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opps Computor sent msg before I could fact check.  Note correct new email address and blog address.  Sorry for my bad. blog address:  natiem.blogspot@google.com   NEW EMAIL: mgnatiem50@gmail.com   yahoo still sucks will monitor only gmail after 30 days   hope you like the blog Mark

hi everyone, recently free of distraction will be writting more .  The past couple of months been hanging with my daughter sailing the islands with her and other friends. If you have a chance check out the second to last chapter of Cuba.   I will be posting again in a couple of days.   Please note new email address:  mgnatiem17@gmail.com yahoo sucks blog address is the same:  naitme.blogspot@google.com

Chapter 2 Cuba finally!

sorry this had take so long, to many distractions, rather distraction the past couple of months now now more so I'll be writting more. hope someone is still out there love and best wishes to all, Mark 3/30/09 1630 Cayo Blanco Marina de Trinidad  After sailing all night, it was a relief to see the mountains surrounding Trinidad to come into sight.  Rounding the point that leads into the nearby Bahia de Casilda, the nearby port to the famous city, I radioed into the Harbor master as to where I should clear in. The pilot guide indicated the 'dilapidated' dock crowded with fishing boats as to where the guarda were located.  I should point out the word dilapidated and dock are frequently associated with each other in Cuba.  Just one more piece of the infrastructure that is in badly need of repair or upgrade.  Anyways the generic guarda in green fatigues waved me away, to my relief, after observing the rebar sticking out from the broken concrete of the dock, and over to the Cayo Blanco Marina across the harbor behind the mangroves.  Nigel Calder's Cuba cruising guide, which is dated, but was invaluable for this trip, indicates that the word marina  as applied to this particular facility, is stretching the use of the word.  The approach is a little tricky, with some shoaling impinging on the narrow channel through the mangroves.  Once past some doglegs and a sharp turn the channel opens up into a small bay a hundred yards across with the marina at the only point of dry land.  Again, I was waved over to one of the docks, and with relief, I tied up, alongside a covered dock behind a large tourist catamaran.  The dock contained what appeared to be a snack bar with a couple of picnic tables, inhabited by four people huddled around a rum bottle.  The official that greeted me told me that I would need to wait till tomorrow for the formal clearing in as everyone had gone home for the day.  He was able to get through some of the formalities and I was cleared to leave the boat and use the 'facilities'.  Tomorrow morning the rest of the welcoming party would be able to complete the full clearance.  I took it stride, happily tied up and in port, having gotten used to the usual parade of customs, guarda, immigration, and whatever official had a piece of paper that needed to be filled out in order for me to enter port.  The guy was friendly enough and we had a nice conversation, me in my halting Spanish, and likewise his English.   I did not find it that bad though there was no electricity and water.  Later on I was to find out that in order to take a shower, much like elsewhere in my travels, you had to ask to have the water turned on, as there were so many leaks throughout the water system they generally keep the water to the bathrooms shut off.  In addition one had to borrow a set of pliers, as the knobs to the shower valves are missing.  Why they gave me two, I don't know as only the cold water was operational.  If I sound a little whiney  its just that after 24 hours of sailing and getting hit for $.45/ft  whether I anchor out or tie up next to the giant tourist catamaran, a shower, cold or hot was something that I really looked forward to.  That and a cold beer of course, which involved one of the marina employees doinig a hour long bike trip to get two luke warm beers, for alas the marina bar was closed. Anyway, clearing in was a breeze to my relief.  The reason being that no on was there, just a young guarda who did the paper work and said in the morning I would need to sign a contract with the marina manager and speak to his boss in case he or I had any questions.  Fine, par for the course.  So after my shower and the boat squared away, I broke into some of the Havanna Club rum I bought earlier, made myself a drink and sat down with two Quebecois tourists and a local Cuban for some conversation.  They were already 5 sheets to the wind so I believe I was missing most of the jokes probably at the newly arrived gringo's expense.  The women spoke English though, and that was nice.  I'm finding that my meager Spanish is not cutting it.  First of all my Spanish was never all that good, no matter how many computer courses so books that I study, and two; it very hard to get a Cuban to slow the hell down when he or she speaks.  They seem to subscribe to the solution that some of my countrymen use, that if you speak your language over again, only louder, it will be understood.  Guess it's a universal human trait.  By dark, I was done.  Got the bike set up for the morning ride into Trinidad and made a simple meal and went to sleep.   3/31/09 After talking to the officials of the marina and guarda, I took off on the bike for Trinidad.  Thinking I would find a Casa Particular again, if I decided to spend the night, I packed for the night life.   I had heard that the music and art scene there was incredible and that, being a World Heritage Site, the old downtown was in great shape, with a lot of intact architecture, much dating from the 17th century. The bike ride was short but with a lot of headwind.  You have to ride along a causeway around Casilda Bay from the Marina and hotel areas to get to Casilda, which forms a peninsula,  and then on to Trinidad which is at the foothills of the mountains.  The view was pretty impressive, but one thing that I had a question about was the amount of burning that would usually spring up in the hillsides and mountainsides.  Coming in along the coast yesterday I watch a pretty extensive brush fire eat up a good amount of a large hillside.  I could even see the flames from 4 miles away in a fire line as it moved up the slope.  I'm beginning to think that slash and burn is still used a lot in Cuba.  The mountains and foot hills where still beautiful, even with the occasional plume of smoke rising at various spots.  It was the dry season still and much of the vegetation was brown and arid looking.  I could see that fires could easily get out of control, maybe. It took about an hour and I found myself in the outskirts of Trinidad.  When I say outskirts, I'm not talking suburbs or the occasional strip mall.  Just a sign indicating that you were there, and beyond that, a dense concentration of houses and factories, where before you where passing pasture and farmland.  The gas station did have a convenience store air to it though, to my surprise, complete with a little meat pie alcove and cold drinks.  I turned onto Jose Marti Street.  Every town has one named after the revered founder of Cuban nationalism.  I rode my bike into the center of town.  What was asphalt roads, in good biking shape with minimal potholes or storm grates suddenly turned into cobbles.  Those of you that ride know this type of road surface can easily lead to a dental appointment, with a bone jarring vibration that can separate vertebrae.  The cobbles originated from the ballast stones of early trading vessels that replaced them with molasses and rum.  The streets, like almost every city in Cuba, were crowded with pedestrians, kids going to school, couples walking, taxis and the ever present Soviet era stake truck.  The town was beautiful; the architecture was very colonial Spanish and the homes very neat and ordered.  The streets where narrow and the pavement was mostly cobble stones the further I got towards the historic section, forcing me to walk the bike.   The building were in pretty great shape, with hardly any modern architecture, except from the glass and steel bank,  and with just a little difficulty started to find some of the sites my guide book indicated as must see.   One thing I was having a little trouble with was that if there were any street signs, usually a plaque or painted on the corner of a building, the names were pre revolutionary.  I needed to check the cross reference every time in the guide book to make sure where I was.  Nevertheless, I was frequently lost, which is not a bad way generally to get the layout of a city.  I was starting to see more evidence of the tourists that flock here, mostly from Europe, mostly young people.  Since I didn't fit the look of the average tourist or for that matter the average Cuban cyclist, I was approached by several young men asking if I needed a place to stay.  These guys get a commission from the casa particular owners and can be a pain, always asking if you need a place or if you need a tour guide.  A middle aged woman passed me on a street later on, when I had just decided that in order to do this place justice I will definitely need to spend the night.  In the few hours that I had walked the narrow, cobbled streets of Trinidad I came across numerous arts and craft being displayed both by street vendors and in little shops.  Plus the music was everywhere, coming out of the doors and windows of almost every building.  The woman passed me, saying hola, then turned and asked the question.  I agreed to check out her place and if it was ok, and the price was certainly so ($10/night), I would stay, grab a shower and really check out the city that night and the following day.   I remember following her as she turned right then left and across the park that I was using as my geographical perspective, to turn up a narrow street to a non descript green door partially blocked by street vendors.  She opened the door and within was a small sitting area with a high roof and opeing onto an open air alleyway, with plastered walls and planters.  She showed me a small room with lattice work to provide privacy from the rest of the area with high ceilings and a comfortable bed.  Now I could explore Trinidad without wearing bike togs and pushing the bike around.  I took a quick shower and headed out to walk around.  The Parque Major is the major center of old Trinidad with extensive and intricate latticework and rose bushes everywhere, along with the prerequisite Cuban revolutionary monument.  These people take their history very seriously.  One end of the park is dominated by the immense Trinidad Cathedral, dedicated to some saint or another.  To the side of the cathedral is a series of wide steps that lead up the hill and end with a couple of cafes and discos.  This wasn't its original purpose of course, though it's quite dramatic as I was later find out at night, with people dancing on the steps and landing that are spaced as you go up the hill. Anyway I'm getting ahead of myself.  I found myself walking in ever widening circles around the park and coming down one of the side streets I could hear the sound of a band behind the high motar and stone wall on the sidewalk.  There was a small doorway, and poking my head in, saw a large shade tree in a mostly dirt courtyard.  A couple of modest shacks were in the back and two vintage Chevy's were parked along the back wall, one of which the subject of heated discussion between two older men.  Under the shade tree were a couple of benches set up with stumps and rough hewn planks and at the head, a 5 piece band was playing the balladic music of Cuba called 'Son'.  I had grown to love this style of uniquely Cuban music since  first exposed to it in the Buena Vista Social Club series produced by Ry Cooder.  Now I was watching the real thing, live.  I was one of two people in the audience, being slightly off the tourist beaten path, down a side street from the main areas.   During one of the breaks in between sets, two of the band members engaged me in a conversation.  They were quite interested in the fact I was an American sailor who took my small sailboat to visit the birth place of my grandfather.  The next set I was honored with a improvisation, that featured lyrics extolling the voyage of Natie M. having come to Cuba to see the Revolution and witness the spirit of Che.   It was quite an experience to be the only one sitting there listening to these guys play some of the great songs that I  was starting to recognize having accumulated cds and listening to the Cuban radio since before I arrived in country. As I am of the habit of sleeping whenever the notion or fatigue strikes, I returned to the casa for a nap before dinner, in anticipation of seeing and experiencing the nightlife of Trinidad.  The owner of the casa offered to make me dinner for only $5 so I agreed and after waking was seated at a large wood table in the dining room while she served me a heaping plate of rice and beans, pork and fruit.  It was simple but delicious.  After finishing I headed out into the evening.  Returning the main park area next to the cathedral in the historic section (rather the more historic section) I found myself heading back to the dirt courtyard where I had heard the fantastic 'son' bands earlier in the day.   This time the courtyard and its benches were filled with tourists and the band was racking it in, selling CDs and playing many of the songs I had heard earlier  I was sympathizing earlier with me and two other people listening to them play, now they had an audience of at least 30, all throwing coins and buying CDs.  I also noticed the music was a little more tailored to the tourists, less Son music and more songs familiar to the western ear.  The band recognized me and waved me over to play the sticks.  As I have about as much inherent rhythm as a tap dancer with epilepsy I declined faking a severe hand injury.  No really there plenty of volunteer percussionists in the audience, some of them quite drunk on Cuban rum being passed around.    I moved on to hang out in the beautiful park with its rose covered archways overlooked by the colonial era cathedral.  By 8 I headed up the wide staircase of alongside the cathedral to grab a table and wait for the band there to start.  Around 9 the music began and so did the dancing.  I was surrounded by German, French, Spanish tourists, mostly young and much dancing while black and white formal waiters wound through the crowded tables serving food and drinks.  The music, again, was tailored to the crowd, and after a rousing rendition of 'The Girl from Epinema' I walked off to a side street to some other cafes and art galleries. By Midnight I was ready for bed, and soon discovered that I had not idea where I was.  The narrow, cobble stone streets all looked the same and the only difference was their orientation to the hill side the city was located on.  After asking several people on the street finally found No. 75 and my key worked.   The owner greeted me and asked if I still intended to spend another night.  I decided I was ready to move on, having seen much of the city.  Another place I will return to some day.  The following morning at dawn departed on the bike for another ride around town.  The streets were packed with school kids, all in their uniforms, walking and riding bikes to school.  It was surprising how many kids there were, the streets were crowded with them all heading to their repective school building.    After a half mile or so was finally into the area of town with asphalt roads and not the bone rattling cobblestones.  By mid day I was riding back into the marina.  I decided to see how quickly I could get clearance for departure from the harbor master.  Before the final clearance and the reissue of my despacho, I needed to settle my marina bill.  This turned into a bit of a problem when I turned in what I thought was my copy of the marina contract I had signed the day before.  What follows is typical of the bureaucratic logjams that can occur, especially when you are trying to do something in an other than 'manana' mindset.  I had unwittingly turned in the wrong marina contract.  Mind you my Cuba file was getting rather filled with the numerous papers and receipts that I had been collecting.  I was sitting in the office with the harbor master on duty while he pondered the contract that I had given him.  He engaged in conversation with several people that would come and go from his office, occasionally asking me a question about other Cuban marinas I had visited.  He would also get on the phone while I sat there.  I had accepted that I was not going to get out of there any time soon.  One phone conversation went on for 15 minutes while I sat there.  I couldn't understand what was the problem.  Finally after almost 45 minutes he finally showed me that I had given him the wrong contract.  I was a little taken aback, thinking "why the hell didn't he just tell me that I had given him the wrong contract???".   It was my fault yes, but why wait almost an hour before telling me what was the problem?  I told him to wait and I would go back to the boat and sure enough found that I had misfiled the correct paper.  Another 20 minutes and finally I had a bill.  A little steep I thought considering the marina was in so much a state of disrepair, but no arguing with the marina manager.  And, of course, they had no change for the 20 peso bill that I paid with.  By 1000 was underway and heading for the long chain of islands called the Jardines del Reines, on the last leg to my final Cuban port, Santiago de Cuba. 4/2/09  N20o 48.735' W78o57.000'  Cayo Ancilitas After more than 24 hours of tacking in a really snotty 15 kt wind out of the SSW I tacked into the lee side of a narrow cay.  Exhausted and frustrated with the poor progress I dropped anchor in this rolly anchorage for some sleep at around 2 pm.  The weather forecast was not going to get any better so I just accommodated myself to being stuck here for awhile.  Nothing but water and beach and mangroves. 4/3/09 Was visited by some fisherman who seemed to appear out of nowhere, motoring at high speed around the point and passed the Natie M. within a 100 feet.  They revisited the area about an hour later, and this time, came alongside.  Two fisherman, friendly enough, asked me if I wanted any fruit.  Fearing the possible advent of scurvy, not to mention my dwindling provisions, I said sure.   They had a garbage bag with a couple dozen oranges, grapefruit, and pineapples.  Great, I'll take three of each!  They promptly handed the whole bag over, insisting it was a gift.  A little while later they showed up again, only this time asking if I wanted to buy some lobster.  Taking a look at the impressive catch they had on board, I told them four would be fine.  The smallest denomination that I had was  $10 CUC, or about $12 US.  It was way above what you would typically pay for lobster straight from the boat, but I was remembering the 2 weeks supply of grapefruit, oranges, and  pineapple they had given me earlier.  Pretty happy with the 10 spot, they handed over 8 lobster.   Now I had to clean them, cook them, and of course since I was without any refridgeration, pretty much eat them all in quick sucession.   After steaming them in the pressure cooker where they can keep for a while, I ate lobster straight through breakfast the following morning. In the afternoon, hoping for an evening shift in the wind and waves, I raised anchor and continued on.  No luck in the department, the trades were, although not to big, were right on my nose.  I broke down and started the motor with the main up, doing a reasonable 4 knots in a roughly easterly direction.         4/4/09 Ran the motor most of the night and by 2300 finally made Cabo Cruz, the small fishing town on the western most point of the southern shore of Cuba.   At this point the shore runs almost directly east to Santiago de Cuba, my next destination and Guantanamo.  At least that was my plan. Durning the night, I ran out of gas, confirming my suspicion that my gas guage was less than accurate.  I spent most of the night tacking my way from the northwest and across the Bahia de Guanacabo.  Nearing the light house of Cabo cruise and knowing there was a very substantial barrier reef I restarted the engine with the last gallong in the outboard tank,  for the final couple of miles to Cabo Cruz.  Dropped the hook and when to sleep.  I'm finding that if the wind is at my back, I can sail almost indefinitely without much fatigue.  But in a tack situation, it's a different story.  After about 48 hours of tacking, healed way over 20 degrees, so that it's a physical effort to move around the cabin and cockpit, my fatigue level rises significantly from the difficulty in getting a decent amount of sleep.  The bad news is that I could expect a lot more of these conditions all the way to the Windward Islands. 4/5/09  N19o50.391' W77o44.198' After a decent sleep, I was up at dawn and shortly thereafter took the dinghy the quarter mile by oars, as the outboard was out of gas also, to the landing just outside of town.  I was greeted by a fisherman and two kids who were really excited to see me.  They said no problem, gasoline was available here, and not only that his two young sons would be more than happy to carry it for me.  Somewhat relieved that fuel was not gonna be a problem I tied up the dinghy to a stump on the shore and started to disembark.  Along comes a young guy, not in uniform, but seemed to have some degree of authority there, judging by the deferential treatment from the fisherman and his sons, stating that not only was there no gasoline in town but that I could not even come ashore.  I tried to explain that my boat was out of gas and I was anxious to at least get 5 gallons.  No dice.  I was in a foul mood rowing that dinghy back to Natie M.  Before leaving the guy suggested that I head north up the coast to a larger fishing village.  Niquero is 20 miles up the coast (the wrong direction from my intended course) through several shoal areas, minimally marked.  It would be a tricky trip, requiring a lot of tacks.  Thinking the prospect of a full tank of fuel before I tackled the long coastal trip up to Santiago de Cuba, probably with head winds, I mad the prudent decision to make the detour in the quest for fuel.  So back to the boat and raised the main, pulled the anchor and headed north west, tacking my way toward Niquero. After about 5 hours of sometimes harrowing tacking through the shoals of the Golfo de Guanacayabo, I rounded the last cay and beheld the fishing port of Niquero.  I spotted the guarda station, and knowing they are going to want to talk with me, I sailed over, rounded up in front of the dilapidated concrete jetty, and dropped the anchor.   I was hoping this all would not be for naught, as the wind would be directly on my nose if I needed to sail back out of there.  As I pulled up, and deployed the dinghy I notice the welcoming party of three fatigued officials at the end of the dock.  As I rowed up, one of them, after a courteous greeting informed me that I must leave immediately and would not be allowed to anchor there overnight or for that matter for the next 15 minutes.  Keeping my cool, I tried to explain that I just needed some gas.   His reply was that there was no gasoline here for sale.  He was apologetic, but I'm sure he could see my frustration as I struggled to keep my cool.  I was definitely at the point in my trip to this lovely nation of bureaucratic saturation.  I made it clear that I was not happy and that I was going to have to tack my way out of this little anchorage, complete with abandoned pilings as an obstacle course.  To say the least I was pissed.  As much as I really loved Cuba, the people, the culture, the optimism and pride; the utter intransigence of the bureaucracy was on more than one occasion, really a pain in the ass.  In my simmering rage, I tacked back to Cabo Cruz, with the intention of once reaching there, if there was any sort of accommodating wind and sea state to head around the point and continue east to Santiago de Cuba, fuel or no fuel.  It was 3 hours later and dark when I approached, after 4 tacks, in a freshening breeze, the point.  At about 7 pm, I rounded the familiar light and immediately encountered a stiff east wind and waves into the mix.  I gave it a try for an hour, but tired and the attraction of the nice sheltered anchorage behind the reef at Cabo Cruz, I came about and with not too much difficulty was able to sail into the harbor.  Once in the harbor however, I discovered that my depth sounder was not working.  On top of that, as I came within 2 miles of Cabo Cruz, the lights of the small town and the light house were extinguished.  If not for the solar powered red and green navigation lights at the entrance to the harbor, I would have had to rely on my chart plotter with its 15 year old charts and temperamental gps antennae to guide me in.  It was a totally dark harbor that I came into and I could barely make out the mangroves to the north that bordered the anchorage.  I was able to beat to wind and come within what I thought was sufficient water.  That's when the untimely sequence of events occurred.  My plan was to sail as close to the mangroves as possible and drop the anchor out of the wind and waves.  This I did, unfortunately the spot that I dropped the anchor shoaled almost immediately so that once the Natie M., sails dropped and anchor set, settled into the wind, it swung around and into the turtle grass shoal.  I was a lot closer to the mangroves and even the landmark hulk than I intended.  I could feel the keel settle in to the bottom.  Once I realized that I had indeed run aground, I started the engine, hoping that a timely burst of thrust to get me back into deep water before I really got stuck.  I had about 5 minutes of gas and the motor soon sputtered off.  It was almost on cue that the electricity to the town and the light house came on sending the rotating beacon of the powerful light to intermittently light my predicament.  I had to laugh at the situation.  Using the main winch, I attempted to put enough strain on the anchor to hopefully drag me out of the shallows.  I could soon see that the only thing I accomplished here was to drag the anchor towards the bow.  The next thing was to take my backup anchor in the dinghy and row, (remember no gas for the outoboard) and set it a good 150 feet in the direction of the deeper water.  This was an ordeal in itself, as one of the oar locks would not secure the oar, and in addition, the stiff 15 knot wind to row against.  I'm sure I hurled a couple of epithets at the weather gods.  Once the anchor, after an exhausting paddle was set, I blew, literally, back to the boat in less than a minute and once on board, wound the new anchor rode onto the main winch and began hauling.  Once I had tension in the line, I raised the main and fortunately the boat being oriented perpendicular to the wind, for once, the Natie M. healed over to gently pivot the keel off the bottom, all the while I was furiously cranking on the winch to take up the slack.  Slowly and over a half hour and with every gust of wind, she slide off and was floating again.   I tied off the anchor line, and in a complete exhausted funk, tied off the line, made a cursory effort to sort out the tangled mess of lines on the deck, and went below to make a meal and go to bed.  Not my best day in Cuba.  All for want of a few litres gas. 4/6/09  0000 About an hour ago, after two hours of sleep, I headed out again.  The wind had settle a bit and seemed to be giving indications of adding a little more north to its persistent eastward compulsion.  I set off from Cabo Cruz ,, and was heading east along the coast.  I gradually pulled away from the rocky coastline, both for safety, but mostly because the east wind forced me into yet another beat to wind.    With no gas, thus no motor, I was completely unable to take advantage of the still wind that met me most of the following day.  I intermittently dropped the main, and ran jib and jigger, and finally deployed the the spinnaker only to watch it hang limply from the mast.  It was very frustrating not to make any way only for the want of a little gasoline.  I drifted more than sailed along the south coast of Cuba, in the sweltering heat, with only the dramatic view of the rocky coast and the Sierra Maestra mountains of Cuba to give some return for this ordeal.   One can look at mountains only so long before wishing for a change of venue.  I continued this way into the night.  Alone, frustrated, and probably a little depressed at the poor progress I had made in the past 48 hours, sitting in the dark with only the light of the compass in the cockpit and the stars above, I suddenly saw, or at least I saw an object fly into the main sail.  Thinking it was yet another hallucination, I ignored it, until it happened yet again.  I thought it was a bird and sure enough, a small wren like bird suddenly settled and perched onto the life line on the opposite side of the cockpit.  I was down below checking the plotter and wolfing down some rice and beans I had made earlier.  Something about having another living thing aboard, out in the middle of nowhere, made me want it to stay.  I kept my movements below to a minimum and slowly came back on deck only when it was necessary.  The bird would occasionally change its perch, but seemed determined to, what I assumed, was a badly needed respite from the exertions of flight.  I estimate that I was at least 15 miles offshore at this time, so the Natie M. was the only rest stop before the next exit.  My guest stayed with me for almost 2 hours, when during an unintentional tack, I was forced to attend the winch on which it was perched.  That was apparently enough rest for it and it took off, for the last time.  I hope it made it ashore.  I could relate to the longing for a calm perch.