Saturday, March 29, 2014

Spearfishing

Cheito woke up early, before sunrise. He made himself a breakfast of cornflakes, buttered toast and orange juice. He brushed his teeth, put on his jeans, a t-shirt and his sneakers. He packed his mask, snorkel, fins, trunks, towel and spear gun in his duffel. He had told his mother at dinner the previous night that he was going to the beach the following morning, "Cheito", she said, "make sure you let yourself out of the house quietly." The early morning was damp, dark and windy. The lightening sky was heavy with clouds. He draped the duffel over his back and hiked up Calle Mejico to the corner Lomas Verdes and Glasgow. He waited 15 minutes and the first bus soon arrived. He climbed aboard and fed his quarter to the turnstile and made his way to one of the hard plastic seats. The bus was empty except for a couple of older women who got off at the Medic al Center stop. The route read like a history of his Island. He rode the bus on Jose de Diego Avenue past San Patricio and Jesus T. Piñeiro Avenues until he got to the corner of De Diego and Franklin Delano Roosevelt Avenue. He then transferred to the number 2 bus, down Juan Ponce De Leon Avenue and back on De Diego, where he transferred to the number 5 bus, which finally took him on the Roman Baldorioty de Castro Expressway to Isla Verde. He got off at the Corner of Tartak Street and Isla Verde Avenue, hiked around the corner and knocked on the door of 8158 Tartak. His buddy, Luis Gonzalez, "Lapa", to his friends, opened the door after a few seconds. He stepped inside, and after a mumbled greeting, he asked Lapa directions to the bathroom so he could change into his swimming gear. In swimming trunks and t-shirt, with gear in hand, the boys walked back down Tartak to Isla Verde, turned right and then left onto Dalia Street all the way to the end where the street ended on the beach. The beach was empty, and the trash of the Friday night revelers was strewn about. To the left was a sea wall, where they hid their shirts and shoes. It was now day light, but barely so. The sky was gray, and so was the sea. A fresh breeze stirred up a light chop on the water’s surface. Waves were breaking on the Isla Verde reef a couple of hundred of yards off the beach. Visibility in the water was going to be poor. He already felt chilled. Cheito and Lapa cleaned out and donned their masks and flippers, grabbed their spear guns, and waddled into the dancing surf. They swam in tandem to the reef, and after about 10 minutes or so, carefully avoiding the black spiny sea urchins, climbed on the rocks on the leeward side of the islet to rest and regroup. The boy had a cheap, old, but reliable diving watch his father had bought on a trip to St. Thomas. They agreed to meet up again in about an hour on the same spot. They plunged back into the water and went on separate ways. Cheito worked his way into deeper water, cocked the slings of his spear gun, and started swimming around the reef in a clockwise direction. He was in about 15 feet of water and could barely make out the sea fans and stag horn coral on the bottom. An occasional wave covered his snorkel, and he sputtered and coughed away the briny water. There were a few wrasses and sergeant fish swaying in the current, but no fish worth shooting. At times, he thought he saw silver flashes out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of his vision, jacks or chubs perhaps, but always out of range. He swam an irregular course, often checking his position against the island. He was getting more and more chilled, and decided to call it a day, swim to the reef, and huddle on the rocks to wait for his friend. Past the field of urchins, careful to avoid the spines and the occasional fire coral, he slowly clambered onto the worn coral of the island, and sat there shivering. After a bit, Lapa returned, without fish, as unlucky as he had been. They sat for a bit looking out to sea. They climbed back into the water and swam back to shore. They found their towels and shoes, dried off and headed back down Dalia to Isla Verde Avenue. At Tartak and Isla Verde, they stopped at the open air diner. Cheito had enough money for a coke and a bocadillo, and the ride back to Guaynabo. The sun finally peeked out of the clouds, and they sat at their stools, warming themselves and eating their lunch. He would have preferred to be lunching on fresh fish.  Not today, maybe the next time.


Jose M. Caldas, March, 28, 2014.


The Dragon

Cheito anchored the rowboat over the expanse of white sand along the edge of the shallow reef. He put on his snorkeling gear, jumped into the water, and reached into the boat for his spear gun. The reef here was mostly bare, having been long ago picked clean by previous visitors, a few small clusters of coral here and there. Few fish swam about, all too small to spear. As he kicked along, he spotted a flash of color retreating under the sharp edge of an outcrop of bare rock. He took three deep breaths and dived ten feet down to the bottom, dropped his spear gun, and grabbed the rocky ledge with gloved hands. He pulled himself further, head down, held still and waited. Very slowly, the small eel came out of its lair. Cheito and the dragon moray regarded each other curiously, the one, attired for his brief, wonderful forays into the liquid world, the other, attired in the bright, gaudy vestments of its kind, both retreating to their familiar worlds after the brief encounter of unfamiliar beings.


Jose M. Caldas, October 9, 2013.


El Chapin

El chapin examinaba su reflejo en el espejo que cubría su mundo. Como colibrí acuático, batia sus aletas manteniendo su posición vertical y horizontal. Esos labios! Esos ojos! El caparazón que cubría sus entrañas! Que soy, que soy? se preguntaba agitado por su extraño aspecto. La carnada inevitable lo dirigió a su oráculo: Eres pescado! Empanadilla de chapin para la cena!


Jose M. Caldas, October 8, 2013.


Crash Boat II

Cheito and his diving buddy, Shorty, went over their dive plan one more time. They each checked their own diving gear, and then the other's. Cheito helped Shorty put his tank on, and Shorty helped him. Fins in hand, they walked into the warm water. It was just as calm as it had been the first time he had snorkeled here for the first time a few years back. Although the careened yolas, Canadian tourists and busy shops all seemed the same, this time was different. He and Shorty were going to SCUBA dive to the bottom below the large buoy moored a pool's length away from the end of the pier. The chain anchoring the buoy was secured to the sea floor about ninety feet below. The boys waded until the water was waist deep, and put on their masks and fins. They snorkeled to the northern end of the pier. They could clearly see the bottom thirty feet below them. They used their regulators to descend along one of the coral encrusted supports; french angel fish quietly circled around it. They signaled each other that all was OK, and ascended back to the surface. They reoriented themselves, and snorkeled out to the buoy. At the buoy they checked their air supply, nodded to each other and started the slow descent to the bottom following the anchor chain. Cheito heard the whine of an outboard motor, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the boat go by, about fifty feet away. He ignored it and continued on down. Shorty was below him, slowly kicking into the blue green depth below him. The chain was blanketed with fire coral, sea fans, fan worms and sponges, and a large school of sardines circled around it. The silver cloud of small fish would disperse and reform as the bubbles from his buddy's exhalations broke into their ranks. He continued down to the bottom taking in the unreal beauty of it all. At about sixty feet the surface was no longer visible, and the sandy bottom could barely be seen. All around him the dim green light reminded him of the late afternoon stained glass light of the interior of a Cathedral. Other than the sound of his breathing, he could still hear the suprising snap and pop of the noisy sea life, and the occasional whine of a boat motor far above. He checked his depth gauge and saw that he was close to ninety feet. He could make out the end of the chain and Shorty swimming towards it. Shorty stopped at the bottom and looked up at him, his eyes wild and a huge grin on his face, which he could see even with the regulator covering his mouth. Shorty grabbed one his fins and pulled him down the rest of the way. He drifted to the bottom, checked his depth, the time and his air pressure, and suddenly he was laughing into his mouthpiece. Rapture of the deep! Nitrogen narcosis! The school of sardines that had followed them down danced with him every time he breathed out. He took the regulator out of his mouth and amused himself by zapping the fish with bubbles. He stopped, remembering through the haze of intoxication that he needed that air to get back to the surface. He forced himself to focus, checked the time, saw that they only had a couple of minutes of bottom time left, got his Shorty's attention and signaled that it was time to go back up. He looked around one last time, and began the slow ascent to the surface, into the dancing beams of light, away from the undersea world of weightless wonder.


Jose M. Caldas, October 7, 2013.


Crash Boat I

Cheito walked past the careened yolas, the Canadian tourists and the noisy shops to where the rocky cliffs arose from the warm sand at the northern end of the beach. He sat down at the water's edge and put on his US Divers Jr. Aquanaut mask, snorkel and fins. The surf was calm and the water so clear he could see the sandy bottom all the way to the reef at the base of cliff and to the edge of the steep drop off fifty yards out. He pushed off and glided over the sand where spiny sea urchins guarded the edge of the reef. He took in the stag horn coral, the brain coral, the basket sponges, and the sea fans that decorated rocky bottom. Here and there amidst the coral and sponges, he saw angel fish, sergeant majors, squirrel fish, parrot fish, wrasses, Bermuda chub, grunts and pink snapper. He swam north, curving around and parallel to the cliff, until he could only see the end of the t-shaped pier that jutted out from the middle of the beach. He then turned out towards the west, slowly swimming on the surface, occasionally diving under water to inspect a coral or a fish, until the water was too deep for him to easily reach the bottom. He turned towards the pier, and kicked along until the bottom again turned from reef to sand. He curved back towards the beach, his mouth parched by the salty water and hungry for a snack or two. As he swam towards the beach, he saw, crossing his path, a small almost invisible shape gliding a couple of feet over the sandy bottom. He turned to follow it, carefully matching its speed and keeping his distance so as not to scare it. He was able to do so, until the cuttlefish, alarmed by his presence, flitted quickly away, disappearing into the deep blue gloom at the edge of his vision.

Jose M. Caldas, October 4, 2013.



La Chalupa

Cheito's father Don Jesus carefully drove over the hard packed sand of the dwarf forest leading to the gate of the compound by the lagoon where the underwater laboratory was moored. The gate was open. They drove on through and parked by the building that housed the offices and workshops supporting the laboratory. The boy was very excited. As a child he had read Jules Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and then, as he grew older, all about Sealab, Conshelf, Tektite, and the underwater exploits of Jacques Cousteau and Scott Carpenter. Mr. Kormann, the director of the lab, had been a member of the Tektite team and had written a book about living and working under the sea. Mr. Kormann, had been waiting for them. He greeted them warmly, introduced himself and shook hands with the boy and his father. Mr. K actually looked like Captain Nemo as portrayed by James Mason in the old Disney film. They were invited into the office and Mr. Kormann offered them refreshments, and explained the purpose of the lab and its history. They left the office and started touring the workshop. Mr. Kormann explained the saturation diving equipment used on the lab that would allow the aquanauts to remain safely underwater for days at a time with only an abbreviated stay in the decompression chamber. They also saw and learned about the sea sleds designed and built by the members of the lab. They walked from the workshop to the pier where the lab was moored. They were not allowed to enter the lab but were able to closely examine the exterior. The use of the two detachable diving bells was explained. The lab was designed to be used for saturation diving with mixed gases. It would be stationed at a depth of about 60 feet and the aquanauts would be able to perform prolonged dives to depths in excess of 160 feet. The nitrogen in their air supply would be replaced by helium. The helium would not saturate the diver's bodies as much as nitrogen would, allowing a shorter and safer decompression. On the other hand, they would sound like munchkins when talking in the atmosphere of the lab. The divers could control the amount of oxygen in the air they breathed to prevent oxygen toxicity as the partial pressure of the gas increased as they went deeper. In case of an emergency, either of the diving bells could be detached from the lab, airlifted to the workshop, and attached to the decompression chamber which was large enough to allow a medic to provide emergency care to a stricken diver. The last part of the visit was spent aboard the twin masted schooner that had been restored by Mr. Kormann, and served as his and his family's home. They day ended after a meal aboard the schooner. They walked back to the car with Mr. Kormann, hands were shaken again, farewells exchanged. Cheito and his father drove off as the sun set. He closed his eyes and quietly dreamed of living and working undersea, and of the fantastic adventures still to come.


Jose M. Caldas, October 3, 2013.


Venezuelan Crude

Cheito's family drove to the Spanish fort through the weekend morning traffic, over the narrow cobblestone streets of the old city. Vendors were already out and about selling shaved ice piraguas of all flavors and oranges, peeled and with their tops cut out in little cones so that the sweet juice could be squeezed right into your mouth. They parked at the gates of the outer walls of the fort and hiked across the grassy parade ground to the main entrance. Thick limestone walls ringed the fort, once a formidable defense against pirates and marauders the likes of el Draco, Sir Francis Drake, unsuccessful in his attempt against the island, and soon after to perish of dysentery in Portobello. The sweetly peculiar smell of oil permeated the morning air. The smell got stronger as they got closer to the bridge across the moat at the entrance of the fort. They crossed the bridge, entered the main gate, crossed the courtyard and descended the long stone ramp to the main battery walls overlooking the entrance of the harbor. There across the way, they could see the ship, broken in half, grounded on the reefs along Isla de Cabras. 3 million gallons of crude oil had spilled into the clear blue Atlantic waters and spread along the beaches of the city.


Jose M. Caldas, October 2, 2013.


Beulah

Cheito sat by the window and through the beating rain watched the surf climb the beach, sweep past the line of coconut palms and Australian pines, wash across the empty field and crash against the seawall behind the apartment building. He watched until it got so dark he could not see, and fell asleep that night listening to the singing of the storm. Early the next morning, the gale had died down to a fresh gusty breeze, the sky was clear, the waves a dirty chop, and the beach a tangled mass of seaweed and stranded fish. Crabs came out of their holes and scurried about feasting on the still fresh bounty. Cheito and his friends looked for any treasure that might have washed ashore in the storm, and finding none jumped in the water to play in the confused surf. Minutes later, he heard the people on the beach yelling and saw them pointing at the ocean. He turned around and two great gray shapes danced across the breakers, their wet skin glistening in the sunlight. Mouth agape, he watched them pass no more than 10 feet from him, porpoising along the shore, until they swam out of sight, into the misty horizon.


Jose M. Caldas, October 1, 2013.


Chiringa

Cheito carried his kite and string to the empty field behind the apartment building. The week before the field had been filled with carnival rides and people. Today it held only a few scraps of trash and matted down weeds. He carefully checked the wind direction and the power lines. He lifted his kite and let it catch the wind. The string spooled out quickly in the stiff breeze. The kite carried higher and higher into the clear morning sky. He slowed the string and paid out the last couple of yards until he reached the bitter end. He held the stick the string was tied to and pumped it gently to bring the kite higher overhead. He watched the kite swimming in the sky for a couple of minutes, now a small speck in the blue, gripped the stick in his left hand, and with his right hand got his pocket knife, opened it with his teeth, and cut the line, letting the wind carry the kite away, high over the waking city.


Jose M. Caldas, September 30, 2013.


Calle Feria '69

Cheito and his friend Ramon went out to the courtyard. They put their plastic soldiers down in the sandbox and started to dig forts and trenches in preparation for the battle they had planned. The bad smell hit them. His friend said that maybe there was a dead rat somewhere in the yard. They searched around and found blood pooling from a drip from the kitchen gutter of one of the second story apartments. Old Mr. Garcia lived in that apartment. His wife had left a couple of days before to go visit relatives in New Jersey. The boys ran up the stairs to the apartment and found the door open. They knocked, got no answer and went inside without waiting. The bad smell was incredible. Mr. Garcia lay on the floor, his head against the refrigerator door, a couple of bags of groceries strewn around him. They ran from the apartment to tell his Ramon's mother, unable to shout, silenced by the gruesome sight.


Jose M. Caldas, September 27, 2013.


Dawn Patrol

Cheito laid out the parts: balsa frames, spars, ribs, leading edges, spinner, prop, struts, wheels, canopy, cowling, wheels, decals and tissue. He checked his paints: olive drab green, flat tan, light gray, yellow, flat black and flat white. All was in order: glue, filler, pins, Exacto knife, rubber bands, masking tape, water spray and sandpaper.
 First, he built the wings: leading edges, trailing edges, ribs and spars. He checked the wing's cantilever for the proper angle. Then, he built the rudder and elevator. Next, he built the fuselage: frames, more spars, cowling, rubber band, prop and spinner. After the glue dried, he cut the tissue for the airplane's skin and glued it to the fuselage, wings, elevator and rudder. Next, he glued the canopy, wings, rudder and elevator to the fuselage. He then sprayed the tissue with water and dried it under a lamp so it would shrink tight and smooth on the airplane. Then the paint: green and tan camouflage on the top, light gray on the bottom, flat white spinner, flat black prop and wheels, and yellow prop tips. After the paint dried, he carefully applied the decals to the model marking it as a Spitfire of the Royal Air Force 607 Squadron. The next morning the Cheito awoke at daybreak, picked up his carefully crafted model, quietly walked to the balcony, wound the prop as tight as he could, aimed the airplane at the field across the street, and launched it from his parent's 10th floor apartment.


Jose M. Caldas, September 26, 2013.


Savage Empire

Cheito sat on the floor of the sunny porch molding clay into a menagerie of prehistoric beasts: brontosaurus, tyrannosaurus, stegosaurus, triceratops. It would be many years until brontosaurus became apatosaurus, and velociraptor come to life on computer and movie screen. Until then, the familiar monsters would be brought back from extinction with his hands, some cheap clay and his imagination.


Jose M. Caldas, September 25, 2013.


El Verde

Three gunshots were the signal from Don Felipe to return to the house. Cheito, Charli and Danny stopped stalking lizards and ran back through the shaded forest to the cabin. Don Felipe stood waiting on the porch and told them to put up their BB guns, clean up and get in the guincha. Don Felipe and his son Felipito waited in the front seats while the boys got ready and piled into the back of the old jeep. They were driving down the winding mountain road from El Toro to the agencia hipica at Las Tres T to get cards for the afternoon horse races. 20 minutes later they pulled into the lot next to the old colmado, and Don Felipe helped them with their picks. They filled out the cards and paid for their tickets. Back into la guincha and up the mountain. The jeep skidded up the gravel driveway. Doña Carmen had made them lunch, mortadella and queso de papa sandwiches on Holsum bread. The boys settled around the coffee table on the floor. Don Felipe turned on the TV and sat down in his rocking chair. "En vivo desde el Comandante..."


Jose M. Caldas, September 24, 2013.


El Carey

The fisherman beached the yola and jumped onto the shore. His son followed him, and both pulled the boat further up onto the sand. Cheito and his friends, Tino and Pepín, ran to the boat to see the catch. The fisherman and his son lifted the carey out of the boat and gently lay it on its back on the beach. They slowly walked off to a nearby palm tree. The Cheito, Tino and Pepín surrounded the sea turtle and silently stood watching as it opened and closed its bill, and slowly moved its fins as if attempting to right itself. The boy lay down next to the turtle. It was almost as long as he was tall. Its shell was a mottled green with sharp edges, its skin pebbled, and its large and expressive eyes were shedding large tears. The fisherman and his son stood up with freshly sharpened machetes and returned to the creature.


Jose M. Caldas, September 21, 2013.


El Boquete

The boat lay half sunk in the middle of the lagoon, its stern completely under water. Cheito stood with his friend Boden at the end of the wooden dock. He looked at the murky water of the lagoon and guessed that the boat was about 50 yards away. Boden dove into the water and started swimming to the boat. Cheito waited a couple of seconds and jumped in after his friend. His feet sank into the silty bottom. He pulled up and kicked his feet, and swam towards the boat. In a couple of minutes he reached the boat. He looked up and saw that his Boden had already climbed on the slanted deck. He pulled himself aboard carefully trying to avoid splinters and screws. He peered into the cabin through a missing window. Crabs scurried away.


Jose M. Caldas, September 23, 2013.


Handreel

Cheito balanced himself one foot on the boat's gunwale, the other on the engine cover. He slowly wound his line onto his hand reel to check his bait. He looked over his shoulder and chatted with his friend Yeyo as he did so. He turned back to the water, saw his bait, and swimming lazily behind it an 8 foot long nurse shark. Surprised, he jumped backwards into the boat and reeled in faster. He and his friend watched the shark swim by and quietly disappear into the deep.


Jose M. Caldas, September 19, 2013.


Angel Negro

The boat was about 10 yards away from the edge of the reef when old man Hawk told the captain: "Good enough!" The captain cut the throttle and signaled to the mate to drop anchor. The anchor and chain splashed into the crystal clear water, and the "Angel Negro" came around slowly as the anchor caught on the sandy bottom. The boy peered over the side and guessed the water to be about 25 feet deep. Old man Hawk had the students re-check their gear and air pressure, review their instructions and drop mask, fins and tanks over the side. He sent the Cheito and his buddy Ñaña over the side first. Cheito nervously took a few breaths, spotted his gear on the bottom and jumped into the water. He swam down to his tank, turned on the air, cleared his regulator, started breathing, grabbed his mask, put it on and cleared it, put the tank on his back, donned his flippers, and kneeled on the sandy floor waiting for the rest of the students to gather around. He breathed easily, watching the bubbles he exhaled rise, expand and burst as they broke through the silvery surface.


Jose M. Caldas, September 20, 2013.