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“To live free,” Amaury responds matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?”
Amaury extends his legs out, in search of a comfortable position. “Cuba is a communist country and we Cubans can’t live freely.” Even though I’m Latina, I know very little of Cuba and its history. Growing up in the United States we didn’t learn much about it in history classes, and I never took the time to learn about it.
“I know Cuba has a communist government but I’m ashamed to say I don’t know much about what that means or how it affects people’s lives. I remember hearing a little about it when President Clinton passed a law relating to Cubans, but the truth is I was young and didn’t pay attention to any of it.”
“It’s not you, Sol. Most peopleno sabenwhat it’s like. Most people cannot even imagine it.Es horrible.” I know him telling me most people don’t know about Cuba or Cuban history is meant to make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
“Tell me about it,” I say, shifting my body toward his.
“I no fear death, I fear no living. If I stayen Cuba, that’s no life, it’s survival. That’s why I left on a raft. It’s better to die free in the ocean than live in Cuba.”
My eyes widen, the shock of the words I just heard fall from Amaury’s lips something I was not expecting. “Did you say a raft?”
“Sí. Soy balsero. A Cuban rafter.”
I gasp. “Wait, what? How?”
“Desperation makes you do things you otherwise no have courage for,mibellaSol.” He caresses my jawline before looking out over the water. “One day twelve years ago, I went to see my mother,Mima, to eat lunch at her house. My best friend, Roberto, lived next door to her and I askedMimaif she know where Roberto is. When my mother say yes, she saw him earlier that day and he had left in a hurry to Miguel’s house. I knew right away what Roberto and Miguel were doing.”
“Who’s Miguel?”
“A frienddeCubawho came on the raft with us.”
Amaury is speaking, but his gaze is lost somewhere out at sea, as if the story he’s sharing is taking him back to the moment it took place.
“Right away I stand up.Mima, vuelvo enseguida, I told her, even if I knew I no be coming back. I left my lunch half eaten and ran to Miguel’s house, who lived near the beach. When I arrived, Roberto, Miguel, and five others were there. They were building a raft made of inner tubes and were almost finished. When I asked when they were leaving, they told me after sunset. I left with them; there was no other choice for me. I couldn’t stay in Cuba.”
“Just like that? Did you say goodbye to your mom, your family, or friends?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “You cannot say anything about those things. Because if people know, they talk, and then we would be arrested.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty-four.”
Goosebumps spread across my skin at his words. I cannot imagine what that must feel like. To feel so desperate in a situation you would risk your life on a homemade raft to cross the ocean. I grew up working class with a single mom and thought I didn’t have much, but, after hearing him recount what desperation drove him to do, my upbringing pales in comparison. “What was it like when you left? Were you scared?”
He’s nodding. “Yes, very scared. But I was more desperate than scared.” A chill runs up my spine at his words and I lift my legs and sit up, bringing my knees to my chest to wrap my arms around them.
“There were eight of us on the raft. We took turnsremando—” he motions his arms back and forth in a rowing motion “—two at a time. Most of us wore rain jackets to protect our skin from the sun. We had water, canned foods, and prepared sugar water.”
“Sugar water? What’s that for?”
“Te mata el hambre,” he responds, my mouth agape at the story falling from his lips. “We had food, but being on abalsain the open ocean, it’s no easy to eat because you throw up. So, you drink sugar water. It’s something we learned living in Cuba on days we didn’t have food to eat. Sugar kills your hunger.” He glances at me, his eyes soft and his lips slightly downturned.
“How long did it take you to get here?”
“Four days, four nights.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper. “How did you know where to go?”
He points up at the night sky. “Las estrellas,la luna,y el sol,” he responds, meeting my gaze while running the back of his hand down my cheek, causing my skin to prickle. A homemade raft being guided by the stars, the moon, and the sun—it’s like a story ripped from the pages of a book, except it’s his reality.
“What was it like, being out there—” I point to the ocean “—for four days and nights?”
“The first night when we left Miguel’s house the moon was almost full and the ocean was, how you saypicado?” he asks, shifting his eyes toward me.
