Stealing Castro's daughter

January 6. 2006 This had to be a dream, a nightmare, but I wasn’t waking up. I was having trouble recovering from my interpreter whispering to me that they were sentencing me to nine years in prison for human trafficking. Nine years in a Cuban prison! This could not be happening to me. I tried to keep my composure but my mind was going numb. I had prepared myself for another all-night interrogation, but now with this, I physically and emotionally had nothing left. For the past four or five days I had had almost no sleep or food, living on Red Bulls and Balance bars while fighting the open ocean for over 400 miles on my twenty-seven foot boat. I was being held in what amounted to a shed, on a small key off the north east coast of Cuba. The one small window was covered up with a piece of cardboard, so there was no chance of a cross breeze even if they did open the door, which they chose not to do. Not exactly the same sweat box in Cool Hand Luke but not far from it, in the oppressive tropical heat of Cuba this place had the same effect. There was so much sweat running down my body and onto the floor, I was worried that I’d create a puddle, which might betray just how nervous they made me. The jeans I had been wearing for the past three days had doubled in weight from my sweat and the heavy humidity. They would fall from my hips as I stood if I hadn’t remembered to put a finger through the belt loop. I was really starting to feel the effects of dehydration, my lips were sticking together, I was feeling weak and my mouth was completely dry. Hours earlier I asked if I could go to my boat to get some water that I had stowed there, the answer of course was no. They were, however, kind enough to bring me a yellow plastic cup filled with foul-smelling water…"thanks, fellas, I'll pass." The shed was about eight-by-ten feet. There was a folding chair that stood behind an old metal desk, and my chair that had one leg shorter than the others, to add to my comfort. The harsh retina-burning glare of florescent lights set the mood. Two guards stood in the room with me, only one of them armed. They probably couldn’t afford the ammo, so I imagined that he had just one bullet that he kept it in his shirt pocket for safety, just like Barney Fife from "The Andy Griffith Show." Both of them were gaunt and tired looking, no doubt from the austere life of a Cuban military man.