He was a handsome young man who worked, doing whatever needed to be done and he loved every minute of it. He was sweeping the deck of the ferry that had just disembarked from Havana when John, his uncle, came running down the stairs from the boardwalk, yelling and waving his arms above his head. It had the right effect, causing the boat’s crew to step out of the cabin. Dalian stopped his sweeping to hear. “Hurricane!”
The sky was bright blue, without a cloud anywhere so Dalian shaded his eyes as he listened to the details. It wasn’t a call to panic, it was message to change plans for the day, which happens when you live on the straits. Dalian was raised in Cuba where his mother’s family lived. HIs father and uncle were from Key West and they owned a ferry service that they ran together, one from each side of the Florida Straits. With family on both sides, the water just scenery that connected life together. As a young man, Dalian spent each spring in Key West when tourism demand was high. More recently, the business had stretched further into the bumper seasons. More people were coming from Cuba and not so many returned.
This is why Dalian found himself, on a bright blue day at the end of August, with the breeze picking up around him, tying down anything loose and making sure two of three ferries were as secure as possible. The other ferry should already be in Havana, where it would hopefully wait as well. By mid-afternoon the office was boarded up and the staff was heading home.
One of the first mates, a tall kid from Boston named Gary waited back. He said, “Hey kid, you up for some fun?” Dalian said, “sure,” as he looked to his uncle, partly to acknowledge his leaving but also to gauge his reaction to befriending the white boy. His uncle waved him off with a shrug. It had meaning among family members, something like, your mamà would say no, but I ain’t her. So started out when Gary had to grasp at his hat to keep it from blowing off on sudden burst of wind.
Gary wasn’t much older than Dalian but his height and skin color set them apart. Dalian knew he had worked some the docks in Boston, and that he had come to Florida a few months before to work, but little else. He seemed like a fun guy. They reached Duval Street to find many of the storefronts had their windows shuttered. The bars were still open, each home to a few drinkers who had also ended their day early, but Dalian’s hopes were dashed as Gary failed to stop at any of them. Eventually they reached the old ice shack on the corner of Greene Street and ducked behind it, into yard with a small shed that looked like it had survived as many storms as it was going to. Inside there were some old sacks piled in a corner, a rickety card table and chairs and two guys holding beers. They offered the boys a seat and beer while Gary introduced them as Zeke and Tony.
Zeke said he wanted this to be a friendly game so he suggested they keep the stakes low, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Dalian figured out that having two or more of the same type, regardless of suit was a safe way to collect cards so he stuck with that until one hand he started with three kings—clubs, spades and hearts. Trusting luck and feeling sure, he bet the max. Gary didn’t hesitate to fold. Zeke carried the bet and Tony called. One by one he laid down a flush of diamonds, ace high.
Zeke laughed as Tony pulled in his winnings, leaving Dalian a bit dazed. Gary’s face mirrored the storm clouds swirling outside as he gathered the cards for the next hand. When Zeke stopped laughing he said, “Hey Gary, you better watch out, your Cuban buddy’s seen it all now. Pretty soon you’ll be owing him money too.” It wasn’t until much later that Dalian made sense of it. Tony popped the cap on another beer when three soft raps on the shack wall brought Tony and Zeke to their feet. Tony was out first and Zeke looked mostly at Gary and said, “Sit tight, be back.”
When Zeke was barely out of sight, Gary got up on his feet too. He swiped all the money on the table into his upturned shirt and signaled his intention to bolt with a jerk of his head. Dalian was still confused but quickly fell in behind him as they began to run.
Dark, full clouds above and a lingering light from the horizon put the buildings and trees into sharp contrast making the whole experience seem unreal. They made it to the row of warehouses that back against the docks when they heard Zeke yell out for them to stop. Gary led them through a warehouse gate that was halfway closed and immediately realized their mistake. Dalian moved deeper in, hoping for and unseen exit while Gary ran back through the gate. They almost grabbed him but got through and Zeke was forced to chase after him. Tony came to a stop just inside the warehouse and then waited for Dalian to decide what he was going to do.
Now on his own, Dalian began to think things through. Tony was nimble, so there would be no dashing past him. After a moment Dalian decided to try diplomacy. “I’m sorry about what happened,” he said. “Gary took your money. He still has it. I shouldn’t have run.” Tony shrugged, and continued to wait. There was only one way this could go, so he put up his fists and they slowly approached each other.
Zeke eventually returned, empty handed, to find Dalian clutching his right hand to his chest and Tony on the floor, holding his gut, struggling to get up. Dalian’s left eye was swelling up. No one made a move while Zeke caught his breath and then asked, “You know where that skinny bastard is going?” Dalian shook his head, no. Zeke continued, “That’s too bad for you because that means you’re gonna have to pay us back instead.”
Dalian would lose against two so he offered to give them his watch to cover half of what Gary took. Zeke agreed and chewed it into his pocket. Then he shoved him back a few steps and said, “You tell that guy, he owes us the other half, plus something extra for the trouble.” Dalian nodded, but before they left, Tony said, “Do you think that fancy piece of shit’s gonna cover you, for what you just gave us? He’s probably using right now on a girl or a bottle. You should just take your sorry ass back to Cuba where you belong.”
Dalian thought about it as he walked out of the warehouse district and started towards his uncle’s house. He thought they were right about Gary. He’d been played. He looked out towards the South—towards Cuba, through a gap between buildings. Fierce waves were raging against the beach. If it weren’t for the storm he could take the ferry and be in Havana in no time.
He walked on. The wind picked up into a howl and sprayed loose sand and salt into his face. Then the rain fell hard, coming in sheets. The wetness hid the tears that were part reaction to the sand in his eyes and part sorrow from the loss. He wasn’t thinking of the watch or his money, it was this place. Key West wasn’t an extension of his home across the water. It was the other side of a border, a place where he didn’t belong.
The hurricane passed right through the Florida Straits, dividing Cuba from Florida, but the damage in Cuba was worse. In Key West some windows were broken and the card shack’s roof collapsed under the weight of an old palm tree. In Havana, the third boat was lost. Many families were displaced, livelihoods were destroyed and people died. Dalian returned to Havana later that summer, in 1959 and he swore he’d never go back to America again.
