By Jess McGlothlin
Apparently brisk, stormy January afternoons are a thing in Cuba, too.
I’d rather find out a different way, though.
Somewhere in the channel between Cayo Cruz and Cayo Mégano Grande, along Cuba’s northern coastline, our little flats skiff had motor issues. We’d been heading out on a chilly winter morning, heavy storm clouds dotting the far horizon. It wasn’t a pleasant day; not a day to take clients fishing. But I was on a quick tour of Cuba to assess various fly-fishing destinations—it was a work trip—and so we bundled up in our rain gear and prepared to get bounced around in the boat all day.
It wouldn’t be a permit day. Not in this weather. But the guide thought he knew a channel where we could blind cast for tarpon, something I am always game to do.
We had to get there first, though.
That Damn Key
The rain sheets sweeping across the flat are getting closer, and fat raindrops fall on the boat decking in front of me. I double-check my camera bag to ensure it’s sealed up and zip up my rain jacket. Juan asks for a wrench, and I dig for what I hope is the right one … his English is nonexistent, and my Spanish could use a brush-up. It must be right, because he nods approvingly and goes back to work.
Five minutes later, he’s turning around, and it looks like we’re good to go. He shoots a look to the darkening rain clouds, gives me a nod, and inserts the key on its little coily plastic cord back into the slot. Turns it.
Stares at it.
The engine didn’t turn over.
After a moment, Juan holds up the round top of the key and looks at me with wide eyes. The serrated shank is gone, twisted off and still in the ignition switch.
The rain comes down harder, like the sky is laughing at us. The waves are rocking the boat side to side now, the wind picking up. Juan starts muttering.
“Puta madre. La maldita llave.”
I snug my hood a little higher as the wind blasts the side of my face with salt spray, and eye the clouds. No bueno. My gaze turns to the packing-taped cardboard box at my feet, a worn affair that apparently serves as Juan’s onboard toolbox. Seeing no other ready solution, I dig out a small, rusted flathead screwdriver. It might cause more damage than good, but it might get us to the mangroves. Maybe even back to the dock.
Juan nods and tucks the screwdriver in the pocket of his slicker, but apparently has other fixes in mind. I eventually go back to watching the storm, wondering just how many tarpon, bonefish, and permit are cruising under the foam-laced waves while we bob above them. Juan has no anchor on board, which means we’re moving with the tide and, well, there’s just got to be fish around. There’s no thunder. Should I grab a rod?
Seems like that might be pushing things.
Another Day in Cuba
I make myself settle, mulling over the fact that instead of poling for fish as we’d planned, now we’re effectively on a sailing trip on a stormy day in Cuba. Sounds like the lyrics to a Jimmy Buffett song … we just needed a margarita. Or probably a mojito.
Eventually, Juan gives up on whatever fix he has in mind and jabs the screwdriver into the ignition switch with a savage sort of frustration. A bit of wiggling, a bit of angling, and the engine turns over. The rain’s just picking up hard now, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sound as sweet as the coughing rumble of that engine. No drifting to Florida for us. Not today.
We do make it to the channel. And there are tarpon there; tarpon more than happy to eat a black-and-purple Tarpon Toad. Juan puts the engine in idle but never shuts it off. We catch a few, but when the wind and rain only continue to pick up, we eventually call it a day and motor back home, the flat bottom of the skiff thump-thumping on the waves. I think we both breathe a silent sigh of relief when the thatched hut that serves as the marina comes into view through the sheets of rain.
Just another day in Cuba.
