba were teeming that April with “blues” and “whites” that gave a 50 pound test line a devastating Joe Louis workout.

 

We had one more day before we made landfall at Santiago de Cuba, and this was the day anointed by Pope Ernest as St. Marlon Brando the Blue Marlin Day where he felt his timbers shiver and he would call upon St. Andrew the patron saint of fishermen. As we took our positions in the “fighting chairs” poles baited with artificial lures he handed a half full bottle of rum the Pilar to “baptize” the moment. “You know, Jesus Christ himself never caught one of these monsters. If he did, he might have stayed around a bit longer, and turned the water into rum. Now, there’s a man’s drink, and these are a man’s fish!”

 

I wasn’t about to argue with a Pope. If he was the Pope, then this pope boat was a seagoing Vatican and the marlin were sinners who spend  time  preserved forever in a den on a  paneled wall above a pool table, after fighting like the devil in mortal combat with it’s human contender.

 

As Hem wrote in Old Man and Sea published in 1952, “The marlin wakes Santiago by jerking the line. The fish jumps out of the water again and again, and Santiago is thrown into the bow of the skiff, facedown in his dolphin meat. The line feeds out fast, and the old man brakes against it with his back and hands. His left hand, especially, is badly cut. Santiago wishes that the boy were with him to wet the coils of the line, which would lessen the friction.

The old man wipes the crushed dolphin meat off his face, fearing that it will make him nauseated and he will lose his strength. Looking at his damaged hand, he reflects that “pain does not matter to a man.”

 

As the sun rises, the marlin begins to circle. For hours the old man fights the circling fish for every inch of line, slowly pulling it in. He feels faint and