North of Havana

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Tomlinson telephoned at three minutes before ten Friday evening, December 20, to tell me that he was stranded in Havana, broke, frustrated, sailboat impounded, seriously discommoded, wholly bummed out and if I wasn't too busy, if I wasn't right in the middle of boxing a shipment of sea anemones or if my manatee research project could be conveniently interrupted, maybe, just maybe, I could get my butt to a neutral country and catch a plane to Cuba.

I thought: Cuba? Nope; no way. I will not go back to Cuba.

Tomlinson was talking: "You heard of a person being held against his will? I'm being held against my bill, man. Like they're holding No Mas hostage until I can float the nut, plus charging me storage to boot! As in muchos si-moleons, comprende?"

"The government?"

"These guys dressed in baby shit brown. Like storm troopers-"

"Who confiscated your boat, I mean." I was beginning to get a sick feeling in my stomach.

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