Monday, April 13, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame
For a story about why some musicians are not inducted into the Rock ’n’ Roll Hall of Fame.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
10 Newspapers That Will Survive The Apocalypse
A recent story from Business Insider mentioned that there are plenty of local newspapers that, after cutting newsroom bloat, would be very profitable. The story goes on to say that these local newspapers just need to stop spending on trying to find their way out and instead they should focus on running their current good business.
The story named ten newspapers worth acquiring, including my present employer, the Daytona Beach News-Journal, a 100K-circulation daily, located here.
When this story ran, Business Insider did a screen grab of the ten newspapers that (they think) will survive. By coincidence, I had a rare front-page illustration that day. Please click on the headline, read the story and click through to read about all ten newspapers.
The last offer of $26 million to buy the newspaper fell through. Anyone interested? We have beautiful year-round weather, Daytona 500 auto racing, Bike Week, Spring Break …
Taxing the Online Travel Sites
Government officials want to collect more bed taxes from online travel sites.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Busted in El Salvador
In 1979, I went on my first trip to El Salvador. Since the early ’70s, we had heard stories from other traveling surfers about Punta Roca, a fabulous point break discovered by Miami surfer Bob Rotherham, who first stumbled upon this little speck of surfing nirvana while traveling through Central America in 1972. He totally fell in love with the country and the surf and married a local woman and settled there.
Bob “Don Roberto” Rotherham surfing Punta Roca in La Libertad.
Hitching a ride back to La Libertad after a surf session at El Sunzal. Often we were picked up by truckers carrying loads of cobblestones. We would climb up the side of the trucks and rest our surfboards on top of the rocks. Here’s me and Jeff’s girlfriend Julie hanging on for the ride.
The point break at El Sunzal.
Robert Gomez and I planned the trip and we were joined by Jeff and his girlfriend Julie. Now, at the time, getting high was a regular pre- and post-surf ritual for most surfers, but having heard horror stories of drug busts in Third World countries, and having seen the film Midnight Express, we all agreed we were not going to bring any weed with us.
We arrived in San Salvador late one afternoon and got a taxi to take us the 15 miles, over the mountains, to La Libertad. We checked into our $10-a-night motel and had dinner at Don Roberto’s restaurant while we prepared for our first Central American surf session the next morning.
One of the important things to know about surfing in Central America is that you dawn-patrol it everyday if you want to catch glassy, uncrowded surf, as the onshore winds usually kick in around 11 a.m and chop up the surf. We woke up before sunrise and walked down the dirt road, past the cemetery, to the cobblestone point and paddled out at first light.
The waves were as great as we had heard them described. Long, winding, hollow rights over a cobblestone point.
After a few days of surfing at La Libertad, we noticed local surfers lighting up on the beach, so we figured that maybe this was a "safe" country, after all. But the locals kept their distance from us, and we did not approach them to try to get high.
One night while having dinner at Don Roberto’s, we met a traveling couple from Hawaii and after trading stories and having a few beers, they offered us a joint of their homegrown weed. Robert, Jeff, Julie and I walked down the dirt road, past the cemetery, onto the cobblestone point where we surfed every day and proceeded to light up.
As we sat on the beach, under the glow of a full moon, the only sound being the clackety-clack of the waves rolling over the cobblestones, the main thing I remember is a simultaneous, collective “Whoaaaah …” from our small group. This stuff was so mild, yet so powerful, that it just crept up on us. It heightened the sounds of the ocean, the glow of the full moon and the moon’s reflection on the surface of the ocean. We all agreed this was some of the best weed we had ever tried.
After a while, we walked back to the restaurant and our new friends from Hawaii were still there. We thanked them profusely for their gift and they replied "Would you like to join us to smoke another?"
Well, of course it would have been impolite of us to refuse such generosity, so we all proceeded to walk back to the beach again. However, this time the women were feeling a bit spooked about the cemetery so we only went as far as the end of the dirt road leading to the beach. Which turned out to be a mistake.
As soon as we had finished our second joint, from the surrounding darkness came three soldiers, one from the beach side, one from the dirt road and one from the cemetery. The very first image I recall is of one of the soldiers standing in front of us, cocking his rifle and saying “Quien tiene la marijuana?" There was no doubt they had smelled our weed burning.
La Libertad was a very small town then, with no police force, so government soldiers were stationed at a small outpost from where they patrolled the town and beaches.
We froze. All the images of Midnight Express raced through my mind. I imagined having to call my parents to tell them I was in a Salvadorean prison.
Being the only Spanish-speaker in the group, I stepped forward and began talking to the lead soldier. I told him we were visiting surfers and that my friends had been drinking and partying too much. The soldier wasn’t believing my story and began a series of questions. Where were we from, he asked, what airline had we flown, what our flight number was, where were we staying.
I don’t know how I was able to retain my composure as I rapid-fired back the answers to him, while being so high that I was seeing swirly patterns of colors on his face.
As I thought I was making headway and somehow convincing him that we had just been drinking, he asked again, "Who has the marijuana? Everyone empty your pockets!”
At this moment I thought, this is it. We’re either busted, or the soldiers are going to rob us. We had been warned by Don Roberto that whenever we ventured away from our motel, we should carry only a minimal amount of cash and no jewelry in case we were robbed. Since we had dinner earlier, I knew that Robert, Jeff, Julie or I had no cash. But we had no idea if our new friends might be carrying weed with them.
As we all emptied our pockets and threw small change and motel keys on the ground, the couple from Hawaii did the same, and they were not carrying any weed!
The soldiers must have believed my story, or must have had some sympathy for us. They walked us back to our motel room as locals watched. We walked in, locked the doors, turned off the lights and went to sleep.
The next morning, as were were surfing perfect waves under sunny skies, I told my friends “We could be in prison right now.”
Bob “Don Roberto” Rotherham surfing Punta Roca in La Libertad.
Hitching a ride back to La Libertad after a surf session at El Sunzal. Often we were picked up by truckers carrying loads of cobblestones. We would climb up the side of the trucks and rest our surfboards on top of the rocks. Here’s me and Jeff’s girlfriend Julie hanging on for the ride.
The point break at El Sunzal.
Robert Gomez and I planned the trip and we were joined by Jeff and his girlfriend Julie. Now, at the time, getting high was a regular pre- and post-surf ritual for most surfers, but having heard horror stories of drug busts in Third World countries, and having seen the film Midnight Express, we all agreed we were not going to bring any weed with us.
We arrived in San Salvador late one afternoon and got a taxi to take us the 15 miles, over the mountains, to La Libertad. We checked into our $10-a-night motel and had dinner at Don Roberto’s restaurant while we prepared for our first Central American surf session the next morning.
One of the important things to know about surfing in Central America is that you dawn-patrol it everyday if you want to catch glassy, uncrowded surf, as the onshore winds usually kick in around 11 a.m and chop up the surf. We woke up before sunrise and walked down the dirt road, past the cemetery, to the cobblestone point and paddled out at first light.
The waves were as great as we had heard them described. Long, winding, hollow rights over a cobblestone point.
After a few days of surfing at La Libertad, we noticed local surfers lighting up on the beach, so we figured that maybe this was a "safe" country, after all. But the locals kept their distance from us, and we did not approach them to try to get high.
One night while having dinner at Don Roberto’s, we met a traveling couple from Hawaii and after trading stories and having a few beers, they offered us a joint of their homegrown weed. Robert, Jeff, Julie and I walked down the dirt road, past the cemetery, onto the cobblestone point where we surfed every day and proceeded to light up.
As we sat on the beach, under the glow of a full moon, the only sound being the clackety-clack of the waves rolling over the cobblestones, the main thing I remember is a simultaneous, collective “Whoaaaah …” from our small group. This stuff was so mild, yet so powerful, that it just crept up on us. It heightened the sounds of the ocean, the glow of the full moon and the moon’s reflection on the surface of the ocean. We all agreed this was some of the best weed we had ever tried.
After a while, we walked back to the restaurant and our new friends from Hawaii were still there. We thanked them profusely for their gift and they replied "Would you like to join us to smoke another?"
Well, of course it would have been impolite of us to refuse such generosity, so we all proceeded to walk back to the beach again. However, this time the women were feeling a bit spooked about the cemetery so we only went as far as the end of the dirt road leading to the beach. Which turned out to be a mistake.
As soon as we had finished our second joint, from the surrounding darkness came three soldiers, one from the beach side, one from the dirt road and one from the cemetery. The very first image I recall is of one of the soldiers standing in front of us, cocking his rifle and saying “Quien tiene la marijuana?" There was no doubt they had smelled our weed burning.
La Libertad was a very small town then, with no police force, so government soldiers were stationed at a small outpost from where they patrolled the town and beaches.
We froze. All the images of Midnight Express raced through my mind. I imagined having to call my parents to tell them I was in a Salvadorean prison.
Being the only Spanish-speaker in the group, I stepped forward and began talking to the lead soldier. I told him we were visiting surfers and that my friends had been drinking and partying too much. The soldier wasn’t believing my story and began a series of questions. Where were we from, he asked, what airline had we flown, what our flight number was, where were we staying.
I don’t know how I was able to retain my composure as I rapid-fired back the answers to him, while being so high that I was seeing swirly patterns of colors on his face.
As I thought I was making headway and somehow convincing him that we had just been drinking, he asked again, "Who has the marijuana? Everyone empty your pockets!”
At this moment I thought, this is it. We’re either busted, or the soldiers are going to rob us. We had been warned by Don Roberto that whenever we ventured away from our motel, we should carry only a minimal amount of cash and no jewelry in case we were robbed. Since we had dinner earlier, I knew that Robert, Jeff, Julie or I had no cash. But we had no idea if our new friends might be carrying weed with them.
As we all emptied our pockets and threw small change and motel keys on the ground, the couple from Hawaii did the same, and they were not carrying any weed!
The soldiers must have believed my story, or must have had some sympathy for us. They walked us back to our motel room as locals watched. We walked in, locked the doors, turned off the lights and went to sleep.
The next morning, as were were surfing perfect waves under sunny skies, I told my friends “We could be in prison right now.”
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
To see the outcome of this epic battle between Notre Dame’s leprechaun mascot versus U2 frontman Bono, click here.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
Metal sculptor produces fantasy bike
By OCTAVIO DIAZ
Staff Writer
Daytona Beach News-Journal
Ever dream of soaring down the highway on the back of a giant metal eagle? Or getting by with a little help from your dragon friends?
Key Largo metal sculptor Kim Brandell's motorcycle creations may help you do just that.
Brandell is exhibiting his unique metal creations, the Screaming Eagle and the Dragon bike during Bike Week at an Easy Riders magazine-sponsored space at the Iron Horse Saloon in Ormond Beach, at the Boardwalk Bike Show on Friday and at the Rat's Hole Bike Show at Daytona Lagoon.
A small crowd gathered as he unloaded his bikes from the trailer and at first impression, most onlookers assumed that the bikes were super-heavy.
Brandell's materials and technique — working with sheet copper and using a brazing rod and an oxygen-acetylene torch — gives the sculptures a massive, heavy-metal appearance, but they actually add only 75 pounds to the total weight of the bikes.
The Eagle bike is a three-piece copper sculpture that is overlaid onto a Harley-Davidson, which has 25,000 miles on it.
The attention to detail shows. Every metal feather overlaps, much as the real bird's feathers do.
"It takes a lot of money and time to build a custom bike," says Brandell, as he estimates in his head a cost of about $25,000 in materials and the amount of time spent to build each bike. Actual work time on the Eagle bike was six to seven weeks, and for the Dragon it was 12 weeks. But this work, which is his hobby, is stretched out over a period of two years, while Brandell continues his commercial work.
The Dragon bike is a functional sculpture. This three-piece metal work is mounted on top of a built-from-the-ground-up custom bike. With a main body resembling the textured, scaly skin of a dragon, several other dragons hold directional signals, speedometer and brake lights. One dragon that sits towards the back of the bike, tail wrapped around the license plate, watches Brandell's back as well as giving the "middle-finger salute" to other traffic following too close.
"I see the dragons as my psychological protectors. I feel I'm getting by with a little help from my dragon friends," said Brandell.
Brandell starts his works with a rough pencil sketch. Then he draws shapes and uses these as templates to cut the sheet copper. As he prepares to cut, he allows extra surface area, because the metal will have to wrap and bend to create a three-dimensional shape. "I think in 3D," says Brandell as he explains his process.
A few years ago, Brandell approached Easy Riders magazine with photos of his motorcycle works and Melissa Penland, principal of Action Promotions Inc., got him started exhibiting his custom creations at bike trade shows.
Brandell started his sculpture career 34 years ago. He began creating copper sculptures in his garage and exhibited his creations at outdoor arts and crafts shows in the eastern United States. After about 10 years, he was commissioned to do his first commercial project at The Mayfair Hotel and Shops in Coconut Grove. He made 18-copper elevator doors, 50 copper herons and 200 copper light sconces throughout the project. Most of his career since has been work for hotels, casinos, restaurants and high-end private residences, and he says he has produced metal sculptures for Donald Trump and Gloria Estefan.
Brandell built his first customized bike while still a senior in high school. It was a 1961 Panhead with silver fox fur mounted on the gas tank and fenders. But he did not build another bike until 2002 and that was the "Iguana Bike," which was featured on the official 2002 Bike Week poster.
And while he continues his metal sculpture work for clients, Brandell says his business is leaning toward the customized bike market.
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Here's the link to the News-Journal site for story and more pics.
Here’s the link for the video.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Gregg Allman and Friends at Destination Daytona
Last Saturday night March 1, 2009, as part of Bike Week events, rock and blues musician Gregg Allman performed at Destination Daytona. Although not my kind of music, I went to check it out anyway, since he was originally from Daytona Beach and I wanted to see him play for a hometown crowd. Plus, the newspaper gave me a free ticket.
He and his band Gregg Allman and Friends performed a solid, one-and-a-half hour set, plus two encores, including hits such as Whipping Post, Sweet Melissa, I'm No Angel and closed the show with Goin’ Back to Daytona.
For a 61-year-old guy who's survived alcoholism, cocaine and heroin addiction, hepatitis C and a marriage to Cher, he looked surprisingly fit.
Check out the concert pics here on my facebook page, and check out 30-second cellphone videos here and here and here and here.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Surfing Through the Years
From the 1968 high school yearbook, when I was a junior.
South Beach sequence, 1978.
Wilderness, Puerto Rico, 1987.
Middles, Puerto Rico, 1988.
Playa Jobos, Puerto Rico, 1990.
Playa Negra, Costa Rica, 1993.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
OD: The Early Years
I was married at the age of six. It was an arranged marriage and I did not get to meet my bride until the night of the ceremony. The relationship was doomed from the start, as neither of us knew what we were supposed to do on our wedding night.
Soon I realized I was too young to settle down, so I joined a biker gang. I stayed up late, drank a lot of sodas, got hooked on sweets.
By age seven, I was totally out of control. I lived a reckless lifestyle, terrorizing the neighborhood in my go-cart.
Then I met the first true (blonde!) love of my life. Linda Simmons was the daughter of my mother’s friend and her American husband. Our six-year age difference didn’t matter. Neither did our inability to communicate with each other, since she spoke no Spanish and I did not speak English. Our one-week relationship seemed to last a lifetime, but then her father had to return to the U.S. I was told their “vacation” was over. Frankly, I just thought her father didn’t trust me! He had heard about my wild behavior. I never saw her again!
I was heart-broken, but rather than return to my reckless lifestyle, by the age of eight, I found religion and began to clean up my life.
Soon I realized I was too young to settle down, so I joined a biker gang. I stayed up late, drank a lot of sodas, got hooked on sweets.
By age seven, I was totally out of control. I lived a reckless lifestyle, terrorizing the neighborhood in my go-cart.
Then I met the first true (blonde!) love of my life. Linda Simmons was the daughter of my mother’s friend and her American husband. Our six-year age difference didn’t matter. Neither did our inability to communicate with each other, since she spoke no Spanish and I did not speak English. Our one-week relationship seemed to last a lifetime, but then her father had to return to the U.S. I was told their “vacation” was over. Frankly, I just thought her father didn’t trust me! He had heard about my wild behavior. I never saw her again!
I was heart-broken, but rather than return to my reckless lifestyle, by the age of eight, I found religion and began to clean up my life.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Puerto Rico boasts tasty waves, filling food
I wrote this story for the Travel section of Florida Today newspaper in 2005.
Puerto Rico boasts tasty waves, filling food
Long considered the Hawaii of the Atlantic, Puerto Rico provides warm, crystal-clear waters, bigger, more powerful waves and reef breaks.
Surfing in Puerto Rico increased dramatically after the 1968 World Contest. Since, it has been the first trip and favorite reef-break training ground for Atlantic surfers, offering good surf in a beautiful U.S. territory with a mix of Latin culture and American convenience.
Peak months for surf are November through March, although Puerto Rico can get sizeable surf during hurricane season.
The majority of the surfing breaks are on the northwest tip of the island between Isabela and Rincon. This area offers a variety of breaks situated within a short drive time, depending on the direction of the swell.
Although March usually is a good month for waves on the East Coast, I figured the chances of catching some waves on my birthday would be greater by visiting Puerto Rico then.
An 8 a.m departure from Orlando International Airport and a noon arrival in San Juan, plus the two-hour drive to the northwest tip of the island, guaranteed that I could be in the water the same day. Now, JetBlue flies directly from Orlando into Aguadilla, saving the drive from and back to San Juan.
Surf, eat, surf
Most days start out with a dawn surf check, surfing until about 9:30 a.m., then a run to one of the many panaderias (bakeries) for quesitos (cheese-filled pastries), warm bread and coffee. Then back for another surf session until lunchtime.
For the less adventurous, there's always the McDonald's or Pizza Hut route for meals, but I chose to sample some of the local cuisine.
Brisas del Atlantico restaurant, with its $5 all-you-can-eat buffet, was outstanding. The food was fresh and abundant, which included arroz con habichuelas (rice and beans), carne asada (beef stew), chuletas (pork chops), serrucho (swordfish) and bacalao (cod) and tostones. Tostones (right) are twice-fried green plantains that make a great appetizer or side dish. They usually are served in restaurants to accompany seafood dishes, but they go well with any Puerto Rican dish.
After lunch and a rest to avoid the midday sun, it's time to check the surf again for a late afternoon session.
For dinner, there are plenty of choices to accommodate the budget.
One day, I went back to Brisas del Atlantico restaurant for dinner to try mofongo, the national dish. Mofongo is not for those who are watching their cholesterol. Traditionally prepared in a mortar and pestle, monfongo is made by mashing tostones with garlic, olive oil and chicarrones (fried pork rinds) or bacon. Then the mix is hollowed out to form a bowl and is stuffed with a variety of fillers in a sauce. Some popular fillers are shrimp, lobster and stewed chicken.
Another evening, I found Happy Belly's Bar & Restaurant on the beach road in Playa Jobos. It has a great oceanfront view by day. While eating your lunch, you can watch the surfing action from the restaurant's open-air deck. At night, the sound of the waves and the salty smell of the surf enhance the dining experience. There's live and/or DJ music and dancing on most nights and it stays open until 4 a.m.
I found Happy Belly's to be convenient and priced fairly, with steak and seafood dishes at $15 to $20, fresh mah-mahi sandwiches for $7 and a nightly special of chicken or steak fajitas for $5. Add a side order of tostones and you have a very satisfying meal.
One of my visits there coincided with the Cuba vs. Puerto Rico baseball game of the World Baseball Classic.
Although I'm not a baseball fan, I got caught up in the excitement of the crowd watching the game on TV at the bar and found myself out of place rooting for the team of my home country of Cuba. As one of the Cuban players hit a home run, I hollered loudly and got some menacing stares. No beer bottles were thrown, though.
Catching waves
Near the town of Isabela are the surf spots Jobos and Middles. The take-off zone at Playa Jobos is right next to the huge lava rock formation, and after a steep drop, it offers a speedy, long ride.
Coincidentally, after the wave has spent most of its energy, the wave rolls into a semiprotected cove with a sand bottom, which is the ideal training spot for the many young local kids who are just starting to surf.
Further west are Surfer's Beach and Wilderness, spots that can hold size and provide long rides. When the swell gets too big for these spots, a drive to Wishing Well, Crashboat or Gas Chamber is in order. Further west, the town of Rincon has the reef breaks of Domes, Maria's and Dogman's.
An added bonus to surfing the Rincon area is the chance of seeing endangered humpback whales. The winter months are the prime time to watch the largest mammals. They travel thousands of miles from the cold waters off the U.S., Canada, Greenland and Norway to the warmer waters of the Caribbean to mate and give birth.
The area of Isabela, Aguadilla and Rincon on the northwest corner of the island is so jam-packed with things to do on land and sea, you could exhaust yourself before you exhaust the possibilities.
It's a good thing it also is a relaxing, off-the-beaten-path destination, because after a long day of playing and sightseeing, you'll need a restorative meal and a cozy place to lay your head.
For the days when the waves are too small (it happens), there's snorkeling at Playa Jobos in Isabela and at Blue Hole in Shacks Beach or a short drive to the caves at Camuy.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Leaving Cuba
I wrote this op-ed piece for Florida Today newspaper in 1994, when another major exodus from Cuba was taking place. Rafts used by balseros, who had been rescued offshore by U.S. Coast Guard, were washing up as far north as Brevard County beaches. I figured this would be a good time to post it on my blog, on the 50th anniversary of the revolution.
CHILDREN WERE BEING TAKEN INTO INDOCTRINATION CAMPS
“Pack up some of your clothes, we’re leaving the country tomorrow morning.”
That's all the warning I had when my parents decided to leave Cuba in July 1961, when I was 10 years old. This was two years after Fidel Castro took control of the government from the previous dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista.
There was some discontent with the revolution among the middle class after Castro came to power, but no one really talked about these things because everyone was afraid. You didn't know who you could trust. People with anti-Castro sentiments were being reported and arrested.
My first experience with this fear happened when a classmate’s mother asked me how my parents felt about the revolution. I said that my parents were not as happy as when Castro first took power on Jan. 1, 1959. The next time this woman saw my mother, she said, "I hear you’re becoming anti-Castro and that you're not happy with the revolution.” Quickly, my mother changed the subject, and as soon as we were alone she said to me sternly, “If anyone asks you about the government, you should always respond 'I don't know.' ”
Frustration had been growing among the population. People were arrested at random for suspicion of anti-government activity. The socialist government confiscated private businesses, sugar mills and cattle ranches. Many Cubans who opposed Castro were leaving the country, and in 1961, travel restrictions were imposed.
Children were being taken into indoctrination camps, where they were given uniforms and taught to run through the neighborhoods shouting slogans praising the communist government and demanding the death of the imperialistic Yankees. Six- to 10-year-olds demanding death!
I attended Colegio de Belen, a Catholic school in Havana run by Jesuit priests. This was the same school Castro attended as a young man and I remember seeing his picture among the graduating class photos of earlier years.
I could sense there was discontent among the teachers and priests in regard to the government. One day, I arrived at school to find the chapel had been closed and the school was occupied by the militia, who had set up machine gun nests throughout.
It was April 1961, and I later learned that Castro was expecting the Bay of Pigs invasion.
One day during this occupation of the school, I saw from my classroom window (1) a confrontation taking place between an elderly priest and a soldier at the small bridge (2) leading to the entrance of the school. I could not hear what was going on, but I could see there was a heated exchange and the soldier cocked his rifle and pointed it at the priest's chest. A younger priest jumped between the soldier and the priest and I thought we were going to witness a death. Fortunately, the situation was calmed and no one was hurt, but when I got home and told my parents, they took me out of school the very next day under the pretense that the teachers had gone on strike.
Although we were just a middle-class family and had no real property or business that the government could confiscate, for fear that I might be sent to an indoctrination camp, my parents had begun their plan to leave the country. At the time, one could still leave for short trips, such as vacations, but it had to appear as if you were coming back.
My father was employed by the Cuban airline and he often traveled to Mexico and Miami to buy parts for the airplanes. But because of the nature of his travels and because my family was known by most people who worked at the airport, it was not safe for us to leave as a family from the airport. My parents feared they would be arrested.
An uncle who worked for a shipping agency arranged for my mother, my younger brother and I to book a trip on a cargo ship, which had been set up with bunk beds to accommodate people leaving the island. We were lucky enough to embark on the last ship that was allowed to legally leave the island. However, all we were allowed to take was one suitcase each.
So, in the early morning hours of July 28, 1961, we walked out of our house and left everything behind. My father drove us to the port, said goodbye and told us we soon would see each other again. Then he drove himself to the airport, parked the car, left the keys in the ignition for whoever happened to come upon it, and got on a flight for a business trip to Mexico. After he went through a month of immigration hassles, our family was reunited in Miami.
{In 1983, when my father passed away, I was going through his photos and personal papers and found his letter of resignation from his job in Cuba: "Dear Sir, I regret to inform you that I will not be returning to my job, as I have left the country and will not be coming back."}
Thinking back on our flight, it was relatively easy on me, harder on my parents. But it's nothing compared to the present-day emigrants who set sail on rickety crafts, with few supplies, over dangerous seas, leaving families behind for a chance to escape an oppressive government that denies its people the basic human necessities of freedom and opportunity.
Because I have lived most of my life in the United States, I hold no attachment or feelings of nostalgia for Cuba, mostly a sense of curiosity.
I find it interesting that Castro's dream of a utopian, socialist society may just crumble, not from some outside invasion, but from a rotting within.
WARNING:
I found this video of the first days of the Cuban revolution on youtube.
Video contains graphic images.
CHILDREN WERE BEING TAKEN INTO INDOCTRINATION CAMPS
“Pack up some of your clothes, we’re leaving the country tomorrow morning.”
That's all the warning I had when my parents decided to leave Cuba in July 1961, when I was 10 years old. This was two years after Fidel Castro took control of the government from the previous dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista.
There was some discontent with the revolution among the middle class after Castro came to power, but no one really talked about these things because everyone was afraid. You didn't know who you could trust. People with anti-Castro sentiments were being reported and arrested.
My first experience with this fear happened when a classmate’s mother asked me how my parents felt about the revolution. I said that my parents were not as happy as when Castro first took power on Jan. 1, 1959. The next time this woman saw my mother, she said, "I hear you’re becoming anti-Castro and that you're not happy with the revolution.” Quickly, my mother changed the subject, and as soon as we were alone she said to me sternly, “If anyone asks you about the government, you should always respond 'I don't know.' ”
Frustration had been growing among the population. People were arrested at random for suspicion of anti-government activity. The socialist government confiscated private businesses, sugar mills and cattle ranches. Many Cubans who opposed Castro were leaving the country, and in 1961, travel restrictions were imposed.
Children were being taken into indoctrination camps, where they were given uniforms and taught to run through the neighborhoods shouting slogans praising the communist government and demanding the death of the imperialistic Yankees. Six- to 10-year-olds demanding death!
I attended Colegio de Belen, a Catholic school in Havana run by Jesuit priests. This was the same school Castro attended as a young man and I remember seeing his picture among the graduating class photos of earlier years.
I could sense there was discontent among the teachers and priests in regard to the government. One day, I arrived at school to find the chapel had been closed and the school was occupied by the militia, who had set up machine gun nests throughout.
It was April 1961, and I later learned that Castro was expecting the Bay of Pigs invasion.
One day during this occupation of the school, I saw from my classroom window (1) a confrontation taking place between an elderly priest and a soldier at the small bridge (2) leading to the entrance of the school. I could not hear what was going on, but I could see there was a heated exchange and the soldier cocked his rifle and pointed it at the priest's chest. A younger priest jumped between the soldier and the priest and I thought we were going to witness a death. Fortunately, the situation was calmed and no one was hurt, but when I got home and told my parents, they took me out of school the very next day under the pretense that the teachers had gone on strike.
Although we were just a middle-class family and had no real property or business that the government could confiscate, for fear that I might be sent to an indoctrination camp, my parents had begun their plan to leave the country. At the time, one could still leave for short trips, such as vacations, but it had to appear as if you were coming back.
My father was employed by the Cuban airline and he often traveled to Mexico and Miami to buy parts for the airplanes. But because of the nature of his travels and because my family was known by most people who worked at the airport, it was not safe for us to leave as a family from the airport. My parents feared they would be arrested.
An uncle who worked for a shipping agency arranged for my mother, my younger brother and I to book a trip on a cargo ship, which had been set up with bunk beds to accommodate people leaving the island. We were lucky enough to embark on the last ship that was allowed to legally leave the island. However, all we were allowed to take was one suitcase each.
So, in the early morning hours of July 28, 1961, we walked out of our house and left everything behind. My father drove us to the port, said goodbye and told us we soon would see each other again. Then he drove himself to the airport, parked the car, left the keys in the ignition for whoever happened to come upon it, and got on a flight for a business trip to Mexico. After he went through a month of immigration hassles, our family was reunited in Miami.
{In 1983, when my father passed away, I was going through his photos and personal papers and found his letter of resignation from his job in Cuba: "Dear Sir, I regret to inform you that I will not be returning to my job, as I have left the country and will not be coming back."}
Thinking back on our flight, it was relatively easy on me, harder on my parents. But it's nothing compared to the present-day emigrants who set sail on rickety crafts, with few supplies, over dangerous seas, leaving families behind for a chance to escape an oppressive government that denies its people the basic human necessities of freedom and opportunity.
Because I have lived most of my life in the United States, I hold no attachment or feelings of nostalgia for Cuba, mostly a sense of curiosity.
I find it interesting that Castro's dream of a utopian, socialist society may just crumble, not from some outside invasion, but from a rotting within.
WARNING:
I found this video of the first days of the Cuban revolution on youtube.
Video contains graphic images.
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