Detained in Cuba

In the last post, the Bermuda Sun Weekly article briefly described my father's short detention in Cuba. After talking with my father about it, I've put together a more detailed version of the incident.

My father had docked the "Beachcomber" in Miami along with Roger Chevrau and Daniel Botin. They had come to Miami from the Bahamas to outfit the boat and gather supplies for a planned trip to the Galapagos Islands. They were all young (in their twenties) and full of passion and excitement for their imagined high sea adventure.

They had met each other in the Bahamas six months earlier while working for some of the island's hotels. Roger was a pastry chef in Freeport and was originally from Quebec. Daniel had been working as a short order cook, also in Freeport and was the son of a retired French Admiral.

Two days before they intended to depart Miami, it began to rain heavily. The boat was still docked at a marina and since they were living out of it, they had to make due in the rain. In the midst of this November rainstorm, the three of them were huddled on the boat under a makeshift canopy trying to work on the engine. The only other person out in the rain was a US Naval officer who happened to walk by and so they said hello. He stopped, and despite the rain, struck up a conversation. They told him their stories and their plan for the Galapagos. He was intrigued by their story telling and likely felt sorry for them - seeing them crammed into a 23 ft sailboat in the pouring rain. The following day happened to be Thanksgiving, and he happened to be the commander of a local naval base so he invited them to share Thanksgiving dinner on the base. They accepted the invitation and celebrated their first Thanksgiving with the US navy. The next day, they thanked everyone they could on the base and made their way to the boat and then out to sea.

They set out from Miami and sailed into a storm that flooded the engine and tore the main sail. They were left to the whim of the currents. The boat drifted toward Cuba and after 3 days of drifting, they were picked up by a Cuban gunboat. They were not beaten but for another 3 days they were kept awake and questioned. Every two hours an interrogator would enter my father's cell and ask the same questions...what were you doing on a submarine base, what were you doing in Cuban waters, where are you coming from where are you going, who are you, who are your friends...etc According to my father, he thinks there must have been a cuban spy on the base because they had very specific knowledge about their recent visit.

On the third day, the three prisoners were brought out of their cells and put before a Cuban military official. Making a broad wry smile he apologized to them for the detention. He continued in impeccable unaccented French that they were now the invited guests of Fidel Castro. They were put in a jeep with armed "chaperones" and given a week long scripted tour of the island, complete with housing, meals, cigars and liquor.

At the end of their "visit", they were returned to their boat only to find that the boat had been completely stripped of all the canned food and equipment. The villager charged with towing them back out to sea was reluctant to help them but eventually agreed to provide them with fresh fruit before sent them back out to sea.

Although neither my father nor Roger spoke Spanish, Daniel later explained that he had grown up in Basque country and that although he feigned ignorance for the guards and officials, he actually understood everything that had been said. Daniel explained to them that the Cubans had decided that even though 3 Frenchmen sailing under a British flag (Bermuda) out of a US Naval base looked exceptionally suspicious, they had no intelligence to refute their story. According to Daniel, the Cubans had simply decided that giving them the week long vacation would be a cheap way for them to garner some positive international publicity, before kicking them off the island.

Alain Moureau: an introduction to his first 2 years at sea

The following is an Article I typed from a photocopy of an Issue of the Bermuda Sun Weekly. The photocopy bears no date but I assume it is from sometime in 1970. The Bermuda Sun Weekly no longer exists, and has been replaced by the Bermuda Sun...

"A life at sea for former waiter"

About two years ago in th the month of March, Mr. Alain Moureau a former waiter at the Princess Hotel, completely lacking in sailing experience, set sail for the caribbean on board his 23 ft Bermuda built sailing boat, the "Beachcomber."

During the first three days he encountered nothing but wind, rain and 35 ft waves. "It was pushing me right in the right direction so I decided to wait it out" said Alain. After 18 days when he was approaching San Salvador the boat went onto a reef. He was freed with the assistance of some passerby. From San Salvador he made the three day trip to Freeport and remained there for six months doing hotel work.

While in Freeport he met two fellow Frenchmen, Roger Chevrau and Daniel Botin. The three of them decided to sail to the Galapagos. They set out calling firstly at Miami and from there they set sail for Florida Key. But while they were in the Bahamas channel a storm was brewing. Their engine was flooded by the waves coming from astern and as the 35 mile an hour winds raged bringing 20 ft seas the "Beachcomber" lost use of her main sail. Having nothing with which to propel the craft they could do little but drift.

And drift they did, right into Cuban Waters. A Cuban Gunboat came out and men on board with machine guns issued orders which the French men could not understand.

The Cubans finally took "Beachcomber" into tow. Arriving in a fishing village they were taken to a local hotel where they were interrogated. The following day Chevrau and Botin were taken into the city to see some officials. When it was decided that the trio of Frenchmen were in fact who they said they were, they were ordered released and to be towed 10 miles off Cuba.

However upon returning to their boat they found that it had been raided and all the canned goods stolen. It was clear to them that they could not survive without food so they tried to break the language barrier and make their situation known. At first the man who was to tow them out was afraid to delay the carrying out of his orders but managed to secure a quantity of fruit for them. They survived on their fruit and fish diet. Within two days they were in Anguilla where they were able to buy food. The trio spent Christmas in Freeport, Grand Bahama.

Having given up the idea of going to Galapagos, his cruisemates decided to discontinue the voyage in Bimini. So after ten days there he sailed solo to Nassau. The following June saw him in Jamaica. Two days before his arrival in Port Antonio he ran out of fresh water, and only after some confusion did he get more from the coast guard.

Mr. Moureau stayed in Jamaica for a month and left only to avoid the hurricane activity. Leaving his boat in Nassau he flew home to France.

The reason he has brought his boat back to Bermuda is that he has been invited to sail around the world with American [Morton Lorage] (certain involved parties want this person and their connection to him to remain undisclosed) in his 40th yacht and he wanted somewhere to leave his boat in safety. Now that this 25 year old boat is safe in Mill's Creek he expects to be leaving by the end of this month for Nassau. From there he and "Morty" will take the "Lady Elyse" (name changed) to Miami to be fitted for the jaunt which will begin in December.

Je presente a vous...Tintin & Pollux

It's never too late for introductions: Here are the lovable pooches who live in the house with us. Pollux is the black Terrier. Despite his cute appearance, old age has made him feeble and mildly stinky. Tintin is robust and still very full of life. Nearly every afternoon we play fetch with a tennis ball. Pollux would like to join in, but he can't see the ball.

VilleFranche de Conflent, Vernet les Bains et le Abbaye sur le Montagne

October 18th Sunday
The morning began with Tintin's new habit- waking me up with sloppy dog kisses to the face. The shutters were wide open and the sun was up, shining brightly into the room. The air was windy and cool. Across the street, a neighbor's colorful clothing waved from a clothesline. Sitting up in bed I could hear the coffee machine two floors below, hissing and gurgling. I could hear the utensil drawer open and close. Tintin, feeling successful, jumped off the bed. She paused to issue a beckoning glance and then scurried down the stairs into the kitchen.I followed her down a few minutes later and greeted Sylvie and my father with the usual "bonjour". Breakfast was coffee and toasted slices of a Pave au Lin with local orange marmalade. Over

breakfast we talked about the general plan for the day, and since we were going to Villefranche de conflent they asked me to be ready to leave after breakfast.

Once on the road, we drove due west for an hour and a half. We drove through the valley along

the base of the Pyrenes, through Ille-sur-Tet, Marquixanes, and

then Prades where we stopped briefly to find a restroom and get gas. There was a McDonald's at the gas station stop, so being curious I walked in to look at their menu and use the bathroom.

In the bathroom there were animated ads on the urinals which I

thought was mildly invasive. When I came out and looked a

t the menu, a simple cheeseburger was 2 Euros and a Big Mac was 5.50 Euros. No wonder why the french dislike McDonald's. It's not even cheap!

We left the rest area and continued on the road, finally stopping in the town of Vernet-les-Bains. Vernet-les-Bains is a small town situated at the base of the Pyrenees, and it is famous in Europe for its hot mineral spring. During peak vacation periods, lots of retired folks come here to bathe in the spring and walk the mountain trails up to the Saint-Martin-du-Canigou abbey. One notable visitor who lived here prior to World War I was Rudyard Kipling.

Giving a nod to themountainside retreat, he wrote a short story entitled "Why snow falls at Vernet." Apparently the story mocks the

English habit of always talking about the weather. As you might guess, I am told that he story is much enjoyed in France.

Hunger limited our interest in Kipling so we walked from the bridge named after him and turned onto the main avenue toward the smell of food. It was noon and the first street brasseries were putting out their chairs for lunch. We stopped at one with reasonable prices (8 Euros for a full 4 course meal) and I had a

childish laugh at their bread

advertisement. The food was good, especially for the price. I had shredded vegetable crudite, and then a Bull meat stew with pommes frites. I had half a glass of the house vin rouge which was a nice compliment to the beef. Dessert was included so I chose the gateau chocolat, not expecting what came next. When the cake was served it was a small unassuming little thing. I put the first bite in my mouth and then I abruptly forgot where I was. The flavor and texture of the cake was

so incredible that nearly all other stimulus just faded out of my conscious awareness. I could only sense and taste microlayers of folded chocolate in my mouth. My eyes were unfocused and I didn't hear for a few seconds. I was in total shock and ecstasy and the look on my face was embarrassingly public. If I believed in angels I probably would have heard some singing, it was that effing good. Sylvie and my father had a good laugh but I couldn't have cared less. I just kept slowly eating the cake. Each new bite was mix of intense pleasure and a growing sense of loss and regret- because the cake was slowing disappearing. With a long melodramatic sigh I savored the last bite for as long as I could and then composed myself for our hike up the mountain.

We walked to the base of the mountain trail, passing an enclosure of goats on the right. The narrow footpath wound up the mountain back and forth between stone cliffs and clusters of chestnut tree forest. It wound back and forth as we rose further and further up the side of the mountain. Tintin led the group, marching steadily with a good sized stick in her mouth. My father and I followed about 50 meters behind Tintin. Trailing further behind was Sylvie, anchored to Pollux's leash. The little pudge-ball was really struggling to climb. His belly sagged, his panting was quick and it sounded like his mouth was dry. Pollux's pace was painfully slow, as he stopped every so often to catch his breath. At about 4000 ft, Tintin, my father and I arrived at the Abbey of St Martin of Canigou (the peak is at 9000 ft). 10 Minutes later Sylvie arrived carrying Pollux. He collapsed into a pile of wheezing and sweat (he was either sweating or oozing) when she finally put him down. Near the thousand year old stone Abbey was a small stone fountain. In its center was a bronze statue long ago turned green.

Sylvie carried Pollux to it and he lapped furiously at the cool water, stopping only to gasp every so often. As he cooled down, we explored the Abbey complex and took pictures of the fantastic view. Before leaving, we stopped at the abbey market and I bought a small flask of the abbey-made creme de framboise.

After our walk around the Abbey and a brief stop for water we turned around to descend the mountain, but poor Pollux just couldn't hack it. I propped him up on my shoulder and carried the little sac of bricks down the mountain.

Finally through with our hike we made our way back to the car and drove down the rode a few miles to the village of Villefranche de Conflent. Villefranche is a fortified city whose construction dates back to the 11th century. Stone walls, a moat, narrow cobblestone streets all make Villefranche a unique stop. There are thousands of pictures on the internet, so we took few. Many shops sold and were decorated with toy witches, witch dolls or witch totems. We were told that this is related to old Catalan customs which say that having a witch idol in your home brings good luck. I don't know much about the origins of the belief, but I blew a kiss to a witch statue on our way through. Before leaving, we stopped for a beer and then hit the road for the hour and a half drive back to Argeles.

Ce jour dans le Ceret, Ce soir dans le gluttony

October 17th Saturday.

Saturday morning we left the house early to go to the market in Ceret. Ceret turned out to be a beautiful little mountainside town filled with narrow brick and cobblestone streets. The labyrinthine streets were lined with trees and little shops and cafes. Every now and then around a corner the street would empty into a courtyard or a square absent of cars and foot traffic. Cooing pigeons sat along the stone edge of a fountain in one courtyard. In another, violet and yellow flowers bloomed under the watchful shade of an ancient oak tree.The main avenue in town was considerably wider than the rest and this is where the outdoor market was held. There were handicrafts and jewelry, clothing and antiques, secondhand items and local vegetables for sale. There were ceramics and paintings next to tables of local cheeses and herb encrusted sausages of every variety. Along one stretch of the market packed densely with people was a young group of musicians playing what sounded like a soft American number from the 1920s or 30s.

We stopped to buy a few petite goat cheeses and then slipped through the crowd into a cafe for some coffee. Ceret is not at high elevation, but it was chilly all morning nonetheless. We sat in the cafe for a while and watched people come in and out. Many of them were British or Scandanavian. When we asked, the waiter told us that Ceret has been attracting non-french art lovers for a long time. It has been home to a number of famous artists and houses a modern art museum. Former residents include Picasso, Matisse, and Modigliani just to name a few. I looked out into the central square and squinting to see, noticed the words "Musee d'Art Moderne" on a sign with an arrow pointing into a high archway.We didn't have time for that on this trip, but I'll be back. Instead of the museum, we continued our walk through the market picking up blood sausage, oysters, and some really good pears along the way. Soon it was time to make our way back to the car. TinTin who had been following along unleashed for most of the walk, weaseled her way through the thick crowds of legs and led us into a courtyard we hadn't passed through earlier. On one side of the courtyard was a medieval stone church. Facing the church from the opposing courtyard wall, read "Dieux Vous Regardez" in thick black spray painted letters. On the way out of the village we stopped by a charcuterie for free samples and then got onto the road back to the house for a proper lunch.

But it turned out to be anything but proper. I don't recommend eating oysters, blood sausage and goat cheese in the same meal. My father seemed fine, but I started to get nauseous halfway through the blood sausage. I wanted to throw up and be done with it, but despite the churning sensation, my body just wouldn't. Out of

the pantry comes my father with a large bottle of Fernet Branca the italian "digestif". He told me that this was his remedy for seasickness on the boat and that when a nauseous person takes a shot, 9 times out of ten they either

vomit or shit themselves, but the nausea goes away. Having few other options and a writhing knot in my middle, I drank a shot of the foul root liquor. A warm sensation dripped down my throat and my face spasmed in disgust. To my father and Sylvie, this was the height of comedy. I chased the Fernet Branca with a glass of water, and in less than a few minutes I was running to the bathroom. Let's just say that it works as advertised.

After the episode at lunch I took a b

rief nap and then got up to prepare things for the dinner party at chez Francis. I had the cooked Blanquette de Veau, and two cold uncooked apple desserts- the pie and the buckle. The plan was that we'd heat up the blanquette on the stove when we got there, and the pies would be cooked in the outdoor wood fired brick oven. Things went according to plan, and I got to cook potatoes in the oven as well.

The Dinner party was fun. There were

12 people and a few of them spoke some basic english, which made my frenglish easier to convey. They all seeme

d to like the food and politely fought over the apple pie. The buckle was less of a hit and we had to take about a quarter of it home at the end of the night. 4 glasses of local catalan wine loosened me up and I found myself accepting an invitation to another dinner party. This one is scheduled

for next week at the home of a couple whose names escape me at the moment, but the wife is an analytical chemist so we should have things to talk about. After midnight we said our goodbyes and headed home for a long sleep deep into Sunday morning.

In the footsteps of Hannibal

Friday October 16th

I intended to cook the Blanquette de Veau this morning but when we checked the cellar fridge, the meat smelled sour.  My father insisted that I pay the duty free price rather than buy it locally (10 dollars a kilo in the duty free zone, 22+ dollars a kilo in France).  So, off we went on a quick trip to Le Perthus.
Le Perthus is a small village right on the French-Spanish border, nestled in a mountain pass at around 1000 ft above sea level.  Parts of the town climb up the steep adjacent mountainsides until tapering off at about 2100 ft.  On the eastern side of the highway outside the town is a large step pyramid, built in 1976 (along with the highway).  It was built as a monument to the importance of the Pyrenean mountain pass in history.  In the 3rd century B.C. for example, Hannibal marched his army through this pass on his way to Gaul and then of course Rome.
    On the subject of Hannibal, my father had something to say.  He laughed and said that he'd met Hannibal once when he docked in Cartagena to avoid sailing through a storm.  I was a little puzzled but he continued with the story.  As he approached the harbor, a hundred ships filled with thousands of men clad in Carthaginian armor and goatskins were landing on the shore and fighting with what appeared to be Roman soldiers.  When my father got to land, he discovered that it was all part of the city's annual 3 day reenactment of Hannibal's landing.  Since fate had pushed him to shore anyway, he decided to stay for the festival and at some point he met the guy who was playing the famous general for the show.
Finishing the story we parked the car and began the walk up the central road into town.  The wind was unrelenting.  We found ourselves half bent over as we pushed through the force of the cold dry air.  Holding steady for good photos was nearly impossible so we hurried to get out of the wind.  On the way we passed various restaurants, shoe and clothing stores, auto-parts shops, and discount duty free liquor emporiums, finally weaving our way around a crowd of tourists into the charcuterie for the veal.

We bought the veal at a good price and made a quick exit to the car.  On the way home we stopped by some roadside vegetable stands petted the goats and bought some produce.
For lunch I made an eggplant parmigiana and Daniel stopped by with his appetite, two bottles of Catalan Vin Rouge and an apple tart.  After many glasses of the wine we got into another round of discussion about politics. Daniel had initially asked why we call the US the "united states" if laws can differ so much from state to state.  I spent 20 minutes trying to explain the American concept of Federalism, states rights, the senate vs. the house of representatives, the civil war, etc. and other basic reasons like the "no taxation without representation" argument for localized representation.  It was a little too much for both of us so we ended lunch talking about Roman Polanski instead.

In the late afternoon I cooked the Blanquette de Veau and prepared an apple pie and an apple-pecan buckle.  Even though the house was filled with delicious mouth watering aromas I was too tired to be really hungry.  We ate a quick meal of leftovers, and then I passed out early in my classic way.    

The fates wag fingers in warning

Thursday October 15th

So I had a quiet day for the most part.  We each had a small Pain au chocolat with coffee for breakfast and then I retreated into a few chapters of Rosetta Stone before taking a nice nap.  I made some phone calls after a lunch of leftovers and occupied myself until around 4 when I decided to take a bike ride to CarreFour market.  I still needed some ingredients for my Blanquette de Veau and for the apple desserts I planned to make on Saturday.  I set out toward Carrefour market and when I got there I noticed my wallet was gone!  So I retraced my route, went back to the house and checked all the places it could have been dropped, but I had no luck in finding it.  My heart fell into my stomach and my stomach churned.  I doubled back on the bicycle to make sure I hadn't missed it on the first search.  I knew I had had the wallet nearly the whole way there because I had switched it into my right pocket specifically because it is zippered.  I guess somehow I must have moved in such a way that the zipper opened.  Sigh...

30 minutes later my father saw me at the house.  A guy had called his cell phone to say that he had found the wallet and called the contact phone number I had left inside it (hooray for disaster planning).  He stopped by later and returned the wallet.  He explained that he had seen me drop it maybe 100 feet from Carrefour, and as I rode the bike around a parking lot corner some kids picked it up, grabbed the 50 euros in it and then threw it into a ditch and then ran off.  He must have picked it up less than 1 minute before I came back looking for it.  Anyway I'm taking this as a warning to be neurotically overprotective of my wallet and passport (which I always leave locked at the house).


At dinner my father mentioned that a swiss woman, who was a friend of his was retiring from running her bed and breakfast around the corner.  She related to him that she wanted to retire and paint and that she was tired of the hotel business.  The current price of the building is something like 300,000 euros.  After dinner I took a walk to the hotel and fantasized about running a bed and breakfast place.  I wonder if I know anyone who could invest...I know plenty of people who would want to stay there.