The Low Point of my Life

For reasons that I still can't quite fathom, I sat around for a couple of days, picked up my electrical parts and then went back to Cuba. The Cuban Customs agents stopped me, searched my bags and found a few thousand of dollars of electronics components. They also looked at my reservation and of course noticed that Vida wasn't with me. So they held me for questioning, and thinking of nothing better, I just told them the truth. How I was using the parts to make an electric bird. How Vida wasn't returning with me because she had gotten me drunk and left me tied to a bed in a hotel in Mexico City. I just told the whole story. They of course thought it was ridiculous and said that they would lock me up until I came up with something better.

So then I saw the other, repressive side of Cuba. After a couple of weeks of sitting in a stifling hot, tiny concrete cell and having only bad water, rice and a few beans, they brought me back for questioning. Thinking of nothing better, I told them the truth again.

It didn't work any better than the first time. They laughed at me, and asked me the same questions over and over for several hours. At least I stuck to my story and gave them the same answers each time. I was really beyond the point of caring anyway. I wasn't nervous or angry, just numb from it all. Finally, I got the feeling though that they were winding down. They would have liked to have known more, and it had been fun to play with me, but it was getting old. Ultimately I think they had investigated me and my past life in Havana and found that I was nothing but a drunken tourist that had overstayed his welcome. I didn't appear to have any violent tendencies. I didn't seem to be connected with any criminal organization. I was clearly up to something, but whatever it was seemed crazy. So they decided to deport me by sending me back on the plane back to Mexico City.

The Cubans did not return my passport, so I arrived in Mexico with no official papers, only a little cash and a couple of credit cards. I smelled and looked like shit because I had been in a Cuban jail for the last couple of weeks. I was clearly a problem to the Mexicans too, but the custom guys wanted nothing to do with me. They just sort of waived their hands and said "Vamanos" (get out of here) and I was out of the airport.

And this was possibly the low point of my entire life. I checked into a cheap flea-bag hotel in Mexico City and imploded. I had no prospects for a future of any kind. I had stupidly put my trust and happiness in the hands of a whore, and she left me. But mainly I grieved for the loss of my home. For the first time, I was deeply sorry that I had given up my sweet American life just to spy on women and hit a polluter in the head with a paint ball. I had to be one of the biggest idiots of all time. And no one, absolutely no one, would even care if I died here.

I think at this low point, I finally burned away all of my mental baby fat. I became a man. A man who could never feel truly safe again. In other words, I was a really fucked up man, but I was without any delusions. I knew who I was and what I wanted, and that was money and security. And I knew that whatever happened, it was all up to me. It was a cold world, and no one was going to help.

Probably the only smart thing that I ever did in this entire span of my life was to put my money in a Panamanian bank. Out of the clutches of the U.S., all I needed was an internet connection to bring it back. So I had about $100k left. Not enough for any kind of measure of security. Not enough to buy a decent home. And I had no way to earn a living.

So I stared at the ceiling and racked my brain for days. I couldn't go back to the U.S. I probably couldn't work as an engineer even in Mexico, because I had no papers, and a bad record even if they believed who I was. The only other bankable skill I had was the ability to speak both English and Spanish. I at least had Vida to thank for that.

I wanted desperately to own something. My own place that no one could take away from me. I couldn't buy property in Mexico because of land restrictions, and because $100K wasn't going to buy much most places. Of all things, I finally decided to buy a boat. A boat that I could use to take deep sea fishing charter for tourists. Of course, I knew nothing about deep sea fishing or boats, but I figured I could learn quickly enough. And the good thing about a boat was that I could own it, register it in Panama, and would be pretty much free to travel to many countries around Latin America, South America and the Carribean.

Also with a boat I figured I could still build a bird and go out and fly it. Maybe eventually use it for detective work and make enough money to have a decent life. And I could always eat fish and just live on the boat. As plans go, it was one of my more sane ones.

Next: Cancun - Threesome