Thursday, July 9, 2009

A Place Called Home - December 07

We had an opportunity recently to go sailing for four days with our friends Bruce and Dawn, and I intended to write this column about my first cruising adventure. But something happened on the trip that had an impact on me and I want to share it with you.

It was our second day out. I didn’t realize how quickly I’d adapted to the silence until radio chatter and the distant whump of a Coast Guard helicopter broke the peace about mid-morning.

It seems a boat of Cuban refugees was spotted in the area and was being evacuated. For someone who grew up in the Midwest it was a pretty amazing spectacle and as I watched the helicopter hover over a spot of land on the horizon I wondered about the people involved. In time the activity died down and we assumed everyone had been rescued.

We meandered around Pumpkin Key then zigged and zagged for a while looking for another anchorage, preferably close enough to land that we could take the dogs ashore. We finally settled on a quiet spot off Card Sound Point. While setting the anchor we saw two men on shore but assumed it was someone exploring from a boat on the other side. When they tried to hail us by waving a t-shirt, we put two and two together. Cuban refugees that, for whatever reason, had been left behind. We called the Coast Guard.

As we sat there eating lunch and waiting to see what happened next, I worried. They must be starving and thirsty. And scared. I couldn’t imagine being desperate enough to flee my birthplace with only what I wore, risking my life to get somewhere better.

An hour later a Coast Guard skiff came around the point and headed slowly for shore. I grabbed the binoculars. Not that I don’t trust U.S. officials, but an American flagged vessel watching keeps everyone honest. The skiff approached and one of the Coasties used a bullhorn to call to the men. As I watched, one of the men bent over, grabbed a handful of sand in each hand and held them up in the air while shouting. I couldn’t hear, but it didn’t take much imagination to know he was saying, “I’m on American Soil!”

The Coasties and the Cubans called to each other for a few minutes, then just before the refugees waded out to the boat, one man put a handful of sand in his pocket.

Those two simple acts spoke volumes to me.

The refugees turned the skiff around then climbed aboard and accepted the life jackets given to them. A Coast Guard pilot boat was waiting in the channel where the men were transferred and taken who knows where. I worried about what would happen to them and hoped they would be safe and treated with dignity.

Since moving to South Florida, I’ve frequently heard natives, and incredibly even some transplants, complain about the Cuban population. The complaints range from how this affects jobs, housing, traffic, crime and complaints about Spanish being used more than English. There’s the “you need a passport to go to Miami” joke. None of this negativity takes into consideration the human aspect. These people are human beings, flesh and blood, with hopes and fears and dreams just like you and I.

As Americans, most of us love our country. And most of us are guilty of complaining about our government at some point in time. But none of us has ever felt so desperate that the only option was to climb aboard a boat in the middle of the night and leave behind our possessions, our friends and our families, with only our memories to hold onto. Where the need to flee is only balanced by the fear of the unknown that lies ahead.

I can’t imagine stepping onto foreign soil with nothing to my name, not speaking the language and hoping for the best, where a handful of soil in my pocket represents freedom. Wondering where my next meal will come from and where I will sleep. Weigh that against the anxiety you feel if you leave the house without your wallet or your cell phone. Or if a family member in another state is ill and you can’t fly home to be with them. Or the stress over losing a job.

Magnify that a couple thousand times.

That afternoon when we took the dogs ashore, we didn’t stay long as we were overwhelmed by no-seeums. I was grateful that we’d been able to assist in getting the men off the island. No food, no water and being eaten alive by bugs would have made for a hellish night for them. But I worried too about what they faced next. Would they be treated well where they were taken? Would they be able to make their way in a new world with the hostilities they’re bound to face?
I had an opportunity last spring to spend an hour with Tito Bacardi aboard his boat during the Bacardi Cup race. I asked him about Cuba. He said, “It is my dream to take the Cup home to Cuba, where it belongs.” I saw tears well in his eyes. “We wait. All Cubans, we wait…” He looked down for a moment. “Forgive my language young lady, but we all wait for that bastard to die so we can go home again.”

I hope the two men on Card Sound Point that day get the chance to go home again. But until then, I hope they find peace and freedom in this…better place. I certainly don’t take that for granted anymore.

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