Read Online Cuba Straits by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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sophisticated manner. Felt comfortable enough to speak up when he didn’t understand. “You mean ‘kill’ as in
putas
who rob? Or these island women, they exhaust a man’s
pinga
?”
“Count on it,” Tomlinson replied. “It’s happened to better sailors than us. That’s why I know when to pull anchor and haul ass to saner harbors.” He stood to ready the mainsail. The shipping channel, busy with traffic and sunset pirate vessels, required an engine. Once clear of Kingfish Shoals, however, they would be free if there was wind . . . But, damn it, there was no wind. The low-pressure system had left a vacuum of calm that would make them a puppet of the Gulf Stream . . . until morning at least, according to the VHF under the helm, which he knelt to turn louder.
“But they’re callin’ your name, brother.”
“Yeah? Think back to your Greek tragedies—‘Beware the Sirens on the rocks’ and all that. Odysseus dropped anchor and Circe, plus some other witch goddesses, drugged him, screwed the man blind, and kept him and his shipmates captives for a year.”
Figueroa’s eyes were fixed on Mallory Square. “They’re witches?”
“Circe? Hell, yeah. Spellbinders, they all are.”
“If Circe’s the one I’m looking at, sometimes a year don’t seem so long.”
Tomlinson replied, “Hush a minute,” and listened to NOAA weather’s monotone: seas outside the reef three feet or less until morning, when a high-pressure band increases wind slightly to . . .
Figgy didn’t attempt to translate those foreign words. Still waving at the eager gringas, he endured a sense of loss unknown since his first month in Havana’s prison psychiatric ward. “Brother, isn’t there some way?”
Tomlinson muttered, “Damn. Apparently not,” and switched off the VHF.
Figgy suggested, “How about I swim to shore? Allow me, oh . . . just two hours. Shine a light and I will swim back. I don’t doubt what you say about those witches, but I have never experienced this tragedy you fear.”
Tomlinson slouched behind the wheel. “The weather gods usually ignore NOAA’s doom-and-gloom bullshit when
No Más
goes to sea. Apparently, my vibe’s out of kilter.” He looked at the horizon, a turquoise glaze to Cuba, then at his new shipmate. “Mind rolling a skinny—my Spanish seems to be fading.” Then: “What was that last thing you said?”
• • •
O VER MARGARITAS at Louie’s Backyard, Tomlinson had to lie. “
Cerci
in Cuban means ‘a beautiful, sensual woman.’
Women
, in your case. See? It’s not that my amigo can’t remember names.” Explained this to three German nurses who had intercepted them after
No Más
was illegally anchored off Dog Beach, where their dinghy was tied—an Avon inflatable that had rocketed them to shore and was visible from their table near the tiki bar.
Next, a question about the shortstop’s shoes. “Baseball spikes, we call them,” Tomlinson explained. He signaled the bartender, indicated their empty pitcher, and called, “I think we’re prepared to sail again.”
Figgy disappeared after that with one of the Cercis who was infatuated with the rhythm of his name:
Figueroa Casanova
. Kept repeating it like lyrics to a song, which was okay. It warmed the long silences at a table where only Tomlinson spoke English.
Twenty minutes later, Figgy and Cerci reappeared from somewhere beneath the deck, both a little woozy.
“Mission accomplished,” Tomlinson whispered. “Now, let’s hit the dinghy and get under way.”
Figueroa tapped his wrist as if he owned a watch. “You promised two hours. It is hardly dark yet. Oh”—he stole a look under the table—“thanks, my brother. Next time, I carry that with me.”
The briefcase, he meant. He’d insisted they bring the thing, a last-minute fire drill that had tumbled Tomlinson into the water, but this was not the first time he’d used soggy bills to buy drinks.
On Thomas Street, they popped into Blue
putas
who rob? Or these island women, they exhaust a man’s
pinga
?”
“Count on it,” Tomlinson replied. “It’s happened to better sailors than us. That’s why I know when to pull anchor and haul ass to saner harbors.” He stood to ready the mainsail. The shipping channel, busy with traffic and sunset pirate vessels, required an engine. Once clear of Kingfish Shoals, however, they would be free if there was wind . . . But, damn it, there was no wind. The low-pressure system had left a vacuum of calm that would make them a puppet of the Gulf Stream . . . until morning at least, according to the VHF under the helm, which he knelt to turn louder.
“But they’re callin’ your name, brother.”
“Yeah? Think back to your Greek tragedies—‘Beware the Sirens on the rocks’ and all that. Odysseus dropped anchor and Circe, plus some other witch goddesses, drugged him, screwed the man blind, and kept him and his shipmates captives for a year.”
Figueroa’s eyes were fixed on Mallory Square. “They’re witches?”
“Circe? Hell, yeah. Spellbinders, they all are.”
“If Circe’s the one I’m looking at, sometimes a year don’t seem so long.”
Tomlinson replied, “Hush a minute,” and listened to NOAA weather’s monotone: seas outside the reef three feet or less until morning, when a high-pressure band increases wind slightly to . . .
Figgy didn’t attempt to translate those foreign words. Still waving at the eager gringas, he endured a sense of loss unknown since his first month in Havana’s prison psychiatric ward. “Brother, isn’t there some way?”
Tomlinson muttered, “Damn. Apparently not,” and switched off the VHF.
Figgy suggested, “How about I swim to shore? Allow me, oh . . . just two hours. Shine a light and I will swim back. I don’t doubt what you say about those witches, but I have never experienced this tragedy you fear.”
Tomlinson slouched behind the wheel. “The weather gods usually ignore NOAA’s doom-and-gloom bullshit when
No Más
goes to sea. Apparently, my vibe’s out of kilter.” He looked at the horizon, a turquoise glaze to Cuba, then at his new shipmate. “Mind rolling a skinny—my Spanish seems to be fading.” Then: “What was that last thing you said?”
• • •
O VER MARGARITAS at Louie’s Backyard, Tomlinson had to lie. “
Cerci
in Cuban means ‘a beautiful, sensual woman.’
Women
, in your case. See? It’s not that my amigo can’t remember names.” Explained this to three German nurses who had intercepted them after
No Más
was illegally anchored off Dog Beach, where their dinghy was tied—an Avon inflatable that had rocketed them to shore and was visible from their table near the tiki bar.
Next, a question about the shortstop’s shoes. “Baseball spikes, we call them,” Tomlinson explained. He signaled the bartender, indicated their empty pitcher, and called, “I think we’re prepared to sail again.”
Figgy disappeared after that with one of the Cercis who was infatuated with the rhythm of his name:
Figueroa Casanova
. Kept repeating it like lyrics to a song, which was okay. It warmed the long silences at a table where only Tomlinson spoke English.
Twenty minutes later, Figgy and Cerci reappeared from somewhere beneath the deck, both a little woozy.
“Mission accomplished,” Tomlinson whispered. “Now, let’s hit the dinghy and get under way.”
Figueroa tapped his wrist as if he owned a watch. “You promised two hours. It is hardly dark yet. Oh”—he stole a look under the table—“thanks, my brother. Next time, I carry that with me.”
The briefcase, he meant. He’d insisted they bring the thing, a last-minute fire drill that had tumbled Tomlinson into the water, but this was not the first time he’d used soggy bills to buy drinks.
On Thomas Street, they popped into Blue
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