Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)

Take One.

We moved inter-island weaving down the chain of atolls and sandbars, following the signs to the end of the Highway One, to the striped cement buoy marking the southernmost point of the United States, painted yellow and black, like a hornet, with red for danger, or for communism. The howling wind whipped the sea into a froth as the tentacles of the hurricane approached land, having already hit landfall somewhere in Cuba. We could almost stand into the wind at 75° angles, as we defied gravity. I was oblivious to the danger, my first hurricane. Palm fronds, sharp as glass, like weapons flying through the air as if thrown by a carnival knife thrower with the scantily clad lady rotating on the roulette wheel. Always a gamble. The wind eddied and curled as if to strip us down to the bone. A green coconut landed at my feet, I scooped it up and gleefully thought of how I would use it at. At the end of Whitehead St., the liquor store was still open for business, so we bought some rum and made coconut water drinks and wended our way back to our Key West hotel room fighting the gale force winds. I fixed salmon with jellied coconut, not quite formed into nut meat, and I drained off the water for drinks. It was brackish, a bit disappointing, tasting of sea, brine and vaguely perfumed. More like drinking a musty dog. The rum helped hide the disappointment. Though we were still far from the epicenter, the wind howled like a banshee and passed us by. Morning broke with clear skies, and you could see almost all the way to Cuba, the hurricane having devastated Havana yet again. No refugees on the horizon. Businesses reopened hoping to catch a stray tourist or two in their nets. I bought a damaged Mile Zero T-shirt and cut off the sleeves, like a black muscle shirt with a big green Zero on it. Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville was doing a brisk trade on Duval Street, the bar was lined three deep, even though the sun was barely up. Living on the edge of the continent, exposed to the vagaries of weather, you live in the moment, the calm before the storm drove home the temporal quality of life as we imagined it. 

MILE ZERO

In the distance, a small open boat 

struggles to stay afloat in the following sea—

hopefully not a raft of refugees, not in this storm. 

On the edge of the continent, 

we are small specks of coral sand juxtaposed 

between the Gulf Stream and the Florida Straits.

Lightning lashes out, strikes with a vengeance. 

The cement buoy marking the edge of the US, 

says 90 miles to Cuba. It’s 94 miles, but it’s less poetic.

The line of sight is 3 miles to the meniscus of the ocean.

We are connected by distance and allegiance. 

A sign says Begin Highway One North at Mile Zero. 

The alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, 

freedom and communism trading places 

where the Atlantic meets the Gulf of Mexico. 

A memorial to the thousands of Cubans

who lost their lives at sea, seeking freedom 

and asylum from the storm.

9/13/23 Write On! with Susie Terence (this is from a collage—see below).

We are caught between the juxtaposition of empty space and the edge of the sea, as lightning lashed the surface of the water with a vengeance. In the distance, a small open boat struggled to stay afloat—hopefully not a raft of refugees in this storm. Each of us is connected by distance and allegiance. The rippling sea as it stretches from island to island, is a molten cloak. We stood on the edge of the continent, so small in our insignificance. The street corner, bisecting Whitehead and South Street, where the cement buoy that marks the edge of the continent informs us that it’s 70 miles to Cuba. Begin Highway One N. at Mile Zero. The alpha and the omega, the beginning, and the end, freedom and communism trading places where the Atlantic meets the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a memorial to the thousands of Cubans, who lost their lives at sea, seeking freedom from the storm.

Old Florida blogposts.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)

Mi abuela Amalia, was born in Havana, and died when I was 7 or 8. I was born in Puerto de Golpe. My Abuelo, Elucerio died at 70. Mi mama, Mima, was one of 7 daughters. they didn’t have tv, or radio, nada, so they had many daughters. (Laughs). I study three years at University of Havana for dental surgery. When the University of Havana was closed by Castro, I couldn’t finish my diploma. In 1922 Fidel closed all the Universities—todo. Everything. Everything. 

Mis tias were Marusa Caridad, Silvia, Oralia, Emelina, JoAnNuñes. My name, Justa, belonged to my grandmother. I had muchos primos Mi favorito was Rolando Ross who died two years ago. He was so friendly with me, we talked about many things about life.

Mi padre, Francisco Jose Nunez Blanco, nacie en San Cristobal, so kind a person. I loved him. He married my mother when she was 16. He was the Chief of Puerto De Golpe train station. He was very smart. She was a telegraph operator. Francisco had six brothers two sisters. I had muchos primos from my father’s side too. One uncle had 12 children.

Mi primo Rolando was a singer, and he loved Mexican music. I have two cousins who were lawyers. Nephews who are doctors, they live in Coral Gables. 

I met Gustavo when I was 17, Gustavo was 19, in 1927. We met en Puerto de Golpe. Y en el university. I see him many times. When the univeristy closed, he wrote me a letter. Many letters he wrote me. He wrote to me and Maynita sent it to me. It was a secret. One time I put the letter on the table and I forgot it. And my mother found it and she said it was impossible, you’re too young. 

You told your family you wanted to marry Gustavo. But he was mi enamorado. They knew nothing about him. One day Gustavo wanted to visit me and they said Get out. She’s too young. Everyone was angry with me. Gustavo said I won’t wait anymore. On Dec. 20 , 1920, I married with him. He is the man of my life.

We got married twice, once in Havana. Then I went to Santa Clara to marry in the church, where he was born. El pais de General Carillo. We lived in Havana, close to the school where Gustavo taught, at the Collegio Belem, a religious college. When the university closed, he had to leave. He studied architecture. But nowhere to practice.

I left Cuba on July 9, 1975. My brother Miguel left first, he died last year. We went to Spain for three years. Refugees. I didn’t go back to school. I didn’t want to be a medico. Gustavo worked at mano alsada? architecture. I taught at the Sagrada Familia school en Barcelona. We had two daughters Mari and AnaLina who went to school there. When we got ready to leave to the United States, they didn’t want to leave. 

After three years in Spain, we had to leave, or return to Cuba. We came direct to Miami because Gustavos‘s brother lived here. En 1979 we went to Maimi but I don’t like it. Gustavo said Bueno, everybody has to stay here because this is the last place. The family was scattered over here. Money is so important. It was impossible no junto.

I worked 26 years as a surgical nurse in the Emergency room at Coral Gables hospital. I liked to work in hospital, I made electrocardiograms, I helped people with heart problems. I loved my job. All those hearts. All those heart operations, sometimes I was covered in blood. Sangre. Es la verdad. 

When Gustavo died I lost my heart. It was 17 June 2016.  For me it was a love forever and ever. I say to God, I’m sorry, the time that I had with him was good. I will visit him again.