Fear of the Tide: The Untold Story of a Cuban Rebel

By Analise M. Oliver

In 1959, Fidel Castro became the new leader of Cuba after starting the Cuban Revolution and taking over by force. The US CIA, along with hundreds of Cuban antirevolutionists, opposed this new regime and, through covert operations, tried to stop him. David Fuentes Martinez joined the resistance in hopes to save his people from the hands of a communist.

Davids story shares some of the dramatic events and frightening situations that he was involved in before learning that his life was in danger. Shortly after the Bay of Pigs Invasion, his team was compromised, and many were killed. In fear of being captured, he went into hiding. As Fidel Castros men narrowed in on him, he had to flee, leaving his country that he loved behind forever.

Only a handful of rebels managed to escape. David Fuentes Martinez was one of them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543437300

Analise M. Oliver

Analise M. Oliver, the daughter of David Fuentes Martinez, listened to her father tell stories of his involvement in the Cuban Revolution over the years, eventually realizing that he had an amazing story to tell, and began taking the time to write those details down as he told them. Analise soon realized that a novel was unfolding, motivating her to continue to interview her father and finish the story. Mrs. Oliver is a consultant and trainer in Document Imaging and Management Technology. She has been a business owner since 1994, has authored a trade publication, developed training courses, and teaches others how to start and manage their own successful technology businesses. Married with four grown sons and seven grandchildren, she enjoys spending time with family. Analise is a breast cancer survivor, an advocate for at-risk youth, and the treasurer of the church she attends.

Book preview

OFF TO THE BIG CITY

O NE TICKET TO Havana, please, I requested as I slowly pushed the money across the counter. I had never been on a train, but after having a bus ride that terrified me years before, I felt safer using this mode of transportation.

Las Matinas, the rural town I grew up in, with a small population, didn’t have a police station, library, or town hall, but we did have a train stop. Located in the province of Pinar del Rio, it was approximately 260 miles from Havana, the capital of Cuba.

Do you want a round-trip ticket, niño? asked the man behind the counter.

I recognized him. He was a friend of my father’s.

What do you mean, señor? I wasn’t sure what he was asking since I had never heard the term he used.

Will you be returning? he clarified. He nodded his head and smiled at me.

No, señor. I am moving to Havana for good! I volunteered excitedly.

I thought about telling him that I was going to meet up with my father, who was already living in Havana, but another man showed up and formed a line behind me.

That will be $1.15, he said as he pushed my change toward me.

Gracias! I thanked him as I pocketed it and walked to the bench to wait for the train.

I had just left my uncle and aunt’s house and walked the path through town that led up to the train stop. My father had moved to Havana a few years earlier after landing a new job working on building tunnels under the ocean. He had left me in the care of my aunt and uncle, but before he left, he had given my uncle money to save until the day he could send for me. The letter finally arrived a few days ago. My father had told me his plan and assured me he would send for me when the time was right; I had just turned seventeen years old and would now be able to find employment.

The train station was nearly dilapidated; paint was peeling off the cement walls, the outside corners of the building had crumbling cement, and the awning above the window was hanging down by one of its hinges. The bench I chose to sit on was made of metal, which also had peeling black paint, revealing its worn age. I sat on the edge of the seat, placed my elbow on the arm of the bench, and scratched myself against the chipped paint. Hearing the train whistle as it approached, I looked up from my deep thoughts. The train stopped and opened its doors. I jumped up excitedly and ran toward the line to board. There weren’t many people on the train, so I picked a seat where I could sit alone, being sure to choose one where I couldn’t see out the front windows, remembering that bus ride I had taken so long ago that frightened me. Driving on narrow bumpy roads with oncoming traffic was a terrifying experience for a small child. I picked a seat near the back of the train.

As I sat down, I realized there was no turning back. My heart skipped quickly and I wondered just how much my life was about to change. I was leaving everything I knew behind—most of my family, my way of life, and close friends. I wasn’t sure what lay ahead, but I was ready. I knew this day would come, and now I was actually doing it. I had never lived in a city, nor had I ever been to one. The nearest city to me was Pinar del Rio, and I hadn’t had a reason to ever go there. My stomach had a knot with a butterfly sensation that fluttered even faster the farther the train moved away from my home. This was a big step for me. I looked out the window, wishing I had brought a newspaper or book to read so I could distract myself from being nervous.

You are going to be with your papi, David. I consoled myself nearly audibly and looked around to be sure no one had heard me. It had been a couple of years since I saw my father last, and I longed to see him. He had written a couple of letters describing his work and life, which was very different from the life I lived—simple and predictable.

For the rest of the trip, I sat back in my chair and watched the beautiful scenery as it passed me by, recalling childhood memories that both made me smile and cry. I tried hard to hold back tears when I thought of my mother. My dear, beautiful mother, who left me when I was only six years old. I missed her so much, and I wanted so desperately to see her face again, to smell her hair as she hugged me, as she so often did. Memories of her were still just as strong in my mind so many years since her death. My mother was a strong woman, yet her body was made fragile from having major complications with each of her pregnancies, including mine. Of ten pregnancies, she had given birth to six children. I was a middle child.

When my mother went into labor with me, the pain and complications were severe. The local doctor had come to our home to perform the delivery, but after too many hours of excruciating labor pains to no avail, he informed my parents that I was likely in a breach position in the womb. This posed a threat to her life. Labor had started before I had turned around and reached the proper position of headfirst. The doctor explained that if the birth continued, the likelihood of both mother and child surviving was almost impossible. Then he went on to painstakingly explain to my parents that in order to save my mother’s life, he would have to perform surgery to remove me from her womb, explaining that I would likely be removed in pieces. Rather than lose both mother and child, he would do his best to save my mother.

Within minutes of the conversation with the doctor, my maternal grandfather arrived at the hospital. He wanted to check on the progress of the delivery, knowing his daughter had difficulty in childbearing. He saw my parents crying and listened to them hysterically describe what the doctor had told them. My grandfather was a politician with many connections. Several of his friends were medical doctors. Upon learning the plan, he stopped the doctor from preparing for surgery and insisted they prepare my mother to leave. Instead, he would take her to the hospital in Havana where he planned to bring her for a second opinion.

Once they arrived at the hospital, my grandfather was able to find one of his friends and then pleaded with him to save both his daughter and his grandchild. The doctor, seeing my mother’s condition, immediately pulled a team of doctors together and they successfully performed the first Cesarean section in Cuba, saving us both.

My mother was one of nineteen children. Her parents had a big farmhouse not too far away from us. Many of my mother’s siblings and their children lived at my grandparents’ house. There were always many people around, and the place was full of endless activity, with children playing and laughing from morning until night. Going to my grandparents’ home was always fun because of all the cousins that were always there. And, there was always someone cooking a special meal.

One afternoon when my mother was not feeling well during her tenth pregnancy, we went to my grandparents’ house so that her mother and siblings could care for her. I was excited to go, as usual. We had been spending more time at my grandparents’ house in the six months prior to this visit, since my mother had given birth to my youngest brother, Alberto. The delivery of Alberto had left her weak, so weak that she could not care for him. She had painfully given him to one of her sisters, who was able to nurse and care for him while my mother tried to recover. I was outside playing in the yard with my cousins when an uncle of mine came out of the house very upset, yelling harshly, You did this to her! You killed her! pointing his finger at my father with a look of disgust on his face. My uncle then looked at me and said, David, what are you doing out here playing when your mother is dead? Get in the house and go see her!

Horrified by the words he had just spoken, I ran into the house and to my mother’s side, where she was lying on the kitchen table, covered in blood. I stood there staring at her but did not understand what was happening. Traumatized, I ran out of the house as fast as I could. My mother had died from losing too much blood from another miscarriage. She was only thirty-two years old. Her body could not handle another pregnancy so soon after barely surviving the last birth of my brother, Alberto.

As the months passed by after my mother’s death, I recalled my longing to see her and kiss her had only gotten stronger with each passing day. I had thought about her every single day and still did. My memories of how gentle and sweet she was were precious to me. My mother had loved me and I knew it. I really missed her and her presence in our home. Recalling how sometimes, if the wind blew just the right way through a window or open door, I could almost smell my mother’s freshly washed hair. The smell of dinner cooking would remind me of her as she worked diligently in the kitchen to prepare our meals, especially my favorite, lechón asado—pork roast, Cuban style. The house had felt so empty without her, and I would often find myself sitting on the front stoop watching for her to crest the hill in the distance on her way home from work. I knew she would have a special treat for me as she so often did.

My heart was aching again as I sat on the train thinking of my mother. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I remembered how crying myself to sleep had become a nightly occurrence as I mourned for her. I wiped my tears away using the bottom of my shirt and just hoped that she could see me on the train. I knew that if she did, she would be happy that I was embarking on a new journey—one that would provide me with new and exciting opportunities as I entered adulthood.

Sitting next to the window, I stared out at the scenery that showed off small quaint towns with brightly colored homes that seemed to burst on the landscape as we passed by. Kids were playing in their yards while parents sat on their porches playing dominoes. We crossed many rivers and passed by national parks and field after fields of corn, tobacco, sugarcane, and various vegetables. Farms scattered between towns showed cattle, goat, and horses as far as the eyes could see. A tribe of goat was running down a road being chased by a dog and I giggled. Several cowboys were riding on a path along the tracks and waved at us as we passed. I was seeing parts of Cuba I had never seen before. I admired its beauty, loved the culture, and right there in that moment, I fell in love with my country.

As we got closer to Havana, the late-afternoon sun cast a glow atop the city, causing the skyline to reveal just the tops of the tall sparkling buildings. The city’s backdrop introduced a stunning coastline, where the ocean spilled into harbors and coves. Ships in port were big and small, coming from all over the world. Cuba was certainly a gem in the Caribbean Sea, an enchanted place that captures you with its beauty, expressing its magic through the wondrous feeling that you live somewhere special.

When the train stopped at Central Station in Old Havana, I was the first one standing and debarked quickly, noticing a busy city all around me, and was instantly nervous but also intrigued. I wasn’t sure where to go, so I started walking toward the central part of town, observing the city life as I did. I was absorbed with everything around me. I looked up at a street sign and noticed I was on Mission Street. It was unusually hot and muggy. Although I was used to the heat in Cuba, it still hit me in the face as if a bucket of hot water was thrown at me. I immediately began to sweat and struggled to breathe normally. The buildings reflected the heat, causing sunbeams to bounce off the cement and glass. It was stifling!

There were shops with glass fronts and large cement buildings several stories tall. People were scurrying about, in and out of the shops, getting on and off the streetcars that were attached to cable wires that ran on tracks protruding from the center of the street and operated by train conductors. Large buses and cars were driving by and were parked on the side of the road. This was different from the little town in the country where I had just come from, as we didn’t have many cars in our little town. People walked or rode horses, but few owned cars.

I had the letter from my father in my pocket and removed it to read the address and directions that he had written to get to his place. As I walked along, I watched the crowds, mesmerized with what I saw. I finally noticed a man just standing on a corner, smoking a cigar, and took the opportunity to ask him for directions to the address provided.

"Oh, that is where the posadas are, he said, eager to help me. You are looking for a building that has a big number 7 on the outside of it. You can’t miss it!" he added. He pointed as he explained how to get there. It seemed like I did not have far to go; perhaps five or six blocks at the most. It was late afternoon and I figured my father would still be at work, so I didn’t rush to get there. I strolled down Vive Street, which was a long, busy road full of shops and little cafeterias. One of the small restaurants had a magnetic aroma that pulled me through the door as I walked by. A short, gray-haired old woman with a lovely smile and bright eyes asked me how I was doing. I nearly ran to the counter to see what she was cooking.

What are you cooking that smells so good? I asked, nearly drooling, spotting the tostones she had just taken out of the oil. I hadn’t eaten anything all day.

I am preparing ropa vieja for the two gentlemen sitting in the corner playing dominoes, and picadillo for the lady that is watching them. Would you like some picadillo? she smiled knowingly, as if she could read my face. I nodded.

And, some tostones please.

The game of dominoes, a favorite pastime of the Cuban people, was a game I knew and loved. I was probably still in diapers when my father taught me how to play it. While I waited for my food to be prepared, I watched the two men play. They didn’t turn or look up at me as I stood watching; they kept their concentration on the game.

When the meal was ready, I was pleasantly surprised at how large the portions were. The bed of rice under the picadillo covered the plate. I sat at a nearby table to continue watching the game, but got distracted by the outside comings and goings of people, cars, and public transportation. And although I could have sat there for another hour, I left as soon as I finished eating, eager to see more.

As I continued down Vive Street, I looked at everything—every structure, bus stop, sign, person, garden, and vehicle—everything! I stopped to look inside the windows of shops and admired the men’s clothing on display, even falling in love with a fedora that I discovered cost much more than the money I had left in my pocket. I took a mental note of its location, hoping that I could return after I had earned enough to buy it.

Suddenly I saw a large number 7 at the top of the outside of a building, high enough to see it from a block or two away. The man that had given me directions was certainly correct that it couldn’t be missed. This is it! I said audibly, excited.

As I got closer, I pulled the letter from my pocket to look for more details, noticing the posadas, as the stranger that gave me directions had called them, were within a community of the same style buildings, all seemingly old. They were made of cement and red brick, each section with its own entrance, but no door. The entrances were rounded at the top and a small black metal number hung on the right wall next to the entrance. I noticed one had a small sign with the word officina hanging crookedly above the number. A portly man that was sitting outside on the steps in front of the office was smoking a cigarette. He was an old man with mostly gray hair. The white T-shirt that was barely covering his big stomach caught my eye first, and then I noticed his sandals were too small for his feet. He hadn’t seen me yet, as he was staring up the street, but I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. I wondered if he lived there. I glanced down at the letter as I heard the man call my name.

David, is that you? the man said as if he knew me, which took me by surprise. I immediately walked straight to him, observing the coffee stains on the T-shirt he was wearing. I tried not to look at it as I responded.

Yes, I am David! I nearly squealed, delighted that I had arrived and this strange man knew who I was. I’m looking for my father who lives here. His name is Renardo Fuentes.

Getting up and walking toward me, the man shook my hand and introduced himself as Raúl, the owner of the hotel. His smile was friendly, and I instantly felt comfortable with him.

Your father told me you would be coming any day now. He was unsure of the exact day, but he is expecting you. Come with me. I’ll let you in his room. He is still at work but should be home soon.

Does he still work building tunnels under the ocean? I curiously asked because I knew that job required long, tough days and I wanted to know what to expect.

Yes, he is still working on the tunnels, and they are working on a big one right now. Sometimes he doesn’t come home for days, but since he has been expecting you, he has been coming home every day for the last week. He will be here!

Raúl walked me to my father’s room, unlocked the door, and let me in. The room was spacious but didn’t have much furniture. The kitchen area had a small table and a few cabinets, one with a door hanging off the hinges. There was little countertop space, but it was in good shape. The appliances were old and the refrigerator hummed an annoying noise every few minutes.

"Gracias, señor! I appreciate your help." I shook his hand.

Get settled in and as soon as I see your father, I will let him know you have made it, he smiled, seeming pleased. I sensed Raúl and he were good friends.

When Raúl left, I immediately went to the refrigerator to see if he had anything to drink and found a few bottles of soda. A couple of windows on the back wall let in a little bit of sunlight, but I found the wall switch and turned on the overhead light. I continued to look around, noting he had a bathroom and a bedroom. The place was clean. My father always was a tidy man so I didn’t expect to see otherwise.

After waiting for just over an hour, I heard the door open. I looked up to see my father had arrived and when he walked into the room, he was quite happy to see me, made obvious by the look of delight on his face as he ran toward me.

Niño! You are here! he exclaimed joyfully and gave me a tight hug.

I was taken aback by the aged transformation I saw on his face since the last time I had seen him. My father was in his early fifties—maybe he had even recently turned fifty, I wasn’t sure—but he looked a few years older than that. Gray hair was lining the sides of his head, and his forehead expressed deep lines.

After a big hug, we sat down at the kitchen table to talk.

You are growing up and you look good! Somehow you are now taller than me, he said laughing. How was the trip?

My father was a short, thin man who wore glasses. He was always dressed nicely; even when he just stayed home, he liked to look good. He wore cologne every day and kept his hair styled nicely.

Thanks, Papi! I laughed and then stood up again to show him my height, and he stood next to me to see the difference between us. I like the train ride much better than the bus. Thank you for sending for me as you promised. This city is just amazing, and I love what I have seen so far! No wonder you love it here. I said, stressing the word love and sitting back down.

"I came here for work, but I stay because it is a wonderful place to live. I think you will love it here and now you are old enough to work and take care of yourself—that is why I sent for you."

Papi, you are still building tunnels I heard! Is it scary?

No, not at all! Most of what I do is in the prep work anyway. The only real dangerous part of the work is getting the large parts of the tunnel by crane into position in the water. I enjoy my job.

As my father spoke, I stared at him and remembered our times together. Although he had been a tough father, he had taught me so much about working hard, supporting family, and being respectful. I admired and appreciated him. We sat there for a couple of hours talking about so much, stopping only to snack, and then he offered to show me around the building and the community. As we ran into people, he introduced me to his friends. We went into the courtyard where he then showed me the community he seemed to love. He made sure to show me where to find the local grocer, popular coffee spot, and various other necessaries, including the barber shop.

The posadas seemed a popular place, noting a conductor’s hat on a man that walked by. I pointed to him and my father confirmed he was one of the train conductors. He told me of the different people that took up residence in the hotel and mentioned how friendly everyone was with each other. Each individual building had multiple rooms and suites, similar to that of a hotel. Yet it operated more like a hostel. Kitchens and bathrooms were shared spaces, unless you paid a little more and were lucky to have your own bathroom.

We are like one big family here, my father said proudly.

Hearing his stories of how he made friends with people, including those that worked in high places, the government and even the military, eased any tensions I had and settled my nerves.

That evening, a good friend of my father’s, a sweet woman named Isabella that lived in the building, came to meet me. She brought a home-cooked meal she had prepared and laid it all out for us to eat. I thought maybe they were more than friends by the glance they had exchanged a couple of times while we ate, or perhaps liked each other enough to be more. Isabella had a bubbly personality. She was hyper and very chatty, telling me about her past and her family. She mentioned how she grew up on a farm and was quick to point out the similarities between our family and hers. I liked her almost right away and hoped that my father and she was a couple. She seemed to make him happy, and as far as I knew, he had been single since my mother’s passing. I knew that my father had gone to visit one of my mother’s sisters quite often, and had always thought that they might follow Cuban tradition and get together, but so far that hadn’t happened.

After supper Isabella left, and then my father and I spent a few hours talking about what we both had been doing over the past couple of years while I fixed his cupboard door. We talked so much we ended up staying up much later than we should have, knowing he had to work in the morning. Papi had gotten a cot for me and set it up in his bedroom. Between my father’s slight snore and the sounds of the city, I didn’t sleep well, but I anticipated that would change