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WAVES
Emilio Adolfo Rivero
November 5, 1960. Dawn.
The reddish-haired new-born had soundly slept the whole night, giving me the
opportunity of a badly needed good night's rest. Different from most two or
three weeks-old babies, her traits were clearly defined, even beautiful.
By 5:15, after finishing my yoga exercises, I went out of the room. Guido and
his wife, as agreed upon, were already up and preparing themselves for our early
walk to the beach. But now they delighted for some moments in the contemplation
of their baby girl, while she was being fed. At the same time Guido and I kept
watch, looking through a window into the open sea, in the direction of Havana.
At about 5:45, in the dim morning light, we saw a white speck far into the sea,
perhaps three miles away. "I think this is it", said Guido. "Let's go!"
The child was left wit a maid, while the three of us went out of the house and
walked to the beach, less than two blocks away. At that hour, Santa Maria del
Mar looked beautiful. There was no one up yet. The wind was blowing. The sea was
somewhat agitated, as is usually the case in the northern shore of Cuba, this
time of the year. The swelling of the waves did not forebode an easy task in
swimming offshore the mile that had been determined as the point of rendezvous.
Guido gave me his flippers, recommendig me to use them, for they would increase
my speed. We looked into the open sea. From the sand ridge where we were
standing, the 33 feet yacht was somehow discernible far away into the sea,
northwest to our position. Then the three of us went into the water. I then put
on the flippers. Guido and his wife started swimming near the shore, while I
swam straight ahead, northbound. I was concerned now on not getting to the yacht
on time, where it was to pass in front of us, one mile away from the beach. I
speeded up my swimmming as much as I could.
I must had swum at a speed faster than I realized, for when I looked back to the
beach, I could see it only while being on the crest of a wave. I saw that Guido
and his wife were walking on the beach. "Don't go away" I yelled, hoping they
would hear me, fearing that if they left the beach, the people in the yacht
would not have a reference point in trying to locate me. When I saw the yacht
again, I realized that it would be impossible for me to get to it, as it passed
parallel to the coast. I redoubled my efforts in trying to swim faster, but it
was useless. The boat had missed me by more than two hundred meters. I felt
exhausted. I looked back to the shore. It was a mile or more away. It was clear
to me, I could not make the way back. I remember thinking: "what a stupid way to
die!". An then I began to swallow water. I was drowning.
A very unusual thing happened to me then, similar to experiences I had read
about, without completely believing them. I had read stories concerning people
who had been on the brink of dying by asphyxia, while being drowned or strangled
by hanging. Those people had mentioned that in brief moments they had had
recollections of a whole life's experiences, as if the daily occurrences of
their own lives' times had been shown to them in a film, reeling at an
incredible speed.
And then, while I was drowning, I went through those same experiences. Images of
my whole life, without connection among them, youth, childhood, adulthood,
important, trivial events, all began to rush into my consciousness, pell-mell.
Among those scenes, which in those moments appeared innumerable, without end,
the last two were strongly vivid, provoking a kind of return from that delirium.
One of them was of my oldest son, Emilio Adolfo, when he was a six years-old,
successfuly riding his bycicle for the first time. The other and last scene was
that of my younger son, Ruben Adolfo, and my daughter Irma Alicia, when they
were three and two respectively, pushing the dining-room chairs, so as to sit at
my sides while I was having lunch. My mind jolted: "I can not leave them
orphans!". As in a flash, a sudden and violent up-surge of strength ran through
me, bringing me back to full possesion of my senses. I looked again into the
open sea, to the northeast. The yacht was turning around. Coming from my right,
it was going to pass in front of me, some one hundred meters away. I started
yelling: "Prado! Prado!, Prado!". Then the yacht tilted its way, and headed
directly towards me. It relented speed while approaching. Prado lowered a ladder
on the port side of the boat, and helped me climb inside. "¡Estas cianótico!"
("You are cyanotic!"), he exclaimed. Strenuously I climbed aboard and let myself
collapse on the desk, spent.
Prado yelled at Eduardo Oliva, the skipper, "north!, full engine!" At that
moment, Prado's wife, who was in one of the cabins' bunks, and who was several
months pregnant, raised her body a litlle bit, reclined on her left elbow, and
looked at me, the unexpected guest, astonished, for she had had no previous
indication of my arrival. Prado smiled at her and then, addressing me, asked: "quieres
un cognac?" ("do you want a cognac?"). He was already helping himself to one.
Lying on the deck, face down, panting, I answered: "No, gracias" (No, thanks").
Later in the morning, while cruising towards Key West, Prado commented: "When I
heard you calling my name, I thought: If this is heard by a Government patrol
boat, they are going to riddle us with bullets". "I was drowning", I commented.
"Had you not seen me, it would have been my end." "I heard you", he replied,
"but it was Eduardo who first saw you".
It was a sunny morning. I was wearing only my bathing suit, and all the time we
were navigating I spent on deck, either on the main level or on the upper one,
where there was only place for the helmsman. Since the skipper was on the
yacht's main deck, the upper helm was idle. When we were in U. S. territorial
waters, I told Eduardo that I wanted to make him a present, and begged of him to
mention what did he care for. He refused my offer, though, on my repeated
insistence, he mentioned he would like me to present him a revolver. When I saw
him again, I was back in clandestine life, in Cuba. I had not forgotten his
words, and I was happy when I granted him his wish.
It was close to two o'clock in the afternoon when we docked in Key West. By then
I had already dressed with the clothes I had given Prado in Havana. On arriving
in Key West, he lent me some American money, with which I paid a taxi cab to the
airport and bought a ticket to Miami, using an assumed name. Three hours later I
was kissing Ruben Adolfo and Irma Alicia, whose sweet remembrances, together
with Emilio Adolfo's, their brother, had brought their father back to life.
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