¡Hector Otra Vez!

Thursday night was a little bit dull, so Michael and I decided to go to the Malecon again. It was storming off in the distance, so we were just sitting on the wall and watching the lightning. Then, all of a sudden, a Cuban fisherman approached us and extended his hand so Mike could shake it… and it was Hector!! My initial reaction was that it was an incredibly serendipitous reunion, but then I realized that he probably fishes every night, so it wasn’t too unlikely that we’d see him there. Still, he was excited to see us, as were we him. We began talking about what we’d been up to since the last time we saw him, and at some point there was a lull in the conversation. I was looking around at all of the fisherman on the Malecon, and I offhandedly mentioned that one night I’d like to learn how to fish. “Pues, !vengan!,” (“Well, come on then!”) said Hector, and began walking to his fishing post, which consisted of a few pieces of bait and a spool of fishing line that he used as his reel.

He had already cast his line, so there was nothing to do but wait while we talked about various aspects of fishing. Hector explained to us that the fisherman use 3 or 4 condoms as floats to be able to locate their hooks in the darkness of the night (and here I thought that the condom wrappers littering the sidewalk of the Malecon had come from frisky young Cubans!). After a while Hector took Mike to go in search of something to drink, and I was left in charge of the line. I looked around at all of the fisherman, trying to decide who looked the most helpful should I feel a tug on the line and need some assistance. But nothing happened. A few minutes later Hector and Mike returned with a bottle of rum, and I confessed that, sadly, I had not had any success. Hector said that, on their walk, he and Mike had talked about when the two of us would come to his house for dinner (this invitation had been extended to us since the first night we met him). Like I had previously, I tried very hard to politely decline Hector’s request, since I didn’t feel that I could take what little food he and his family had to eat (especially with the looming food crisis here; maybe more on that later). He kept insisting, and then I realized that by trying to be polite I was actually being very rude to Hector. By essentially preventing him from sharing his food with me, I was suggesting that I knew his situation and his desires better than he. When in reality, who was I to insult him by telling him that he didn’t have enough food to share with others? In my opinion that is one of the most degrading things one human can do to another: refuse a gift because they feel the giver “can’t afford to lose” what is being given. So in the end we agreed that Mike and I would go to his house on Sunday for dinner.

However, I still felt bad that Hector hadn’t caught anything. Admittedly, I began to evaluate the 40-some year old man and started to think that maybe he wasn’t such a great fisherman. Then, the line under my fingers began to twitch. In my shock, I could only stutter, “Hector, pienso que hay algo aquí. (Hector, I think there is something here.)” He felt the line, and immediately jumped up onto the wall of the Malecon (the other side of which is a 30 foot plummet onto the rocky shore of Cuba’s coast), straining and pulling the fishing line with his bare hands. After what seemed to be a terrible struggle, he finally pulled the fish onto the sidewalk. About 15 inches in length, the fish was later determined to weigh about 5 pounds. As it flopped around on the sidewalk, gasping for air, Hector explained to us that it was a bajonao (I later Googled and discovered that in English we call it a porgy), and that it had a great deal of meat on it. Word quickly spread along the Malecon that Hector had caught such a big fish, and as various fishermen came to inspect the health of the catch (e.g. whether its gills were red; whether it had all its teeth), Hector’s tale of vanquish became more and more elaborate (I guess they don’t call them fisherman’s tales for nothing!). Despite being a little grossed out as Hector let the fish suffocate on the ground, I looked into the dead fish’s empty eyes and realized that the pang of guilt I usually feel when I am sport fishing in the United States was nowhere to be found; when one truly kills for subsistence, there is no reason to feel remorse. Hector said I had brought him luck that night, smiled at us and said “¡Para el domingo! (For Sunday!),” and then I was nothing but excited for the meal we would share. We’re going to meet Hector at the Malecon in a few hours; I’m sure it’s going to be delicious!