Havana Ocean Race

Havana, May 10, 2014

Britain’s Blake Aldridge won. Just a few hundred meters from where he hits the water in perfect style, I am sitting in a small boat together with a Cuban family I have never met before. I am holding a ham and cheese sandwich in my left hand and a cold beer in the other. I did not know then what was about to happen two hours later.

The week before, one Tuesday afternoon, I’m on my way out to the Havana windsurfing club after work. Miguel, a skilled windsurfer I have met a few times before, is there. The club is a ten minute drive west of Miramar where we live. As with so many things in Cuba, the premises insist to serve its users despite decades of no maintenance and the windsurfing gear looks like it will break any moment. The joy of windsurfing however, is not to be mistaken.

Havana Ocean Race

The steady, Eastern wind, “la brisa”, is picking up and the guys get whatever gear they have out of the ramshackle storage building. I bet they have fixed equipment in ways I would never have thought of. Like so many Cubans; little money but with lots of enthusiasm and imagination. “Resolvemos” – we will solve it.

Miguel says that he and some of the other guys will do an ocean race from the club and up to el Morro, the fortress built in the 16th century, on Saturday. They are going to see the first stop in the Red Bull Cliff Diving Tour 2014. The diving tower is the rigged on the edge of the fortress.

“Ok, I answer, sounds cool.” I have done a few runs along the coast a before, but not all the way up to el Morro. It is about 17 km . It is gonna be nice.

Fly fish and strong winds

Saturday arrives. I check the weather forecast. Stable winds and sunny. I take my Toyota Landcruiser and drive from my house at 11 o’clock. The streets are peaceful as usual. I see that the wind begins to pick up a little, first out in the sea, then it gets closer to land.

I park by the club and look for Miguel. Encountering another who is on his way out. – Miguel, have you seen him? I ask. – He is out already, he answers. Ok. I take off the board.

9.3 should be fine today. 130 liters RRD board. Vest, shorty and harness. I’m ready.

On my way out, I notice that I look forward to seeing flying fish. That’s pretty nice. Remember a story I heard from Gran Canaria during a world-cup regatta there many years ago. A guy in full speed was very unlucky. Flying fish, both there and here in Cuba, typically fly up next to the board, lie down in a hovering position and fly over the board before diving into the water again. It’s a nice sight. Anyway, this guy got a flying fish into his ankle. It got stuck. He had to go ashore and pull it out. Got infections and many weeks of rehabilitation.

Havana and the Strait of Florida

Today they behave normally. Eight, ten glistening small fish with wings as big as the body take off underwater and shoot out of the water crust like small rockets. They fly next to me for a few seconds before falling off like fighter jets in attack position, over the board and plunging into the water again.

I sail up wind, approximately straight towards Florida. If I had a radio, I would have heard Radio Key West with car and cinema commercials and a convincing, friendly American advertising voice. We often heard it driving east along the coast.

After half an hour of sailing, the wind increases in strength. Approaching 11-12 m/s. It’s a bit much for 9.3, but it’s fine. Then it gains further strength and I am getting fairly over rigged. Normally I would call it and return home, but think it would have been cool to sail all the way up and along the Malecon, so I continue.

The Havana Conference 1946

I am passing Hotel Nacional. I can feel the blisters in my hands. One of history’s most important mafia meetings, The Havana Conference, was held here in 1946. The meeting between the American mafia and Cosa Nostra leaders in Havana was to discuss mafia policy, rules and business. The organizer was Charles “Lucky” Luciano. The cover story was supposedly that they were going to a gala dinner with Frank Sinatra as the main attraction.

Mafia style

Sinatra himself flew from the United States with the cousins ​​of Al Capone, Charlie, Rocco and Joseph Fischetti. If you read the story of the meeting, it appears as a film script. At the meeting, Luciano aimed to once again be recognized as “the boss of all bosses”. In addition, he humiliated two rival families by imposing on them a handshake of agreement and friendship in the presence of all. The new Hotel Flamingo in Las Vegas (the opening was a failure because the planes from L.A. were grounded because of bad weather that day) and the drug trade in the United States were also difficult discussion points for the men with their hats, wide gaits and bushy eyebrows. They must have been angry with each other. An execution order was issued.

Sinatra’s acquaintances with the mob have been widely discussed. Whether he knew the real reason he was invited to Havana that day is uncertain.

My hands hurt trying to hold on to the boom as the wind is pulling my sail harder. The sail is a bit out of tune and the fin is too big. Whatever…

– Amigo!

I can see the diving tower. I dream about being lucky when I arrive. That I can jump in a boat and be served something to bite into. A cold beer maybe.

Almost there. I see lots of small boats gathered at the Morro and approach the diving tower. Shit. It’s a big tower. 27 meters I find out later.

So, what happens? I approach the boats, and there it comes: – Amigo! Ven aqui! Da le! says the man, waiving his hand for me to get on board. – Hola! I shout back and greet politely. I attach the sail to the side of the boat and jump on board. – Quires un san’wich? he asks, swallowing in part the “n”, in Cuban Spanish. – Una cerveza?

And there I sit. Blisters in my hands and more tired than I thought I should be. A cheese and ham sandwich in one hand and a cold beer in the other. I greet the two children and his wife. Lots of people on the water. I sit there for a while and chat. In the back of my head I know that the wind will probably get weak in the afternoon. I am looking down the coast towards the club where I came from. I really do not want to paddle all the way back.

– Tengo que irme, I say after a while. Explains that I have to go while it’s still windy. – Suerte! says the friendly family and smiles warmly. Mil gracias! I say and shake the man’s hand.

People in the water

When you dive, or snorkel for that matter, out in the sea, it is common to have a boat marked with a flag. Not that I sail that fast, but the fin is still quite long and quite sharp. At 20-25 knots it can do great damage if it hits someone.

After a couple of years in Cuba, I had learned how Cubans use whatever they have at hand to get things done. “Resolver” – ​​to solve – as they often said. It is wonderful, lots of home made solutions everywhere. Recycled and environmentally friendly, even if that is not the purpose. Condoms attached to the fish floats used as sails to get the fishing hook out for example. Or a plastic bag on top of the snorkel to make yourself visible for boats. Works just fine.

But not all snorkelers used plastic bags and there were a couple of times I nearly hit them while windsurfing. I got a little angry on their behalf. After all, despite economic hardship, some Cubans do have pleasure boats off Havana and for them it is impossible to see these snorkelers.

The drowning

On my way from the surprise lunch down to the sailing club, I first sail past, precisely, a guy without a plastic bag on the snorkel. Trying to shout but he does not hear me. I sail on. I pass the Miramar area and the wind drops almost completely. Then I see another snorkeler some distance away. I stay focused knowing that the wind may disappear completely. Wait, was that actually a snorkler?

Wasn’t he lying too still to snorkel? Can’t remember I saw his feet moving. And, did I really see the snorkel? I look back, trying to see, but the the sun reflection in the water makes it difficult. I’m already a couple of hundred yards down wind.

It was a difficult situation. If that was what I feared it was, it could be a matter of seconds if his life was to be saved. I realized that the guy in the water had drowned, or was close to being dead. If I was to go up wind in the light wind, it would take too long, I calculated. Also, how could I possibly save him? It is impossible to do CPR on a windsurfing board.

Help!

One of the other guys from the sailing club was approaching the guy. I shouted that he had to check the person who was in the water. I shouted as loud as I could, I screamed. He got off the board and swam over to the person. – Esta muerto!, he shouted. – Estas seguro?, I called back. – Si! – Stay there! Voy a llamar a los socorristas!, I shouted back.

I was not that far from land. A couple of smaller boats moored ashore and some young people sat on a pier. I decided that it would be faster to get them out with a boat and more likely to get first aid started that way.

I knew the emergency number for the sea rescue service and shouted all I could that they had to call. Waving my arms and screaming. It could be possible to get him alive as long as they came quickly, I hoped. They hesitated a little, but after what felt like a very long time, they moved and called the sea rescue.

The feeling of having done nothing, or enough, hit me. But I couldn’t do more.

No one else could either. I saw no ambulance on the beach, no one rushing off to save a person’s life. It was too late.

I have often wondered if I could have done something different. Instinct said I should have tried to pull him up on the board. But I know it would never work. I would have lost valuable time. It would be headless.

Cover image: Silver winner Jonathan Paredes. Photographer: Camilo Rozo / Red Bull Content Pool Editorial Use.