The light fades over the Castle de los Tres Reyes Margos del Morro, (Castle of the Three Kings of Morro) guarding the entrance to Havana Harbor.
- CHAPTER 13 -
Last Night in Havana
Monday, March 1, 1999
It’s late afternoon when Victor drops us off at the Nacional. With the winter sun setting soon, I leave the hotel with my camera, drawn to the sea. It’s my last night in Cuba.
The light has gone, and the sun is below the clouds over the Straits of Florida. There are no colors—it’s a monotone evening. A full moon was to rise over Havana to the east, but it too is lost in the clouds. There’s little to inspire the photographer, yet I do not want to sit in my room alone with my thoughts. I want to experience this last evening in Havana with my camera.
What a privilege to be here, I am thinking, in this forgotten, off-limits culture on a magical island. I walk down the steps cut into the cliff from the Nacional, cross the Malecón, and reach the monument for the Battleship Maine. A canon and two anchors are all that remain of the American warship that blew up and sank right over there on February 15, 1898. Next year will be the 100th anniversary. No one knows for sure why there was an explosion, but it led to the Spanish-American War, which freed Cuba from the Spanish, only to land the island in the clutches of the American capitalists and The Mob. The waters of the Florida Straits lap on the riprap below the seawall that is the Malecón. It’s a tranquil evening. There were no storms, no rain, and no waves crashing over the seawall. I am hopeful for the future.
Families with their children, groups of young people, and couples of all ages scatter along the rampart, passing a bottle of rum back and forth. I walk on—away from the dwellings, away from the city—reflecting on my own life and on my wife and daughter waiting back in Maine.
The full moon finally rises above the haze, above El Morro, the fort that guards the harbor entrance. The moon is alone, like me. Lost in my own thoughts, I walk along the edge of the sea, through the romances and lives of the Cubans, drawn to the sea, abandoning the torment and conflict that swirl within the city, now sequestered across the boulevard. These people get as close to nature and the wilderness as possible.
This full moon reminds me of past full moons I've seen throughout my life: most have been over water—at sea as I sailed through the Bermuda Triangle on my way to the Caribbean; over the lake where I grew up in Central Massachusetts; over the lake where I now spend summers in Maine. While stationed on a beach in Vietnam, I witnessed at least seven full moons rising out of the South China Sea.
I frame the moon over El Moro with my camera and make an image. I know it will not be an interesting photograph, but I made it anyway to mark the evening. I want to remember this night.
I'm feeling philosophical and driven to write, so I head back to the hotel. I'm in the moment right now, alive and aware of my being here in Havana—something I wasn't four days ago when I felt I was in a dream. I think of Hemingway's house, of him standing at his typewriter, working, and turning out drafts for novels and short stories. I have read those drafts, typed on 8.5 by 11 paper, with his editors’ notes and corrections, deletions, and additions—realizing that even a great writer needs a really good editor to shape the prose. It also takes friends to read those first drafts and to tell the writer if what they’ve read is BS or something worth reworking. It may take the skills of others to help the author tell his stories. I read Maxwell Perkins's memoir, Scribner’s editor who shaped the works of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Thomas Wolf. Maxwell Perkins, just like them, crafted enduring literature. There are stories inside me waiting to be told with clarity and honesty, if I can get my ego out of the way. How can I get there? I told Anna at dinner last night that I had about 20 years left of my creative life. I was 59 at the time. As I write this now, I am 85 years old. Twenty-five years have passed since I began writing this story into my journals. I've only got a few more years to turn this into something worth sharing.
The next day, Anna and I make the all-day return flights—she back to New York City, I back up to Maine, and my life as Director of The Workshops, and my new role as a father. Will I be back in Cuba? It’s something I’ll need to work on.
