Visions of Cuba

By J. Lee Porter and Ed Teja

Dreams are ways of seeing

When Carlos returns to his birthplace to learn about the family he never knew, and find out why he was sent to the US alone at an early age, he is also trying to understand his dreams... dreams of Cuba during a time when he wasn't there, of events that happened to someone else.

 Making sense of it all is the goal... if that's even possible. But the search is a journey of its own.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nomadic Giant
• Release date: Aug 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201821111

J. Lee Porter

J. Lee Porter is a former IT specialist, programmer and data analyst for banking, security, and government agencies. He left the IT world behind on July 4th, 2016, declaring it his personal independence day to travel the world full time in search of inspiration for his writing. @JLPorterAuthor on Twitter Ed Teja is a writer a poet, a musician, and boat bum. He writes about the places he knows, and the people who live in the margins of the world. After being friends with tech giants, pirates, fishermen, and a coterie of strange people for many years, he finds the world an amazing place filled with intriguing, if sometimes crazed characters. @ETeja on Twitter

Book preview

JAMAICA

Montego Freeport Anchorage

In the early hours of the tropical morning, he sat on the stern of the catamaran, facing out to sea, and watching the first rays of light creep from the horizon to back-light clouds on the opposite side of the bay, washing them in soft pink.

Good morning, Carlos, a sleepy voice said from behind him. You’re up early.

He twisted to see Gloria stretching in the hatchway, watching him.

She scowled. Did you have that dream again? About Cuba?

"Yes, the one about Cuba." The one that caused him so much confusion.

The entire world seemed dark and warm; he thought he felt the night caress his skin—a pleasant sensation. People were talking anxiously, whispering in hoarse voices as a woman, his mother, clutched his hand in hers, half dragging him across docks that smelled of fish, moving through the crowd. The smell of her perfume mixed with the salty smell of the water, fish odors, and the pungent smell and rumble of a diesel engine idling, all touched by the counterpoint of what he knew to be night-blooming jasmine. The rustle of her skirt made their motions seem urgent, and it brushed over his face as she hurried him along, moving toward something—a boat.

What is it? A man said.

Gaspar said— she started.

It’s you then. Hand this one up, a man said. We have to move quickly.

She did, grabbing him under his arms and propelling him upward. The man took him, turning, handing him to someone else, passing him from person to person into the crowded hold of the fishing boat.

The shrill cry of a whistle shattered the night, followed by loud cracks, and then screams. Moving quickly, the man holding him passed him to a large woman who sat in the boat, then turned back. Now! Cast off now! he shouted.

But the others— the woman said.

They are coming, he said as the engine roared. The boat shuddered, then moved forward, and the woman pressed him to her huge breasts as the boat surged away.

He smiled at Gloria. Yeah, that same dream.

Which version?

Her interest in those dreams both surprised and pleased him, although partly she was drawn into the puzzle that was his life.

The one where I get taken away in a boat.

Instead of the one where you are left behind. I wonder why sometimes it’s one and other times the other?

Her question immediately put his mind into that dream, the one she called the other.

It is the same night, but different in many ways. This time a man is carrying him through the crowd and the woman, his mother, is ahead of them, but he can’t see her. He has his small arms wrapped around the man’s neck, his face buried against the man’s, smelling his aftershave, feeling the roughness of his cheeks against his face. Again, they come to a boat alongside the dock. The woman approaches it and hands something to a man on the boat. There is a sense of anxiety, of being rushed, hurried.

Again, the whistle echoes through the night. The woman turns to face them, fear filling her face. Again, those cracks, sounds that might be gunfire, ring out, and people begin to scream. The men around him shout; the boat’s engine roars. Men throw large ropes onto the pier and the boat starts to move, lurching forward.

The woman, his mother, shouts something at the man. Her words are filled with tears, panic. The man grabs her hand. Run! he shouts.

As chaos overwhelms the crowd on the dock, the boat disappears into the night. They move away, rushing back toward the city.

People are running in every direction and men are shouting stop and he hears more shots. Beside him, his mother cries out, staggers, and then falls to the ground.

Carmen! The man cries, stopping, turning back to where she lies. Then he shouts something and falls too. Wrapped in the man’s arms, he hits the ground, scraping his cheek on the concrete. He cries out, and feels