It was early May in New ­England, filled with sunshine and the promise of budding flowers and green leaves, and my 36-foot sloop, Tazzarin, was ready to go into the ­water in a few weeks. However, my ­spirits felt differently. My sister, Isabel, had passed away suddenly and unexpectedly; it took the wind from my sails. I needed a change. As Ishmael says in Melville’s Moby-Dick, “Whenever I find myself ­growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul … then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

There was only one thing to do. I called my oldest boyhood sailing pal, John Winchester, at his home in Manhattan. I had been contemplating chartering in Cuba for a few years, and was drawn to the country’s promise of natural beauty and maritime history. If John and I were going to go cruising in Cuba, there were two places I had to see.

First was the port town of Trinidad, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and one of the oldest towns in Cuba. Second, I had long been tempted by the lure of the most remote section of the island, the Jardines de la Reina, or Gardens of the Queen. The Jardines de la Reina were named by Christopher Columbus during his second voyage to the New World in 1494. Columbus believed the 75-mile-long archipelago of tropical islands to be the most beautiful he had seen in all his ­voyaging; thus, he named them in honor of his sovereign, Queen Isabella. Today, the islands appear much as they did when Columbus was there. They are uninhabited, remote and boast some of the most pristine coral reefs in the world.

I had high expectations for cruising in Cuba. Would Cuba live up to them? Would I gain more understanding of the region and its residents? The week of ­sailing ahead would reveal the answers.

Working with a broker, we had arranged a bareboat charter of a Lagoon 39 ­catamaran, Pollock, with Dream Yacht Charter out of the company’s Cienfuegos base. Cienfuegos, in the middle of Cuba’s south coast, was the closest major port for our rather spirited itinerary of 250 miles of sailing in a week. The distances and the somewhat more challenging navigation of the offshore islands makes them far less traveled than other parts of Cuba.

John and I arrived in Cienfuegos in the early evening and hopped in one of the iconic classic cars at the airport and located our Airbnb lodgings. We had a two-bedroom rental in a casa particular for the first two nights to allow us to explore the town before setting sail.

RELATED: Sailing Expedition To Cuba

The following day, we awoke to the ­early morning voices of street vendors calling out their wares: bread, fruit, onions and more. Wanting to see more of Cienfuegos, we approached one of the other common forms of transportation for tourists and Cubans — a horse-drawn cart with a friendly driver. We wanted to see outside the city center, so he drove us off to his own neighborhood, ­waving to friends along the way and passing ­vendors peddling or pushing their carts from house to house. Before returning, he dropped us at the Cementerio la Reina, where crypts in the walls hold soldiers and freedom fighters of Cuba’s past wars of independence. Our next stop was an indoor farmers market, where we bought ­pineapples, tomatoes, cucumbers, papayas and other fruits to supplement the provisions our charter company was providing.

Osvaldo, from Dream Yacht, met us aboard the catamaran to run through the boat’s systems. The boat was built in France in 2016, and was in terrific condition. One dilemma was that of the provisions we ordered, a number of items were not aboard. This is par for the course in Cuba, where weeks or months can pass with no availability for some items. After stowing our gear and groceries, John and I walked to the southern tip of Cienfuegos, known as Punta Gorda, and ate a delicious fish dinner at the Pelicano paladar (a privately run restaurant).

We were up before dawn. The charter company, at our request, had scheduled the Guarda Frontera to meet aboard the boat at 0600. The first and last step in leaving or entering any Cuban port on the main island is to obtain clearance from the Guarda Frontera, the Cuban coast guard. During each of our four clearances, the officers were always friendly, ­courteous and efficient.

Once done with the formalities, we cast off and headed out. Bahía de Cienfuegos is an enormous pocket bay, opening through a long, narrow channel to the sea. Halfway through the channel, we passed the Castillo de Jagua, a ­commanding ­fortress built in 1738. Just beyond this is the main Guarda Frontera base, perched atop a ­seawall emblazoned with 6-foot-tall, ­multicolored letters reading, “Bienvenidos Cuba Socialista,” a powerful reminder of Cuba’s system of government.

Once done with the formalities, we cast off and headed out. Bahía de Cienfuegos is an enormous pocket bay, opening through a long, narrow channel to the sea. Halfway through the channel, we passed the Castillo de Jagua, a ­commanding ­fortress built in 1738. Just beyond this is the main Guarda Frontera base, perched atop a ­seawall emblazoned with 6-foot-tall, ­multicolored letters reading, “Bienvenidos Cuba Socialista,” a powerful reminder of Cuba’s system of government.

Out on the open sea, it would be 40 miles to Cayo Blanco de Casilda, a small cay roughly halfway to the gardens. A nice easterly had built, and we set main and genoa and sailed ­southeastward. To starboard lay a smooth turquoise sea, while to port the majestic Sierra Escambray range rambled off into the distance, rising more than 3,000 feet in the morning mist.

By midafternoon we sighted Cayo Blanco de Casilda and skirted in behind the cay and dropped anchor. We ­headed ashore to a small float in the shallows and scampered up a winding boardwalk to the rustic “restaurant,” which would be our last bit of civilization. It is a one-man ­operation; the lone cook/bottle washer offered to make us a lobster dinner, and we sat down in the shade with a beer and a mojito. We were the only customers; the island was ours. After a second drink, the meal arrived. It was both beautiful and huge — lobsters, shrimp, ­cucumber ­salad, rice, fresh-cut french fries, ­tomatoes, bread, marinated red peppers, onions and more.

The following morning, we rose ­early for another 40-plus-mile day to make it to Cayo Bretón at the western start of the Jardines de la Reina. It was ­picture-perfect, with blue sky, smooth seas, the breeze a bit north of east and dolphins cavorting in the waves. As we continued southeast, the mainland and the Escambray mountains faded away; soon we were out of sight of land and ­sailing on an ocean to ourselves.

We approached around the western point of Cayo Bretón in the lee of the ­prevailing easterlies and nosed in closer to the white-sand beach as magnificent frigate birds and cormorants swooped ­overhead plucking fish from the sea. With some daylight left, we hopped into the inflatable and explored the islets and ­myriad channels leading to the enormous lagoon that occupies the center of Cayo Bretón. Herons, songbirds and egrets ­ambled and flitted through the mangroves as we discovered the secrets of the lagoon. John and I returned to the boat, got some drinks and lay in the trampoline, enjoying the cooling breeze. We felt away from it all and took in the scenery.

As we pondered our dinner options, a fishing boat approached us in the looming dusk and offered up a couple of huge lobsters, for which we traded a $3 bottle of rum and a few pesos. The fishermen also wanted to trade for our sunglasses, though we limited the deal to lobster and rum only. As we ate lobster with fresh lime, a nearly full moon rose in shimmering ­orange over a calm sea.

The western end of Cayo Bretón is sliced in two by a narrow channel known as the Estero Bretón, which meanders through the mangroves. I had asked about this channel at our charter briefing; it had simply looked too tempting on the charts! They recommended avoiding this alluring estuary unless you had some local knowledge, although they did not forbid us from the area. With morning, the temptation had grown, and we headed for the entrance of Estero Bretón aboard Pollock, watching the depth sounder on the way. It felt a tad surreal to be wending through the passage; however, entrance depths remained sufficient for our 4-foot draft. Once inside, the bottom fell away to over 30 feet in places. The exit at the northern end proved shoal, leaving little more than a foot under the keel.

RELATED: New Rules for Sailing to Cuba

The wind built to 20 knots as we turned eastward to head for Cayos Cuervo some 20 miles distant, one of the best-formed circular coral atolls in the Caribbean. The narrow entrance to the lagoon is marked to port by a day marker at the end of a curving sandbar. Once inside, all is calm, and an almost continuous circle of lush islands encircles the boat. We nestled into the southeast corner; a few government shrimp boats used the northwest portion of the large lagoon. All was well, so with mask, snorkel and fins I swam into the shallows to explore. Brilliant sunlight and clear water over eelgrass revealed dozens of dazzling orange starfish, stiff pen shells, crabs and mollusks.

Morning brought brilliant sun and a ­favorable breeze as we left the ­idyllic ­lagoon along with several of the ­shrimpers. We laid a course for Cayos de las Doce Leguas. We passed southward through the Canal Boca Grande to the Caribbean Sea on the south side of the ­islands. In the pass, depths were 20 feet, yet every feature of the bottom could be easily seen in the crystal waters.

We approached Cayo Grande through a break in the barrier reef and turned eastward, slowly working in next to the back side of the coral. John stood on the bow keeping a watch for coral heads as we nosed in, finally dropping the anchor in about 7 feet. The afternoon lunch stop was picked for proximity to the ­barrier reef. We launched the inflatable and ­motored to the reef and anchored the dinghy. I dropped into the water and was amazed by the nearly 100-foot visibility! Along the reef, schools of yellow French grunts and vibrant blue tangs swarmed by while ­elegant French angelfish, stoplight parrotfish and bluehead wrasses swam among beautiful live corals and purple sea fans waving in the gentle surf. The sea was alive. Listening ­underwater, I heard the faint crackle of crustaceans and the ­gnawing of fish on ­coral filtering through the sea. Tarpon and barracuda circled slowly beyond the reef’s edge. Ominous southern stingrays glided past and buried themselves in sand, with just their eyes and tails visible. From under the bottom edge of the reef, an 8-foot nurse shark awoke from its resting place and meandered toward me for a look.

After snorkeling, we headed northwest to Cayos Cinco Balas, again ­approaching from the ocean side through a break in the barrier. We anchored in shallow ­water in the lee of Cayo Alcatracito, a small cay offering protection from the prevailing ­easterlies. John and I took the inflatable in to the beach and walked the white sand, with not a soul in sight. The only tracks were those of island lizards. Herons and great egrets stalked in the shallows while Wilson’s plovers skittered along the sand in front of us.

It was our last night in the remoteness of the Jardines de la Reina. The sky was a perfectly clear dark black as the moon rose in a star-filled sky. The only hint of life was the distant flash of the lighthouse on Cayo Bretón to the west. Our time in these islands did not disappoint, and while it was hard to leave, I was eager to visit the other destination on my Cuba wish list — the historic town of Trinidad.

We made an early start to cover the 50 miles to Trinidad. The town ­itself is a couple of miles inland on a hillside below the majestic Sierra Escambray; only rooftops and bell ­towers are ­visible from the sea. The ­actual port and ­harbor are known as Casilda, which ­comprises a large bay with a small commercial ­waterfront. On the western side is a small lagoon, which we entered through a narrow winding channel in the mangroves, dropping anchor just off the small, sleepy marina. We got into a 1950s American car for a ride around the bay to Trinidad. Along the way, we passed a ­billboard with Fidel Castro’s image and the slogan patria o muerte, meaning “­fatherland or death.”

The driver dropped us on a narrow street of river cobblestones lined with pastel-­colored homes and busy with people. The beauty of this charming UNESCO World Heritage Site is stunning; you truly feel as if you have stepped back in time a couple of centuries. Established in 1514, Trinidad is where Spanish conquistador Cortés sourced his crew for his voyage west to ­conquer Mexico. Later, the town’s wealth grew as a port for huge sugar plantations in the 1700s. But, by 1850, this trade had moved to other areas. Trinidad stood still.

Live Cuban music drifted through the air as we entered the main plaza. We were drawn to the bell tower of the Museo de Historia Municipal, housed in a once grandiose mansion off the plaza. From the top of the wooden staircase, the bell tower offered spectacular views across the red-tile-roofed city. Back on street level, we headed off on foot through some of the barrios. Men played soccer in the streets, grandparents watched children, neighbors played dominoes, horses carried riders, and birds in wicker cages hung outside the colorful wooden doorways or next to the fanciful ironwork grilles around windows.

Back in the center, we found a ­paladar on the roof of a home. A five-person ­local band played guitar, drums, trumpet, saxophone and castanets as the singer filled the air with music. The sun ­slowly dropped into the distant reaches of the Sierra Escambray while we ate fresh ­snapper. As the moon rose, the waiters and band gathered at the roof’s edge facing the bay to watch the fishing fleet head out into the night. During their breaks, we talked with the band about music, from Cuban singer and bandleader Benny Moré to American jazz musician John Coltrane. It was an evening of perfection.

The following morning, we left Trinidad behind and sailed close to the coast, back westward toward Cienfuegos. The low coral shore ran mostly straight, occasionally indented with a cove or ­river and accompanying village, all with the ­hazy blue of the mountains beyond.

We arrived back in Cienfuegos in the early evening and tied up at the ­marina. On the flight back to New England, I ­realized that in a week of cruising the Jardines de la Reina, we had only seen one other sailboat! I recalled another Melville quote from Moby-Dick and realized I had something else in common with Ishmael: “I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote.” Cuba’s Gardens of the Queen was just what I needed.

Bill is a lifelong sailor who prefers remote ­places. His travels have taken him from the iceberg-strewn waters of northern Labrador to the Caribbean and across the Atlantic. Today much of his sailing is on his 36-foot sloop Tazzarin. He is a member of the Cruising Club of America and a fellow of the Explorers Club.

Editor’s note: The author embarked on this trip during the time that the travel ­restrictions for Americans to Cuba were somewhat loosened. If you are interested in Cuba travel, be sure to visit the State Department’s website (travel.state.gov) for the most current information.

The post Sailing Cuba’s Jardines de la Reina appeared first on Cruising World.

“So, what do you guys want to listen to?” asked our new friend, Cuban artist Solé.

“I don’t know, maybe something local?” replied Mark.

“How about Simply Red?” was Solé’s reply. “Do you guys like Simply Red?”

This might be the last thing I expected him to say, but at this point, nothing really could surprise me. And so he popped in a Simply Red CD while the group of us sat around the living room, sipping strong Cuban coffee in the tiny Havana apartment he shared with his wife, Mary, and her family. All I could do was look around me and smile at the unexpectedness of it all. We were midway through our time in the island nation during the 2017 Cruising World Expedition and Rally to Cuba, sponsored by Fountaine Pajot, and from the very beginning, this country had surprised me in so many ways.

The brainchild of my friend and colleague David Gillespie, the rally came to fruition in late March 2017 after a year of legwork and planning. In all, 49 private sailboats and 10 chartered sailboats met up at Stock Island Marina in Key West, Florida, to begin the adventure. Our home for the week was Quince Amor, a chartered Fountaine Pajot Saba 50 catamaran, and our cast of characters included myself and my husband, Green; David and his wife, Sandy; and photographer and troublemaker Jon Whittle. Also aboard the five-cabin cat were two brokers from Atlantic Cruising Yachts, the largest North American dealer for Fountaine Pajot catamarans: Frank McCarthy and his wife, Janet, and Joe Buxton and his wife, Mary. Editor-in-chief Mark Pillsbury rounded out team Cruising World aboard Tranquility Base, a beautiful Fountaine Pajot Ipanema 58 also participating in the rally.

While sailing to Cuba and traveling in the country certainly was something I wanted to experience as part of my role as a Cruising World editor, visiting the island held a strong personal note as well. With both Green and me growing up in South Florida and around so much Cuban culture, we have been intrigued by Cuba for a very long time. Politics and regulations being what they are, the island nation has always been just out of our reach, merely adding to the mystique. When David started putting the plans in motion to work with a charter company and make this rally a reality, I jumped at the chance to participate. Although things had been getting easier for cruisers to take their own boats to Cuba, there was still plenty of red tape, which made going with a rally — and letting someone else deal with the paperwork — seem like an ideal way to finally do the trip. For the latest Cuba visitor regulations see Cuba Rules.

Green, David, Sandy and I headed to Key West on Tuesday, March 28, to arrive well ahead of the planned March 30 departure, and to have time to provision, attend the captains’ briefing and meet some of the other crews. Although we work for the same company, albeit in different states, I had never met Jon, the photographer who was joining us for the trip. When he sent me an email asking if it would be OK if he arrived on Wednesday with a bottle of good rum to share, I knew that we would all get along famously.

On a chart, the route to Havana looks pretty straight­forward: Sail south from Key West for about 90 miles, and presto. While this is more or less technically true, in reality, there is the Gulf Stream and plenty of shipping traffic to keep those at the helm on their toes. In order to not completely inundate the customs officials on the other end with nearly 60 boats arriving in short order, the rally fleet departed Stock Island Marina in three waves. Quince Amor was part of the last group, with a 1900 start time, and we couldn’t wait to get off the dock. Once underway, we were treated to one of Key West’s famous sunsets, and spirits were high aboard.

The Quince Amor crew was fairly well divided between experienced sailors and first-timers. Green was our designated captain and devised a watch schedule that paired the saltier crewmembers with those less experienced. Our crossing started out easy enough, but as the moonless night went on, the wind increased to about 20 or so knots with confused seas. A Saba 50 is a big boat, and a far cry from the classic ketch I’m used to sailing. Helming from the flybridge while barreling along through the Gulf Stream in the dark of night was quite the experience. Throw in some ship traffic and boat systems that we were all still getting used to (not to mention a few seasick crewmembers), and there were some tense moments. Needless to say, we were all happy for daylight and our first sight of Cuba’s coastline.

On the approach to the Marina Hemingway entrance, we caught up with some other rally boats (so much for not inundating the officials) and queued up outside the channel, where a red powerboat zoomed up to each boat to tell them when it was their turn to head in. The entrance itself is a bit tricky, with a reef on either side of the channel, then a sharp turn to port to land on the customs dock. Clearing into Cuba was a simple affair, and included a round of visitors — customs and agriculture officials, a doctor and drug-sniffing dogs — all of whom were very polite.

Afterward, we each had our picture taken and passport stamped (if we wanted). As I walked back to the boat from the customs office, I noticed an odd little statue. A figure of an animal that resembled a gopher or a giant guinea pig stood about 3 feet high right on the seawall. I climbed back aboard and mentioned it to Jon, who was next for his passport stamping. Jon might not know more Spanish than I do, but he’s definitely more confident, so he had no trouble asking someone on the dock about the significance of the statue. “Ahhh … ratón. It’s a very important animal here in Cuba, and very good to eat,” was apparently the reply. Jon relayed this surprising answer to me, and at first I didn’t believe him (thinking his translation might be off). But after reading in my guidebook a bit, I learned that, indeed, a large rodent, technically a hutia, was once hunted for food. Or the dock guy might have been messing with us.

Marina Hemingway is huge and unlike any marina I’ve been to before. Instead of docks and slips, boats side-tie along four canals. For the most part, each dock space has electricity and water, though the conditions of the concrete docks vary, so we heeded advice and used plenty of fenders. Once we secured Quince Amor and raised our Cuban courtesy flag, it hit me that we were actually in Cuba.

When I think of Cuba, certain images tend to come immediately to mind: rum and cigars, Che and Fidel, crumbling old Havana and, of course, the classic cars, all with tunes from the Buena Vista Social Club playing in the background. Cliché, I know. I had assumed before we arrived that we’d probably see all of these things, but I wasn’t prepared for how much. I’d thought that the old American cars would be few and far between, so I was floored when I spotted one zooming by right after we’d tied up. Turns out, they are everywhere, in all their pieced-together, noxious diesel-fumed glory (most of the original gas engines have long since been replaced).

It was already late in the day, and we were all eager to get off the boat to explore and hopefully find dinner. Our rally organizers had suggested that crews eat aboard their boats that first night, but we were feeling adventurous, and David said he knew of a small place nearby that would be perfect. Marina Hemingway is outside of Havana proper and within walking distance of a neighborhood called Jaimanitas. I have an absolute love of Cuban cuisine, so local fare was very much on my mind. After a few wrong turns, David thought he found the right place, though there was no longer a restaurant there. We walked for a few more blocks, then came across a small paladar that looked promising. The streets we were wandering down weren’t the type that were frequented by tourists, and the neighborhood restaurant we stopped at was really nothing more than maybe six tables and a counter, with locals coming in and out. Green, David, Sandy, Jon and I found a table and ordered Cristal, a Cuban beer. The meal was simple and affordable, and perfect for our first night in Cuba. After we had been there for a little while, a man walked in with a motorcycle helmet under his arm, and he clearly looked like he was picking up some dinner on his way home after a long day at work. Jon, who isn’t shy at all and will talk to anyone, struck up a conversation and invited him to sit with us while he waited for his food. He introduced himself as Octavio Cesar. He was eager to speak English with us, and was enthusiastic to chat with Americans about rock-and-roll. After a few minutes, he said, “You know Bon Jovi, right? Well, I met him, right here last year!” To prove his point, he took out his cellphone to show us some photos, and yes, there he was, with Bon Jovi. Unexpected indeed.

For our first full day on the island, everyone participated in a welcome-to-Havana tour. Organizers broke up rally crews into seven groups, each of which left the marina aboard modern, comfortable buses. A guide on the bus pointed out the sights along the way, including the Hotel Nacional de Cuba and the U.S. Embassy. Once we arrived in Havana, we met with another guide and took a walking tour of the old city. So much of Havana was exactly like I expected — from photos I knew that many buildings would be in disrepair, if not outright crumbling down, but what I didn’t expect was the art, everywhere. Statues, murals, sculptures, music, quotes from José Martí — you name it. Art, be it visual or performing or the written word, is a big deal in Cuba (although art supplies, such as quality paints and paper, are scarce).

A highlight of our time in Havana was meeting Solé, an artist whom David had befriended on a previous trip. We found his colorful open-air studio tucked on a side street. With an easy smile and a look that would fit right in on a California beach, Solé was happy to show us around his shop and chat about his art. His pieces ranged from portraits of Che Guevara and Bob Marley to Cuban flora and fauna.

The next day was the Cruising World Parade of Boats into Havana harbor, which was something that all rally boats had to participate in because it was one of the event’s conditions for legal travel to Cuba. We lucked out with the weather — light wind and a perfectly sunny sky. I’ll admit that I’ve been in boat parades before (usually the Christmas variety), and was a bit lukewarm at the thought of spending the day on the water when we could have been exploring. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Organizing 60 boats to leave the marina, check out with customs, line up in a specific order and then cruise down the coast to enter Havana harbor (then do all that in reverse) must have taken someone hours to orchestrate. It all went off surprisingly well, with the most challenging part being lining up in order. Commodore Escrich, of the Hemingway International Yacht Club, led the parade on his Sea Ray, and each boat was decorated with as many flags as it could fly. I underestimated how cool it would be to take in Havana from the water as we motored the length of the Malecón — the colonial buildings, the classic cars going by, the distinctive Russian embassy and people lining the shore to watch the boats. But the best, most goose-bump-raising part of the parade happened as we approached El Morro castle and our turn into Havana’s harbor — a lone Cuban musician playing The Star-Spangled Banner on his trumpet as we all passed by. The return trip to the marina turned out to be a fantastic downwind sail, with many of the boats popping their kites for the run. It truly was a beautiful day in all respects.

That night was the first of two rally parties, and this one was held at the yacht club. After a welcome from the commodore and some prize giving, the crowd enjoyed a Cuban pig roast and plenty of rum. One notable prize —the Comeback Award — went to Shenanigan, a Gulfstar ketch captained by Jennifer Lamar and Janet Ellis. On their way to Key West from Charleston, South Carolina, the pair was hit with some nasty weather, and the mizzen boom broke. Fortunately, the replacement arrived in Key West just before Shenanigan was about to push off for the rally.

Due to the red tape involved in coming and going into Cuban ports, Cuba is much easier to tour by land, especially if you have time constraints. Over the next three days, there were a variety of tours and activities that rally participants could choose from, including an in-depth look at the Cuban revolution, a visit to a coffee plantation and salsa-dancing instruction, in addition to further exploration of Havana.

After our initial day in the capital, the crew of Quince Amor couldn’t wait to get back there. Travel within Cuba is an adventure in itself, especially when you catch a ride in one of the many classic cars turned taxis. Our driver that morning was surprisingly outspoken about, well, everything. (His opinion of the Castros and all politicians? They’re bad. Although he used much, much more colorful language.) His car had been in his family for nearly 60 years, and he kept it in better condition than the majority of the “Yank tanks” that we saw on the road.

First order of business in Havana? Finding lunch, which we did at a great spot we stumbled upon. While the ropa vieja was tasty and the beer nice and cold, the highlight of the meal was the private concert from a trio of musicians playing classic Cuban tunes with guitars and maracas.

Having no use of our cellphones for the week meant navigating the streets of Havana the old-fashioned way — with a map and a guidebook and plans to meet at specific places at certain times. Honestly, taking a tech break was refreshing, and getting lost in Havana can yield sweet surprises. There is nothing quite like wandering until some music lures you in, whether it’s on a street corner or in a bar, or coming across yet another cool art gallery. The temperatures outside truly rivaled those on the surface of the sun, so finding respite in an icy mojito or two could be considered therapeutic.

There isn’t much in the way of shopping in Havana, and our planned souvenirs leaned heavily toward rum and art. Later in the day, we all headed back to Solé’s studio, where I bought a lovely painting of a hummingbird. The big group of us, now including Solé and his wife, Mary, decided to make an evening of it and had a fine dinner in town followed by dancing to a live salsa band. Solé and Mary then invited all of us back to their apartment for coffee, an unexpected treat. In any other city, the walk there through a labyrinth of dark alleys would likely have raised some internal red flags, but not here. Each of us at some point on the trip had remarked how surprisingly safe we felt wandering Havana.

Seated around the small, tidy living room, we chatted about our families as best we could given our language barriers. Mary, a photographer, was excited to show Jon her equipment and use his much more modern Canon. The coffee was strong and delicious (maybe not the best decision at 11 p.m., but whatever), the company good and the music, well, the Simply Red tunes were a throwback for sure.

It’s hard to get a feel for all of Cuba if you only stay in Havana, so Jon, Green and I were glad to have the opportunity to head out of town on the rally’s trip to Viñales. This small town was a two-and-a-half-hour drive west from the marina. Once outside of Havana’s sprawl, the scenery rapidly changes to a much more rural landscape. While I had a notion of what I thought Havana would be like, I had no idea what to expect in any other part of the country. The only word to describe the Viñales valley is spectacular: mountainous and dotted with dramatic steep-sided limestone hills called mogotes, and the sweet smell of tobacco, the region’s dominant crop, permeates the air. We visited the impressive, if strange, Mural de la Prehistoria, a 400-foot-long painting on the side of a mogote that is supposed to illustrate evolution. After an extraordinarily sweaty hike, the air-conditioned bus felt amazing. Better yet, our tour guides candidly talked with us about everyday life in Cuba, and were happy to answer any of our questions. I was surprised that no subject was off limits. We learned about the education system, and how the dual currencies work (see “Money Talks,” at the end of this story) and have changed the economy. They told us about the types of jobs Cubans want (anything with the potential to work with visitors and earn convertible pesos) and spoke of travel, religion, politics — pretty much everything.

Lunch this day was easily the best meal we had in Cuba. We ate at an organic farm named Casa de Confianza that served direct field-to-table fare, family style. The dishes were abundant and delicious: veggies, pork, chicken, seafood, rice, beans. The signature drink — a healthier take on a piña colada — was served with a bottle of rum on the table for guests to spike to taste.

On our final day in Cuba we paid a visit to Havana’s Museum of the Revolution. The imposing building was once the presidential residence but now provides an interesting (albeit one-sided) education of the Cuban revolution. Afterward, sounds from a fantastic band pulled us into another cafe for more mojitos. It was the perfect cap for the afternoon, since we needed to be back at the marina in time for the last rally party.

The rally fleet was scheduled to head out the next day, but due to a weather report that warned of building northerly winds, several crews planned to leave that evening. The Quince Amor crew debated leaving later that night, but decided that an early morning departure would be fine. The closing party was held on the marina grounds and featured a sit-down dinner under the starry night and live music, a special way to close out an incredible time.

Under still dark skies, it was with a heavy dose of reluctance that we cast off for home. In the end, Quince Amor‘s journey back to Key West was as benign as the voyage there was boisterous. Dolphins accompanied us for a portion of the way, and the guys even went for an ocean swim. All too soon we were back where we started, but now with old friendships deepened, new ones formed and memories galore. Summing it up would require too many superlatives, so I’ll leave it at this: Cuba blew my mind, and my expectations. And I barely scratched the surface.

Jennifer Brett is CW’s senior editor.

Money Talks

One of Cuba’s more unique features, and a source of bafflement for visitors, is its two-currency economy. The Cuban peso (CUP) is the national currency of Cuba and what most state workers are paid their wages in. The Cuban convertible peso (CUC) has a value that is pegged to the U.S. dollar and is worth about 25 times more than the CUP. Cash is king in Cuba (credit and debit cards issued from American banks don’t work), so luckily, it doesn’t take long to get the hang of it. Before leaving the United States, we exchanged dollars for euros, which have a higher exchange rate for CUCs, and then bought our CUCs when we arrived. Most of the things you’ll spend money on are priced in CUCs (restaurants, taxis, dockage), while basics, such as street food, produce and coffee stands, are priced in CUPs. Some stores accept both currencies and list two prices. Just be sure you’re using the correct bills or coins.

The post Sailing Expedition To Cuba appeared first on Cruising World.

The noise was so ferocious,” Malcolm said, “and the lightning was so incessant, you could only see the negative image, only black and white.” Across the table, Fred shook his head at the memory. “I just kept asking, ‘Why does it take so long to die?’”

“We were right there when that thing was made,” said Malcolm, pounding his fist on the table. “It was an imperfect no-account storm that formed perfectly, tightly around us.”

They talked like the survivors they were, still awed at the discovery of their own resources, and of their boundless good fortune.

They were half of the four-man crew of Bowditch, a 42-foot steel ketch out of Manchester-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts, that was bound for the Bahamas in the final months of 1978. The “thing being made” was Hurricane Kendra. It was the storm that rendered them shipwreck survivors, the tempest that almost killed them all. The one that had them wash up in, of all places, Havana, Cuba.

The final chapter in Bowditch’s life began earlier that fall. The boat’s builder and captain, Frederick Strenz, was 57. A spare, stern man recently retired from his steel company on the North Shore of Massachusetts, he’d sailed much of his life. Longtime friend and legendary boatyard owner Sturge Crocker ­credits Strenz’s eventual triumph over the ocean more to a lucky roll of the dice than skill. “I told him anyone with that kind of luck ought to invest heavily in the lottery.” Strenz’s ultimate dream took on tangible proportions in 1969, with a $50 set of mail-order blueprints from naval architect James Kerr. The aspiring boatbuilder had earned a graduate degree in engineering from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and had at his disposal some of his own ace welders. Gradually, a lattice of steel sheaths and iron crossbeams formed Bowditch’s skeleton, which was fortified with panels of rust-­controlled Corten steel. He was proud of his achievement — “a little too proud,” one crewmember later remembered. “Never worry about this boat,” Strenz said on several ­occasions. “You can haul it up 20 feet and drop it, it’ll withstand that. And when bad weather starts, all you have to do is button up and go below. Just button up and go below.” Manchester, as it was called at the time, is a quiet, quaint New England town built around a small harbor. It has a yacht club with a gazebo for picnics, and a broad, calm basin for a few ­dozen cruising boats and a small flotilla of Herreshoff 12½s. Many of the town’s families settled here early and stayed. Most have some bond with the sea, and as a result, with each other.

That is how Ben Sprague got wind of the voyage. A strapping young buck of 22, Sprague was a competent sailor who’d spent the summer as an instructor at the Manchester Yacht Club. Fresh out of college and without a job, he was ripe for adventure.

Another crewmember, Malcolm Kadra, was on leave from the state police. He was the golden boy of the detective division, with Paul Newman good looks. But the years of being an undercover narc had taken their toll, and one night he walked into the dispatcher’s office, laid down his firearms and confessed he didn’t trust what might happen if he kept them that night. His sailing experience was limited to day trips, but at 39, he found himself bored and restless; he was still in prime physical ­condition, helped by year-round daily ocean dips.

The last crewmember, Dick Stanley, was an experienced ­bluewater sailor. In fact, the year before, he’d sailed Bowditch on the reverse course of the ’78 trip, from the Bahamas to Bermuda, then back to Manchester. He knew the boat and the skipper, and felt he could handle both. But unforeseen business would make Bermuda Stanley’s only port on this passage.

By early October, the crew was assembled and the hurricane season was on the wane. After some artful stowing and last-­minute maintenance, departure day arrived.

There are certain superstitions derived from sea lore that only an ignorant or arrogant man would deny, such as not beginning a voyage on a Friday. But Strenz was not superstitious, either on land or sea, so on Friday the 13th of October, damn superstition, the captain and his crew of three sailed out of Manchester Harbor. Next stop: Bermuda.

According to pilot charts, at that time of year you can expect gale-force breezes every fifth day, so no one was too concerned when the winds picked up on the third day out. As day turned to night, the seas grew, from 5 feet to 10 feet. The crew dropped all sail and started towing warps, trailing lines to slow the boat and maintain direction in the following seas. As they plowed through the Gulf Stream, the gale persisted through the next day and the next night. They settled into a routine, changing watches, bailing and steering.

As dawn broke at the outset of the gale’s third day, Kadra ­relieved Stanley on watch and saw the storm break, the skies clear and the seas settle. By noon they started peeling off their long underwear and enjoyed their first midocean bath. Although the storm had brought some anxious moments — the 8-foot fiberglass sailing dinghy slipped loose of its chocks and nearly slid overboard — they felt a calm exhilaration and confidence ­overriding their fears.

They arrived at St. George’s, Bermuda, by nightfall of the eighth day and tallied their losses: a few broken shackles, a missing taffrail log, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed or replaced with a few days in port. That night at the White Horse Pub, they quenched their thirst with rum and tonics, toasted providence and regained their land legs. Stanley made arrangements to fly back to Massachusetts for his son’s football game the next day. Weathered and able seaman Fred Nataloni was standing by in Manchester to take his place.

Nataloni was a meticulous fellow: short, compact, ­bandylegged. There was a sense of order and caution about him that came from 30 years of piloting planes and boats. It might well have been his instincts for survival that enabled him to keep his job as Massachusetts’ director of marine and recreational vehicles through three different administrations and the explosive politics of Boston’s Beacon Hill.

Kadra’s friendship with Nataloni went back a long way. Once Nataloni arrived on the island, he knew Kadra was hesitant to continue with the journey from Bermuda to the Bahamas, but he took pains to reassure him. “It’s a milk run. It’s all downhill from here,” he said.

It was their friendship, and only their friendship, that persuaded Kadra to continue the voyage. Not that Nataloni didn’t have his own misgivings. Upon his arrival at St. George’s, his sense of order was assaulted by the condition of the boat, by gear and equipment lying helter-skelter. The halyards were in need of resplicing, and the emergency gear consisted mainly of a World War II-era inflatable raft.

On October 25, after five days in port, they hoisted sail. Destination: Man-O-War Cay, Bahamas, an 860-nautical-mile broad reach in open ocean. Earlier that day, before departing, Nataloni took a motor scooter out to the airport. It was his custom before flying or sailing to check the latest satellite weather charts. “There was a system tightening southeast of Bermuda, blowing northeast about 45 knots,” he recalled. “It would disrupt the trades for at least another day, and then on Friday, fair weather would return.” Strenz voted to go ahead as scheduled, assured that by Friday they would be on a direct rhumb line with the Bahamas. Their last task before casting off was to file a float plan with the Coast Guard. They predicted an ETA for Tuesday, October 31, six days away.

The weather charts proved accurate, and on the second day out, the seas calmed, along with Kadra’s stomach, and all the sails were flying. By the fourth day, they felt invincible, succumbing to the euphoria of several days of fair winds and fine weather. Kadra began eating what he was cooking, Sprague’s saltwater hives cleared up and Nataloni forgot he was going to be gone only a week and the time was almost up. And the captain? Strenz was happy to be one day ahead of schedule and flying along, making 170 miles a day. Once Bowditch was secured in Man-O-War Cay, he would fly home, wind down business as the town’s building inspector, pack his clothes and gather his wife, Olga, and return for the winter.

On Saturday, Bowditch‘s crew toasted the trip thus far with Amstel beer and noted, with no real concern, that it was curious to have seen only one ship in the midst of a normally busy shipping lane.

Strenz knew navigation, but Nataloni understood ­weather, and he realized right away that he didn’t like the wispy, high-altitude cirrostratus clouds he saw as he came on deck to relieve Kadra at dawn on Sunday, the fifth day at sea. “I told Mal [Kadra] that was trouble coming from the northeast, but I didn’t say much to anyone else,” he recalled. “We were already at a point of no return.” But the silence lingered that morning over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage and coffee. It would be their last food for several days.

By noontime Sunday, the sun was cast over, the barometer was dropping and the wave heights increased in unpredictable directions. As Kadra wondered how he let this happen again and braced himself mentally, Sprague and Nataloni started securing the ketch. The reaching jib was dropped first and stowed on the foredeck. Strenz ordered a barometer check hourly. By 1600, the genoa and mizzen were doused, the decks cleared and the main reefed down to the lower spreaders. “We were holding course on a reach,” Kadra said. “It was blowing about 35 knots, seas running 15 feet. We didn’t know then how bad it would get.”

With no radio weather band, they couldn’t know they were on a dead collision course with a hurricane, and one of the fastest-forming systems on record in the North Atlantic. Kendra was short-lived, but while still a force, recorded winds in Miami gusted to over 100 mph.

It wasn’t until the winds howled at 45 knots that Strenz agreed to strike all the canvas and continue on by motor alone. “The main was eased out so far to starboard,” Nataloni said, “that one of the battens got hung up in the lower spreaders. Using brute strength, [Kadra] and [Sprague] tore 6 feet of track from the mast getting the mainsail down.”

By then, it was 1900 and dark. The barometer was in free-fall. Strenz was in the cockpit, nervous but stone-faced. “OK, we’re going to two-man teams. You and Mal [Kadra] go below and get your rest,” he said to Nataloni. They weren’t below 15 minutes when they were called back on deck. “Pump the bilge!” Strenz yelled, as churning foam pooped the helm in an almost constant assault.

Anticipating a long night, Sprague and Strenz climbed down the companionway to try to rest. And then it happened.

“What do you think, Fred?” Kadra asked bleakly as he turned to Nataloni at the helm. Nataloni started to utter some half-felt reassurances about “keeping this thing going” when the first knockdown came. Any remaining thoughts of “buttoning up and going below” were doused for good.

Strenz remembers Bowditch “spinning like a compass needle and rolling over like a dead horse, on its starboard side.” Nataloni cut his hand when he was slammed against the binnacle. Kadra clung to the helm, absurdly thinking, I’m hanging on to the wheel and I’m underwater. When am I going to come up? By the time Sprague and Strenz collected themselves below, the boat had righted itself. Strenz, aching with bruised ribs, took the helm; Kadra and Sprague manned the pumps. They later figured the bilges had swallowed 125 gallons of seawater through the vents and hatch openings. Electrical power was gone.

By now, the seas were confused as the low pressure tightened around them. Their attention was focused on the only matter of consequence: keeping the boat from sinking.

“OK, we’ve got a tough night of it,” Strenz screamed above the howling winds, hoping neither the near panic in his voice nor the heart that had twice suffered heart attacks would betray him. “[Sprague], go below and get some crackers and bourbon,” he said. They passed around the bottle, under orders from Strenz, to keep their strength up. No one had yet thought of abandoning ship. And nobody but Nataloni was even aware that the World War II relic of a life raft had washed overboard on the knockdown, leaving only the small sailing dinghy.

Still the winds increased in ferocity; the sea rose up and crashed down with vicious impunity; and the needle bottomed out on the barometer. Thunder enveloped them as rain pounded down from seemingly every direction, making even breathing difficult. It was with the thought of “hiding in the head and locking the door” that Kadra went below, shortly before midnight. His last recollection on board was nibbling on a piece of wrapped cheese he found floating in the diesel oil and seawater lapping around his knees, nauseated by the smell of fuel from the now dying engine.

Suddenly, a mountainous wave came and lifted any further responsibility for Bowditch from her tired crew’s hands. It was the second knockdown. She lay on her side, her mast underwater, the dinghy jammed against the companionway hatch, Kadra trapped below. As Strenz shouted unconvincingly from the helm, “She’ll come up, she’ll come up. We’ve got to swing the wheel around the other way,” Sprague used all his young muscles to free Kadra. As for “coming up,” Kadra knew better as he watched the engine, flooding with water, race out of control. Bowditch‘s fate was sealed.

As Kadra safely emerged from below, rushing water filled the boat quickly, sending her to an ocean grave. There was disagreement later, but Strenz believed that a waterspout had risen up, grabbed his “unsinkable” ship and, in under a minute, sank it.

Only when the hull was almost totally submerged did Bowditch right herself for the last time. Sprague clung to a shroud, thinking, So this is what it’s like to drown. “There was no logical explanation on how we would survive,” he said. “It was just a question of how ugly it would be.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve been in tighter spots than this,” Kadra shouted across to Sprague, snapping him momentarily from his despair, though, of course, he’d never been in any such spot. Meanwhile, the crew searched for one another and the dinghy, hoping not to be pummeled by it in the crushing seaway. Suddenly, Nataloni surfaced from beneath it and saw Strenz. Somehow, incredibly, the four came together around the capsized but still floating dinghy. It was 0010 on Monday when Bowditch disappeared beneath the waves for good. It had taken less than half an hour to bring her down.

Back in Nahant, Massachusetts, Stanley had returned from a Sunday afternoon Patriots game. The CBS Evening News reported the position of a major storm system that was “safely out to sea” in the Atlantic. After dinner, he plotted the course. The spiraling storm called Kendra, he estimated, should be about 60 miles northeast of Bowditch’s position. About that time, Nataloni’s wife, Nancy, called Stanley, uneasy. They decided to contact the U.S. Coast Guard in Boston and Miami, as well as the Bahamian coast guard, pleading futilely for a search party. “We can’t launch an official search party until they are overdue,” was the collective response. The float plan they’d filed wouldn’t make them overdue for two more days. Meanwhile, out at sea, clinging to the overturned dinghy, Kadra took account of the situation: “We were alive. That was a victory in itself. We were together, with not too many injuries, and we mostly still had our strength and determination. I knew it was dire and it would take a long time to die, but I didn’t dwell on it.”

The survival effort in the water began with shaking off their water-laden boots. Inadvertently, a sock came off with Kadra’s boot, and despite the enormity of his discomfort and anxiety, nothing compared to the annoyance of having one sock on and one off. So, in a move he would later regret, off came the other sock. But then he began choking on, of all things, the life jacket! Traitor, he thought, and as he struggled to adjust it, a wave came and lifted it away. Only a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, foul-weather pants and jacket, and a towel he’d thrown over his head prevented him from total exposure.

Nataloni was not so fortunate. Shorts bared almost half his body, and soon, even the tropical current started to freeze his blood. He swallowed a lot of seawater and was vomiting, screaming and urinating freely. Then, he lost control of his bowels. He tried to remember what he’d heard about hypothermia and recalled that the end would be peaceful, even euphoric. Delirious, he let his fingers slip free of the hollow centerboard slot he’d been hanging on to, mumbling to Kadra, “I can’t make it anymore. You know what to tell Nancy and the kids.”

Kadra, pounding his fist on the dinghy, replied, “You hang in there and don’t let go. You go when we go.”

“It was like being in a giant washing machine,” said Sprague. “Our heads were underwater as much as they were above it. The occasional burst of lightning was the only time we actually saw each other.”

At daybreak they started to bail out the dinghy. By midday it was stable enough to hold Kadra. Then, one by one, they climbed aboard and took stock of what they had: They were four 6-foot men in an 8-foot dinghy with two oars and oarlocks, two knives, two life jackets, a hundred-dollar bill and a piece of gum. All the survival gear, emergency rations and water had sunk with Bowditch, and no one would even start worrying about them for a couple more days. Alone in the wide Sargasso Sea, they focused their dwindling energy on keeping their small boat pointed into the waves, alternating positions every hour. Shipping too much water and being tossed out was not an option.

On Tuesday morning, the wind and waves abated and the crew began to plan their survival. Water was the key, but they soon learned that chasing random squalls was a waste of energy. To stave off dehydration in the broiling sun, they poured seawater through their foul-weather jackets during the heat of the day, stopping at 1600 so they would dry off before the chill of nightfall. Headgear was crucial to keep them both warm and cool, and they took turns sharing the two towels they had.

Sleep was impossible, and the effects of the trauma were taking their toll. Nataloni heard music from the now silent sea. He was rethinking his skepticism about the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle when a three-masted vision appeared to him on the horizon. They would all remember imagining the whir of engines, and Kadra could describe an entire city he swore he saw. To keep an edge on reality, they ceremoniously called off the passing hours — and prayed. Kadra asked the question that was present on all their minds, the notion of cannibalism. The conversation was short, the answer unanimous. In the event of death, they would strip the deceased’s body of necessary gear and bury him at sea. The flesh would not be sacrificial, but it would not be ballast either.

Tuesday was also the day of their scheduled ETA in the Bahamas. They had been adrift since just after midnight Sunday, and Nataloni knew it would be at least another 24 hours before a search party was launched. As he calculated the potential for rescue, a shearwater flew in close. Nataloni casually studied the seabird, curious about its midocean existence, but now his interest was survival. He grabbed an oar, but Kadra protested his lust to kill and instead shouted at the bird, “Go for help.” Was it magical thinking that the solitary bird he saved might find them deliverance?

They settled back to the task of scanning the horizon for squalls when a monstrous, magnificent rainbow appeared. ­Instinctively, Kadra shouted, “We’re going to be saved.”

Sprague was the first to spot it, a half-hour later: “It’s ­something white. It’s a bridge, the bridge of a ship!” They all looked, and this time, they all saw it. It was more or less a mile away. “Row!” Strenz yelled to Sprague and Kadra. “Maybe we can close the gap.” Then Sprague spotted a man running on the deck. “Our Father, who art in heaven …” he prayed. Nataloni waved his orange jacket frantically.

On board the Cuban tanker 24 de Febrero, only a young ­seaman had ventured on deck after the storm. En route from Holland to Havana, the 450-foot ship had altered course to avoid the hurricane. Nicholas, experiencing his first trip to sea, was crouched in a stairwell looking for birds. Then he saw it. A solitary shearwater, searching for respite, landed on deck. As he lunged for the bird, it disappeared into a trough. Nicholas followed the bird’s long-winged flight in and over the 15-foot swells when he saw something … orange. It was Nataloni’s life jacket waving frantically in the wind. He waited for another trough to pass, and then he was sure.

The crew of the long-gone Bowditch looked for a sign of ­recognition, a change in the tanker’s speed and direction. Seconds passed like hours. No one spoke. Sprague’s optimism was beginning to fracture when he saw the steel hull begin a gentle turn that would put them in its lee.

It wasn’t until Kadra reached for the rescue line being paid out from the deck 30 feet above that he realized how weak he was. Still, his determination was fierce: “If I had to use my teeth, I would have gotten up that rope ladder.” Only with his feet planted squarely topside did he loosen his death grip. The captain’s voice crackled across the ship’s PA system: “Cuidado, tal vez son locos.” Be careful. They might be crazy. They’d made it. After 41 hours adrift in a boiling sea, they no longer had to be brave or stoic, and so they dissolved in tears and hugs and laughter. But they hadn’t counted on the extreme emotion among the crew of 24 de Febrero. All 31 members were also crying and hugging. There is no nationalism at sea, thought Sprague.

During the two days it took to reach Havana, they were treated royally. The first offering was a quarter cup of fresh ­water, soon followed by gallons more. Four officers vacated their staterooms and carried them to the showers. There they exchanged layers of salt crust for clean, borrowed clothes. The captain appeared with the best Cuban cigars and rum. “This ship is your home,” he said, and hugged them. The first radio message received from a Cuban ship in 20 years was picked up on Cape Cod. It was brief. “We are safe. No injuries. Arrive ­Havana November 2.”

The fanfare in Havana was less hospitable. After the ritualistic embrace and pictures, they were taken to a dark, dank room where police and immigration officers questioned each man separately. Finally, with an escort of armed guards, they were led to an abandoned mansion, seized during Fidel Castro’s takeover and converted into a prison for political dissidents. Billboards along the route warned, “North Americans will be invading us. Be prepared.”

Conspiracy-seeking Cuban officials quickly learned that Strenz lived on Spy Rock Hill Road. “On whom do you spy on Spy Rock Hill Road?” they asked. On top of that, Kadra was a Massachusetts state trooper, Nataloni a state administrator, and Sprague couldn’t deny that his father worked for the CIA. Who were these gringos?

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Swiss Consulate officials, ­acting as go-betweens, conferred with the U.S. State Department to rustle up passports and the necessary plane fare. Eventually, the quartet was cleared to go home.

They would not see their rescuers, their saviors, again until four days later, as they were boarding a jet for Canada. But the bond was already established. The 8-foot nameless dinghy on which they survived the maelstrom was mounted on the deck of 24 de Febrero — a permanent symbol of a unique friendship.

On the second anniversary of that fateful trip, the Bowditch crew and many of those from 24 de Febrero met in Canada for a reunion. They drank a slow toast, the first of many, and relived the adventure that had forever changed their lives. The conversation became sentimental. Kadra raised his glass “to Simone,” the tanker’s captain. Nataloni’s eyes welled in remembrance of the Cuban sailor’s parting words: “When I am a very old man, I sit down with my grandchildren, this is what I tell them … this ­ordeal of yours with the sea.”

It’s now been nearly four decades since that fateful encounter with a hurricane that was “safely out to sea.” For the men who survived, it informed their lives.

Strenz swore he would live to sail the seas again, and he did. And though he clung close to shore and followed weather reports with something akin to religious fervor, he did sail again — on Bowditch II. Strenz died, on land, in 2008, at the age of 87.

Kadra went on to more sea adventures, diving for treasure on Spanish galleons off the coast of South America and spending some frightening time in a Colombian jail before returning to ­familiar shores.

Nataloni continued to serve the Commonwealth of ­Massachusetts through six administrations. The memories of that voyage haunted him until his death in 2012, at 83.

Sprague has since logged thousands of offshore sea miles in powerboats and sailboats. Still, he lives every day with that experience aboard Bowditch and the crew that saved him. He is ­looking forward to someday reuniting with some of his Cuban brothers. This time, again, on their home turf.

Lifelong sailor Beverly Schuch was a correspondent for CNN for 16 years. She taped extensive interviews with the Bowditch ­survivors in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and recently re-interviewed ­survivors Malcolm Kadra and Ben Sprague for this account of their remarkable tale.

The post Rescued from a Hurricane appeared first on Cruising World.

Simply put, an incredible experience.

The first Cruising World Expedition and Rally: Cuba, sponsored by Fountaine Pajot and Harmony Yacht Vacations, kicked off in Key West, Florida on March 30, 2017, and I was part of team CW aboard the Saba 50 Quince Amor. Here’s a taste of our week in Cuba.

Crews gathered ahead of our departure date at Stock Island Village Marina, home to Harmony Yacht Vacations, which handled the mind bending logistics of this event. Due to the number of boats, there were staggered starts throughout the day on Thursday, March 30th so as to not overwhelm Cuba customs on the other end. Quince Amor‘s start was at 1900, and we enjoyed one of Key West’s famous sunsets on our way to sea.

Marina Hemingway served as our home base for the week. This massive facility, about 9 miles west of Havana, was built in the 1950s and features four long canals instead of traditional docks.

Not wanting to venture all the way to Havana on our first night, we stayed within walking distance of the marina and ate dinner at a tiny local restaurant in the nearby town. This street scene was from our walk back toward “home.”

Classic American cars and Russian Ladas are everywhere.

On Sunday, April 1, all rally boats participated in a boat parade into Havana Harbor. Cruising past the iconic El Morro castle into the harbor was a memorable experience for all crews.

Watching the rally boats parade into Havana Harbor was a sight to see.

A gorgeous sunset at Marina Hemingway.

Commodore Escrich of the Hemingway International Yacht Club presents Cruising World with a token of friendship during a rally party at the yacht club.

We took a day trip to beautiful Viñales valley. The mountain air was refreshing for sure after a couple days in Havana.

On our day trip to Viñales, we toured a working tobacco farm.

You never need to look far for great music in Cuba, it’s everywhere — on the streets, in restaurants, bars, and homes.

A classic American “Yank Tank” cruises past the capital building. Most (maybe all) of the cars have been repowered at some point with diesel engines.

The post Cruising World Sails to Cuba! appeared first on Cruising World.

Caribbean

Windward Islands

Tropical rainforests, barrier reefs, secluded anchorages: In the Windward Islands, you’ll get a taste of all that the Caribbean has to offer, and plenty of fine trade-wind sailing to boot. For sailors, there are multiple choices for your Windward Islands adventures, and from any of them, you can choose to make your sailing vacation as laid-back or as challenging as you’d like.

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Leeward Islands

The Leeward Islands are full of cruising hot spots, with much to offer to sailors, making passing through the Caribbean. lush scenery, vibrant reefs and a laid-back vibe make for the ultimate sailing destination.

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Lesser Antilles

The Lesser Antilles, in the Eastern Caribbean, are among the best charter destinations on the planet. Why? Diversity and conditions. The winds, seas and harbors in the Lesser Antilles are nearly ideal 99 percent of the time, and landfalls are perfectly spaced. In many of the most popular chartering waters, destinations are 30 to 40 miles apart — or less. This means you can get up at a reasonable hour, have a thrilling sail, and still manage to clear customs by happy hour.

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Cuba

Cuba is one of those mysterious destinations for US-based cruisers: close, intriguing, but seemingly out of reach. In 2017, when regulations were a bit more relaxed for cruisers, Cruising World hosted a rally to the island nation. The verdict? Cuba is everything we expected, and so much more.

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USA, Canada and Atlantic

Bahamas

The islands of the Bahamas are a cruiser’s playground — clear water, colorful communities and great sailing. The Bahamas offer endless islands to sail between and explore; from the Abacos to the Exumas, each island is unique.

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Intracoastal Waterway

Those with a mast height under 64 feet can also take advantage of the beauty and convenience of the Intracoastal Waterway on their trip north or south through the East Coast. While navigating the ICW requires lots of motoring, when conditions are good, the sailing is spectacular.

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Southern New England

Cruising through Long Island Sound, anchoring in the Great Salt Pond of Block Island, exploring the coast of Cape Cod – there are endless opportunities to enjoy a romp through Southern New England.

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The Great Lakes

Some of the best freshwater cruising in the world, the Great Lakes offer endless opportunities for exploration. Each lake offers unique cruising grounds, ports and conditions, from uncharted rocky inlets on the Canadian shores, to bustling cities.

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Bermuda

For as long as ocean-going sailors have been sailing the North Atlantic, Bermuda has been the crossroads and a popular race destination. But Bermuda is so much more than just a waypoint—it’s also a wonderful cruising destination.

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Nova Scotia

Packed with geologic and cultural history, the beautifully quiet coast of Nova Scotia is a nature lovers dream. Spruce trees, granite, grasses, sea, seals and terns, there is no shortage of excitement here.

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Europe

Greece Isles

The sailing can be challenging, but the landfalls — full of history, diverse towns and tasty cuisine — are worth it. Greece boasts thousands of islands, spread across an enormous geographical area stretching from the Aegean to the Ionian sea. Four of Greece’s five island groups are prime cruising areas: the Cyclades, the Saronic Islands, the Ionian Islands and the Dodecanese. Each group has its own unique character and charm, making each one worth exploring.

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South Pacific

Fiji

Cruising yachts from all over the world come to Fiji to anchor in the crystal-clear waters of the South Pacific. This Pacific crossroads is a refreshing break, with world-class snorkeling, beach combing and hiking.

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Marquesas

Smack dab in the middle of the South Pacific, the remote and untamed Marquesas are an unforgettable sailing stop – if you can get there. The topography of these young islands ­reflects the dawn of time; the exquisite drama of the islands’ violent, volcanic origins has not yet been smoothed and worn, with towering peaks rising above anchorages.

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Tasmania

Tasmania offers world class cruising, friendly, welcoming people, and a rich sailing history. The beautiful anchorages are uncrowded and private, and the sailing is world class. Just ask anyone who has ever sailed a Sydney Hobart Race.

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Whitsunday Islands

Pristine white sand beaches begging for footprints; the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park just waiting to be snorkeled; and our charter catamaran tugging on her mooring lines, ready to set sail. Who could resist such a tempting welcome from the Whitsunday Islands? Not us.

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Southeast Asia

Phang Nga Bay

Towering rock sculptures rise out of the water in Thailand’s Phang Nga Bay, providing a surreal backdrop for cruising. Anchor among the hongs and hope into a dinghy for an unforgettable experience exploring hidden caves and uncovering secrets from the 10,000 year history of the bay.

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Africa

Cape Town

From the blustery southeaster that can blow 45-60 knots for days on end, the “table cloth” on Table Mountain, to the waterfront with all its great seafaring tales and bars and the beaches of the suburb of Clifton, Cape Town has it all. The weather is like Southern California; you can stay active in the great outdoors year round.

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Madagascar

Madagascar is a true cruising gem. Its culture is a delightful convergence of Europe, Africa and the Middle East, as evidenced by the gourmet French meals, baked goods, mélange of rum drinks, vibrant materials for both traditional and modern dress, and the combination of French and local Malagasy language.

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South America

Chile

The Cape Horn archipelago conjures images of heroic voyages through inhospitable landscapes and harsh, raw conditions, the true beauty Chile is that it’s remote enough to be pristine, but not isolated enough that you feel completely cut off from the rest of the world.

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Antarctica

Antarctica

Cold, unforgiving and a challenge for even the most seasoned sailor, there isn’t quite any place on earth like Antarctica. Just ask anyone who has been, though, and you’ll find that the journey to the bottom of the world was unforgettable.

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The post 20 Best Cruising and Sailing Destinations appeared first on Cruising World.

Beautiful Havana

If Cuba has been on your destination bucket list, now is your chance to visit this intriguing island by participating in the Cruising World Expedition and Rally to Cuba. Several boats are still available for bareboat charter from Harmony Yacht Vacations’ impressive fleet of monohulls and catamarans!

The rally kicks off from Key West, Florida on March 30th and heads to Marina Hemingway, Havana, Cuba. Our time in Cuba begins with an orientation tour of Old Havana and dinner at the Hemingway International Yacht Club with Commodore Escrich. The next several days include the CW Parade of Yachts along the Malecon, optional excursions to Viñales and Las Terrazas, a tour of Hemingway’s Cuba, and plenty of downtime to explore on your own. The rally wraps up on April 8th after the return sail to Key West. Click here to see a detailed itinerary.

For the latest availability of bareboat charter yachts, call (305-504-3175) or email HYV reservation specialist Lea Schiazza at charters@harmonyyachtvacations.com.

The post Sail to Cuba with Cruising World! appeared first on Cruising World.

If you’re attending the U.S. Sailboat Show in Annapolis, Maryland, next week, make a plan to attend Cruising World‘s Evening for Southbound Sailors on Friday, October 7, 2016.

Have a rum punch and meet Cruising World editors and contributors, including special guest Lin Pardey. Catch the latest news and tips for cruising the ICW, Bahamas, Cuba and beyond, and find out how to get involved in the first ever Cruising World Rally to Cuba.

Our panel includes veteran ICW, Bahamas and Cuba cruisers who will discuss the ins and outs of sailing south and how to get the most out of your cruise.

The event takes place on Friday evening at the Annapolis Maritime Museum on Back Creek, about a 20-min walk from the sailboat show, or a quick cab ride.

The doors open at 6 p.m., with the panel discussion to begin at 6:30. Refreshments and hors d’oeuvres will be provided. Tickets are $12 in advance and $15 at the door. Space is limited so get your tickets today.

Click here to buy your tickets online!

The post Have Questions About Sailing the ICW, Bahamas or Cuba? appeared first on Cruising World.

As ties between the U.S. and Cuba improve, so too do legal opportunities for U.S. sailors to pursue the tropical gem and its surrounding islands as a bareboat and crewed chartering destination.

Yet limitations persist, and it pays to work with providers who have a thorough understanding of the sailing conditions, the laws (including visa rules) as they apply to U.S. citizens, and perhaps most importantly, the Cuban people themselves. And whether you go with a provider or set out on your own, cut down on unwelcome surprises by finding out what’s expected of visitors to the Caribbean’s largest island.

Among those offering Cuba as a destination to U.S. citizens are broker Paul Madden, Harmony Yacht Vacations and International Expeditions. Madden specializes in crewed yacht itineraries from seven days to a month or longer aboard power, sail, expedition and cruise-type vessels from 43 to more than 200 feet long. These trips, offered on a per-boat basis (charter parties may fill the entire boat, or Madden will match clients to fill it) can include shoreside cultural excursions, gunkholing, and watersports such as diving. Cost per cabin ranges from $8,000 to $25,000 and beyond.

“True charter people, the ones who’ve been everywhere, want to go to Cuba for the art, the music, the culture and the spirit of the people,” Madden says. “That’s what people pick up on. It’s amazing.” Madden also offers paperwork and permit assistance, insurance, and tow-boat services to individual boat owners who intend to cruise on their own.

Brad and Margie Matheson’s Harmony Yacht Vacations, situated at Stock Island Marina Village in Key West, Florida, offers the 90-mile passage to Cuba as a charter, whether aboard the company’s fleet or the individual boats of qualified owners. Upon landfall, Harmony converts the adventure into a two-week land-based itinerary, with the boats functioning as floating hotels. The Mathesons are experienced sailors who have traveled to Cuba for decades for their own group-tour company. They’re also working with the International Seakeepers Society to sponsor flotillas with an environmental focus, and taking steps to open a charter base in the city of Cienfuegos for chartering the islands off Cuba’s southern coast.

International Expeditions, part of the TUI Travel umbrella group, which includes The Moorings, will offer a Moorings 5800 crewed catamaran in Cuba in spring 2017. As for The Moorings itself, the company is exploring plans for a base opening in Cuba in 2018.

Dream Yacht Charter now has a fleet of more than 15 monohulls and multihulls at a base in Cienfuegos. It caters to vacation sailors from countries that already have full relations with Cuba. The company plans to offer bookings directly to U.S. citizens as soon as possible, says director of marketing Brittany Riley. In the meantime, American sailors who acquire the required permits and paperwork independently are welcome to charter with Dream in Cuba.

Resources:

U.S. Department of State — U.S. Passports and International Travel: www.travel.state.gov/content/passports/en/country/cuba.html
U.S. Department of the Treasury: www.treasury.gov (type “Cuba sanctions” in search window)
Cuba Yacht Arrangements (Paul Madden): www.cruise-cuba.us
Harmony Yacht Vacations: www.harmonyyachtvacations.com
International Expeditions: www.ietravel.com
Dream Yacht Charter: www.dreamyachtcharter.com
“Sailing in Cuba” by John Snyder: www.cruisingworld.com/cuba-libre
Cuba Boating: www.cuba-boating.com

The post Chartering Cuba appeared first on Cruising World.

Questions, questions, questions. For the crew of the catamaran Impossible Dream — including three wheelchair-bound sailors — and the organizers of the resurrected Conch Republic Cup, the primary query was one and the same: Was there any chance of pulling off last winter’s revamped regatta from Key West to Cuba? After all, despite a recent thaw in diplomatic relations, the last CRC, in 2003, had concluded with armed federal agents arresting one of the organizers in her home, at dawn, in her nightgown. And with wild weather delaying the start, would the competitors in the fleet of 54 boats be up to the challenge of tackling the stormy Florida Straits? As it turned out, the answer to all these concerns was ultimately revealed on a hand-painted Cuban mural quoting none other than Raúl Castro: “Sí Se Puede.” The translation: “Yes You Can.”

Fits and Starts

In the hazy late afternoon of January 29, off the salty islands of southern Florida, the starting gun fired — precisely 24 hours after it was originally scheduled to — and following a 13-year hiatus, the eighth edition of the Conch Republic Cup, from Key West to Cuba, was underway. Of the 50-odd boats and nearly 500 competitors on the starting line, the only yacht helmed by a sailor in a wheelchair — and a slightly nervous one at that — was our 60-foot carbon catamaran, Impossible Dream. Moments earlier, from behind the wheel of the inside steering station, Deborah Mellen had hailed the race committee to check in on the VHF. “That was a first,” she said, and then wondered aloud to ID‘s raffish skipper, Capt. Will Rey, if she should relinquish the helm.

“No way,” said Capt. Will. “You’re driving for the start. That’s the spirit of what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

Then, like Dennis Conner at the start of an America’s Cup race, she positively nailed it, and, perhaps fittingly — she’d basically and generously bankrolled the purchase of the boat — was nearly overcome with emotion. “I’m getting weepy,” she said. “Thank you, everybody. What an experience. Thank you.”

Over the radio, the principal race officer bid the fleet fair sailing in the “historic, pioneering” event. Gazing at our crew, which in addition to Mellen included another pair of intrepid sailors in wheelchairs, Harry Horgan and David McCauley, my only thought was, “Brother, you ain’t kidding.” And so began a remarkable journey with, for us, multiple story lines.

The first, of course, was the voyage itself, to the formerly forbidden land of cigars, rum and, you know, commies. The second was the reinstated Conch Republic Cup, a regatta with an intriguing, colorful history. Finally, there was the tale of Impossible Dream, originally designed and built in England for a paraplegic sailor felled by a skiing accident who wished to continue adventuring, and now the flagship of Shake-A-Leg Miami, an organization devoted to helping disabled people become more independent, vital and active, primarily by getting them out on the water.

The inaugural order of business, naturally, was the regatta’s first of three legs, a roughly 90-mile passage from Key West to the rather scrubbed and glitzy, by Cuban standards, port of Varadero. (From Varadero there would be another 80-mile race to Havana, and then a final 90-miler back to Key West — a triangle course — with the offshore segments sandwiched by some inshore buoy racing at the host ports; hence the event’s secondary title, Key West Cuba Race Week.)

At the outset, at least, getting started proved to be anything but straightforward; in fact, the hardest part of leaving Key West was, well, leaving Key West. An hour or two before the originally scheduled starting time on the afternoon of January 28, the race committee postponed festivities for an entire day when a string of nasty thunderstorms came roaring in from the south. There was some initial grumbling from the racers, but that dissipated when the thunder, lightning and 50-knot winds lashed through the Keys. Surely the race committee had made the correct call, but the postponement, and subsequent weather drama in the days ahead, would be a recurring theme that wreaked havoc on the scheduling.

But that was all in the future, and once we were finally underway, our first overnight leg was conducted in champagne sailing conditions. Along with the trio from Shake-A-Leg and Capt. Will, our team consisted of Harry’s wife, Susie; Lee Oldak, an experienced sailor from New York looking for a ride, who joined our crew at the last instant; and me, a longtime pal of Harry’s from our shared hometown of Newport, Rhode Island. Mere moments after our start, we set our big spinnaker and quiet, mild-mannered Lee became a whirling, kite-trimming dervish: “More pressure coming! Come up! Take that puff down! Now come up! Too high, too high! OK, nice.”

However, the 12-knot northerly at the start eventually backed to the east, and we sailed the entire leg on port tack, nice as could be, making a top speed of 13 knots. Sweet. Just before dawn, at the finish line, we eked ahead of When and If, the gorgeous 63-foot Alden schooner, a stirring sight silhouetted before a pastel sky, once owned by General George S. Patton. There was but one problem, and it was a relatively small one: Standing on the foredeck, we took stock of one another’s wardrobe of watch caps, fleece and multiple layers of foulies, and someone said, “Wow, we’re in Cuba, and we’re dressed for New England.”

But Capt. Will, always a voice of reason, had a different take: “Somewhere there’s a beach chair under a coconut tree with my name on it.” Then he went to find it.

Little Orlando

Soon after tying up at Varadero’s Marina Gaviota (the official who greeted us – “Welcome to Cuba!” – wore a crisp white lab coat as starched, pressed and pristine as the fresh, spotless docks and the high-rise hotel and condos surrounding them), another visitor happened by. It was Peter Goldsmith, the event’s co-founder, who’d raced down on another yacht; he was there to collect his sea bag, as Capt. Will had graciously offered to carry some bags down for competitors on smaller boats with minimal storage.

Fittingly, the inaugural leg we’d just finished, the Michele Geslin Memorial Cup, was so named for Goldsmith’s wife and (wink, wink) “partner in crime,” who’d also been a race founder and who passed away several years ago. Despite his New England roots, with his lazy drawl and kicked-back demeanor, Goldsmith looked and sounded like a Key West native, though he’d been there “only” 33 years.

“Conch Republic Cup” is the perfect name for a regatta born and bred in wild Key West. As legend has it, the Conch Republic was so named in April of 1982, when then-mayor of Key West Dennis Wardlow “seceded” from the United States to protest a U.S. Border Patrol blockade that essentially shut off the Keys from the mainland to prevent illegal aliens and drug runners from rolling up the coast. Wardlow supposedly threw a stale loaf of Cuban bread at a hapless agent, declared war, surrendered, and later sued for reparations, all of which has forever endeared him to the locals, aka “conchs.”

Goldsmith said he started the CRC as revenge after the Key West Sailing Club “snookered” him into becoming fleet captain in 1996; the first iteration of the new event (there had been a couple of Key West-Varadero races in the 1970s) drew 40 boats. For the next seven years, as the race ran annually, Goldsmith received regular letters from the Office of Foreign Assets Control of the U.S. Treasury Department with a large red cease-and-desist order across the top. He did neither.

By 2003, though, OFAC had had enough. A posse of agents “with guns on their hips” rolled into the pre-race briefing and party and made a speech detailing why nobody could go to Cuba. This advice was roundly ignored, and everyone set sail anyway. But when they returned, the OFAC men boarded their boats and confiscated cameras and GPS units. The next day, they arrested Goldsmith and Geslin at their home and hauled them to Miami to face federal charges of trading with the enemy. The judge almost immediately dismissed those charges, but the point was made.

“We’d had our fun,” Goldsmith said. “Everybody liked the outlaw part of it. But I wasn’t going to rub their faces in it.” So that was that.

Until this year, that is. “I knew I was always going to do it again,” he said. “I was just waiting for the right moment.”

The stars began to align in May of 2015, when the organizers of the Havana Challenge, a race from Key West to Cuba on Hobie Cats, persuaded U.S. authorities to ease travel restrictions to run their event. By this point Goldsmith had lured his old sailing pal Jeff Drechsler to come in as regatta chairman for a new CRC, and the organizational wheels really began to turn. Any potential roadblocks were then demolished several months later, when OFAC historically authorized travel to Cuba under a dozen “general licenses,” including “athletic competition” and “support for the Cuban people.” Since Goldsmith and Drechsler hoped to get Cuban sailors involved, the CRC ticked a couple of boxes.

“We didn’t even need to go through the process of applying for a separate OFAC license or anything,” said Drechsler. The CRC would no longer be just a regatta, but “a cultural exchange through sport.” All systems were go.

All that said, there wasn’t much culture being exchanged inside the metal gates of Marina Gaviota in Varadero. On ID we took to calling the place Little Orlando for countless reasons, the most obvious being that it reminded us all of Disney World. With its gleaming docks (but only a handful of visiting cruising boats, from France and Canada), multiple restaurants and pools, spas, private beach, golf course, and so forth, it was pretty clear that if you didn’t wander past the gates and the guards and spent your entire vacation in the marina, you could easily imagine you’d never left a Florida theme park. It seemed like Marina Gaviota (officially owned by “the army” and unofficially by Raúl Castro) was built for the throngs of U.S. tourists who will soon invade its shores.

We did take a wander past the guardhouse, hiring a vintage ’52 Plymouth for a look around touristy Varadero and its working-class suburb, Santa Marta, the backstreets of which actually felt and sounded like the Cuba we’d expected to find. We even stopped at a great Cuban steakhouse next to an oil derrick with the message from Raúl, “Sí Se Puede,” painted on its fence, and we took it as an omen. We were all dying to get to Havana. It seemed Raúl had granted us permission.

Westward Ho

Motoring to the starting line on February 1 for the Cuba Coastal Challenge, the second CRC distance race, an 80-miler along the island’s northern shoreline from Varadero to Havana, Capt. Will wet his finger, pointed it to the sky, and said, “There’s not enough air to fill the spinnaker.” Once again, he was right.

The proceedings got underway at 1100 in about 5 knots of easterly breeze that slowly built throughout the day, and soon enough our kite was indeed set and drawing. Up on the horizon, the well-sailed Antrim 52 cat Little Wing, our main competitor in the multihull class, slowly began to pull away and show us her transom, just as she’d done on the initial leg from Key West. It was déjà vu all over again.

Harry and David, both excellent helmsmen, did much of our driving. Harry is an experienced, accomplished sailor, but this was all pretty new to David, an extremely cool cat who runs an art gallery in South Beach, and who’d become a quadriplegic several years ago after a diving accident in a swimming pool. (“Nothing good ever happens after midnight,” he explained.) This was certainly an adventure for all of us, but perhaps even more so for David. Locked behind the wheel for hours on end, with razor-sharp focus, he kept the chute filled and the boat moving well in the truly tricky breeze, which would have been a challenge for even a pro sailor. Before all was said and done, we would sail several hundred miles, but that particular spell when David was on the helm was my favorite stretch of the entire trip. The dude was a natural.

With the questionable pleasures of Varadero in the rearview mirror, we settled into the sail westward. Slowly but surely, it became kind of magnificent. Ahead and behind, colorful spinnakers dotted the horizon, but the coast itself was the star of the show. The green, lush, low rolling hills were accented by occasional headlands and bluffs and even a long bridge spanning a deep valley. There were no road signs whatsoever, but every so often we’d see a lighthouse, highway or small settlement.

As we closed on Havana, well after sunset, the distant glow gradually became defined lights that morphed into a big city skyline full of high-rises and blinking taillights moving up and down the coastal highway that lines the famous promenade called the Malecón. In the wee hours, under a beautiful, starry sky, we identified the committee boat, crossed the finish line and, per their instructions, started to follow a Jet Ski into Marina Hemingway. The organizers had had their hands full sorting out details in Varadero (it’s hard to score a yacht race with digital software when you can barely get on the Internet), so it seemed fitting when the Jet Ski sputtered, coughed and ran out of gas. So, yeah, welcome to Havana. It was only the first of many surprises.

Holy Havana

Once we’d cleared customs and tied up in Marina Hemingway, the first order of business was unloading the 43-inch flat-screen TV we’d carried down for Jorge Gutierrez, a Cuban-American and Shake-A-Leg’s fleet facilities manager back in Miami. It had spent the previous two weeks stashed in a big North Sails bag in Capt. Will’s berth, and as it was hauled ashore, he said, “Well, there goes my girlfriend,” none too wistfully.

Jorge had flown ahead to make arrangements for our stay and had been invaluable in helping us sort out the maze of Cuban exchange rates, arranging transportation, and finding nice, extremely affordable accommodations ($40 a night, including a large, delicious breakfast) with friends who owned a bed-and-breakfast in Havana for several of our crew, including me, who’d decided to stay in the city. He also invited us to a huge pig roast at his family’s lovely home in the suburbs, easily our best night in Cuba. On a related note, it seemed folks with relatives in Florida, who could send cash home, lived quite comfortably in Havana. (When I asked a friend of Jorge’s how people got by, he said, “Western Union.”)

Havana itself, however, was easily the most confounding place I’ve ever visited. The music, cigars and vintage cars were all, of course, as bewitching and entertaining as advertised. And it’s surely unlike any modern metropolitan city in that there are no billboards (except for the occasional revolutionary slogan, that is), McDonald’s, Starbucks or anything else of that ilk. Nobody walks around glued to a cellphone, texting madly. (That might be because the Internet is severely regulated, available only via a $2-an-hour card you purchase in a bodega to access Wi-Fi in select public parks.) All that is probably the most civilized part of being “uncivilized.”

The people, too, are unflaggingly friendly and curious about American visitors. And much of the architecture is mind-blowingly beautiful, intricate and spellbinding. “Look at that middle piece,” said a friend from another raceboat, taking in a stone arch carved into a downtown apartment house. “It’s like a piece of jewelry.”

But you don’t have to wander far off the beaten path to find neighborhoods and infrastructure that are nothing less than an unmitigated disaster, a massive, crumbling wreck after decades of decay, neglect and disrepair. Much of it resembles pictures of London after the blitzkrieg. It’s astonishing. Naturally, like every tourist, I wandered into the Museum of the Revolution, the temple to Fidel and Che, where you can read reams of propaganda about “lackey” Americans and the fool Batista, who bent to the imperialists’ demands and earned his just deserts. But there I was also amazed to find a bust of Abraham Lincoln, a fellow champion of the oppressed. And you’re never far in the city from one of the watering holes once frequented by Ernest Hemingway, yet another Yank who remains universally revered. Conflicted: That’s how I felt after a stroll through Havana.

In addition to sightseeing, we actually had a regatta-related mission in Havana: competing in the Castle de Morro Cup, a day race off the Malecón. We’d skipped the buoy race in Varadero (with full wheelchair access, an electric furling mainsail, and a hydraulic mainsheet and traveler, ID is built for voyaging, not banging around the cans), but that wasn’t really an option in Havana.

Every U.S.-Cuba regatta — and they are growing almost daily — has an important common denominator: Commodore José Miguel Díaz Escrich, of Marina Hemingway, who sorts out the necessary permits and licenses with the Cuban government, hosts them all. It’s politically imperative for Escrich to show the visiting yachts galloping off the Malecón in the heart of the city, and as Capt. Will noted, our fishing gear and barbecue were on station and ready for duty.

“We’re in full racing mode,” he said.

There was just one hitch. As we prepared to leave the marina, a fresh-faced Cuban customs official appeared alongside and summoned Jorge, who had the permit to race with us and was excited to do so, and began questioning him intensely. It became pretty clear he wasn’t going anywhere, and before Capt. Will and Deborah could protest, he just shrugged his shoulders and waved us off. Even though racing in his home waters would have been a lifelong memory, it wasn’t worth compromising his visa for a day of sailing. So much for the cultural exchange through sport.

Somehow I found myself at the wheel for the start, and I managed a fairly decent one. There’d been a war of attrition in the multihull class: nine at the start in Key West, four for the leg from Varadero, and now two for the Havana day race. Our old friends on Little Wing were once again our sparring partners, and we had good speed on them for the first couple of miles, though with their centerboards they held quite an advantage, as they could point much higher. Couple that with a boneheaded tactical error on my behalf (I tacked inshore instead of riding the better breeze outside), and that was that: a bridesmaid again. But the ID crew was psyched anyway. For several of them, it had been their first buoy race ever.

Due to yet another impending cold front bearing down on the island, to beat the weather, the ever-challenged race committee rolled the finish of the day race into the start of the leg back to Key West. But we weren’t quite ready to head home, so instead we returned to Marina Hemingway. For ID, the CRC racing days were over.

So, unsurprisingly, back at the docks we broke out the libations. It turned into a fine party. Deborah reckoned we deserved some regatta silverware, so somebody turned the stainless-steel platter on which a hot pizza had been delivered into a trophy that was fitting for our second overall in the multihull class. We were actually pretty proud of our accomplishment, but the prize still seemed appropriate.

After a while we were joined by a Cuban skipper who lives in Miami but travels back and forth and keeps his racing sloop in Marina Hemingway. We’d all had a few by then, and the festivities had gathered steam, but his poignant, sobering thoughts put pretty much everything into perspective. They require no explanation:

“I have a dream, a dream to sail my own boat to Key West, to sail where I want. But that is not possible. You have a boat, the Impossible Dream, and you have made your dream possible. You have sailed to Cuba. So maybe I will change the name of my boat. Maybe I will call it Someday.” Brother and comrade of the seas: yes, hopefully, someday. In the meantime: God bless America.

Home Sweet Home

Ultimately, as it turned out, leaving Cuba was even more difficult than departing Key West had been. As forecast, the cold northerly filled in hard. First the Malecón, swept by breaking seas, was closed, followed by Marina Hemingway itself: Nobody could come or go. “Better to lose a minute of your life,” said the harbormaster, “than to lose your life in a minute.” The message was somewhat cryptic, but we got the idea. With Marina Hemingway shut down on a Friday evening, the place lit up. Someone had described the architecture as “early gulag,” which seemed especially appropriate as scores of extremely inebriated Russian tourists started stumbling and mumbling about. A pig was roasted on an open spit, and the disco pounded into the wee hours. It was a long night.

It all made antsy Capt. Will even more fidgety than usual, and when the harbormaster opened things back up early on the morning of February 6, we were almost immediately out of there. With aplomb, the skipper maneuvered ID through the tight channel, lined by breakers on each side, and into open water. We were headed home.

Whether it was the rather vicious seaway and boisterous Gulf Stream, coupled with a double-digit northerly, that left a few crew a bit queasy, or the fact that we were all trying to digest what we’d just experienced, ID was a quiet boat on the trip back. There was plenty of time for contemplation.

Yes, we’d all felt fortunate to scratch the curious itch nearly all American sailors have about Cuba. And on the one hand, we’d all loved the Cuban people, the cold mojitos and fresh cigars, the amazing sights. But it quickly becomes difficult to enjoy all the sensual pleasures while watching people get constantly hassled, who are hungry and standing in bread lines. After a while it sucks the fun away, and you kind of feel like an entitled jerk. That was the intersection at which I’d arrived. I was quite happy to be headed north.

From the Cubans themselves, I heard from more than one person that the country is headed in a new direction: “The young people, they will change it. They don’t care about the revolution.” And why would they? Like Raúl and Fidel, the revolution is old. Done. Over. That’s the problem with Cuba. Half the folks are looking forward. The other half are looking back. Everyone is betwixt and between.

And one more thing. These days, everybody says: “You need to go to Cuba. Now! It’s on the verge of monumental change!” Well, I’m here to tell you, until the Castro boys croak, and for a good while thereafter, nothing will happen quickly in Cuba. Hell, it’ll take decades before the toppling buildings will even begin to be renovated. Everything is too ingrained, too incestuous. So take your time. Trust me. There’s no huge rush whatsoever. A dozen hours after we set sail, after an extremely bouncy ride — and a wondrous adventure with now-treasured friends — the lights of the Conch Republic finally flickered ahead. They could not possibly have been prettier.

For More Information

The next Conch Republic Cup will be based at Key West’s Stock Island Marina Village and is scheduled for January 25-February 4, 2017. For complete details, visit the event website www.conchrepubliccup.org.

For more on sailing and chartering opportunities aboard the catamaran Impossible Dream, visit its website, impossibledream.us.

Herb McCormick is Cruising World’s executive editor.

The post The Impossible Dream: Racing to Cuba appeared first on Cruising World.

Cruising Cuba

Following President Obama’s recent visit to Cuba, the U.S. Department of Commerce has made an announcement on the continued easing of travel restrictions between the two countries. In response to the historic first visit by a U.S. President since 1928, Treasury Secretary Jack Lew stated, “Today’s steps build on the actions of the last 15 months as we continue to break down economic barriers, empower the Cuban people and advance their financial freedoms, and chart a new course in U.S.-Cuba relations.”

The amendments specifically allow individuals to travel to Cuba for the engagement of full-time educational activities without the prior requirement of a guide. Travel to Cuba is still governed by the 12 categories of the general license exclusions, including family visits; journalistic activity; educational activities; religious activities; and public performances, clinics, workshops, athletic and other competitions, and exhibitions. For the complete update, visit the U.S. Treasury Department’s website.

Before sailing your boat to Cuba, don’t forget to obtain the U.S. Coast Guard’s Permit to Enter Cuban Territorial Seas (CG-3300). Additional useful information may be found at cuba-boating.com.

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