Me & The Mariel Boat Lift, 30 years later

Today's Miami Herald trumpets a front page story about the success of the Mariel Boat Lift: 30 years later. I read every word of it with interest, and more than a bit of disbelief. Because I was there, in May of 1980. On the docks. Not as an arriving refugee. Or even as a member of a Cuban family behind the barbed wire fence, yearning to see the familiar face of a family member.

No, I was there, along with my photographer, Nancy Kahn, as a pr representative for Phillip Morris Tobacco Company. Basically, I was there to hand out Marlboro Cigarettes to arriving Marielitos. Cubans are big smokers, and boy, was I popular.

Let me give you some background. In 1980, my pr firm served as "man (woman?) in Miami" for a major NY-based pr firm named Ruder & Finn. It was a cushy relationship, with the NY company sending us well paying jobs in the South Florida area for their big national clients. One morning in May I received a phone call from my contact at the company informing me that I needed to round up a photographer and fly down to Key West as fast as possible. We would be met at the airport by the Phillip Morris distributor in the area, who would supply us with cartons of the popular cigarettes and hand us impossible-to-get entry passes to the Truman Annex docks, the area where the Mariel boats were beginning to arrive on an hourly basis.

Our job: take publicity photos of Cuban refugees gratefully accepting free Marlboros courtesy of Phillip Morris, USA. Not exactly a task to be proud of, in retrospect, but those of you old enough to remember, President Jimmy Carter had sent out a call to major US corporations to help the escaping Cubans.

A nice thought, except there was something very strange about these arriving refugees. As the first overloaded boat arrived at the dock where Nancy and I stood, there was not a single woman or child among the passengers. Nothing but 20 to 30ish men, all wearing the same cheap shiny rayon shirts in blue, red and green, with the creases showing that they were all brand new. As the first smallish boat pulled up to the dock, I graciously, and stupidly, extended my handful of cigarette packs. The men rushed to the boat's edge, almost overturning it. Believe me, I didn't do that again, opting to wait until they got off before allowing Nancy to get her photo ops.

After the arrival of the first two boats, I found myself standing next to a youngish man in civilian clothes who seemed to be mentally taking notes on the new arrivals. I got to talking to him and it turned out he was a Commander in the US Navy. I asked him why he wasn't in uniform and he told me because the men on these boats were afraid of uniforms, and after the first day he realized he was better off doing his job in civilian clothes. He then asked me if I felt there was something strange about the men on these boats and did I notice what they all did the moment they got off the boats?

I said yes, I noticed they all headed for a building next to the docks and emerged a few minutes later wearing different shirts. He nodded and told me the clothes in that building were donated by Cuban families already in Miami, who were hoping to see family members on the arriving boats. The shirts these arrivals were getting rid of, as fast as possible, marked them not as regular Cubans, but as dangerous prisoners and mentally ill, released en masse by Castro from Cuban jails and asylums, and sent to the US as some horrible joke. For every one decent human being he let leave, 100 prisoners received passage.

Over the next six months, more than 125,000 refugees left from Mariel and arrived at the Key West docks. While in the end, many law abiding Cubans arrived to welcoming families, and 30 years later represent a true American success story, Miami's jail population also swelled with a new crime wave sweeping over South Florida. Ultimately, Castro agreed to take back 1,840 of the criminals and insane that he sent to our shores.

Nancy and I flew back to Miami later that day. We had our photos and Phillip Morris was ultimately lauded for their good deeds. I sometimes wonder about the whereabouts of those men that I so blithely handed out cigarettes to. Not one of my prouder jobs, to be sure, but certainly one of the more interesting ones.

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hoto caption: On the Key West docks in 1980, handing out cigarettes to arriving Marielitos.

A Passion For Puzzles

I'm a two-a-day crossword addict. I get my fix from the daily edition of the Miami Herald and on line at the L.A. Times. Why else would I know that the entrance to a mine shaft is an adit, that a fancy needle case is an enui, or that a medley of things is an olio??

If you do enough of these crossword puzzles, you become the proud possessor of an amazing amount of extraneous and totally unuseable knowledge. You also end up with a helluva vocabulary. Lately,the word bolus keeps showing up as the definition for a large pill. Try working that into a conversation. There is no question that puzzle writers have favorite words that they use over and over again. Any puzzler worthy of the game knows that a Canadian hockey player is always Orr and a Giant heavy hitter is always Ott. Beware of a clue with a question mark after it. Inevitably its answer is going to be a clever play on words.

Nirvana for puzzlers, of course, is the Sunday New York Times. There's nothing to boast about until you can honestly say you've done every word of the Sunday Times puzzle. Years ago, I got a valuable lesson on doing crosswords from my friend Judy who truly does whizz through that weekly lesson in puzzle humility. I was visiting her in her Connecticut home and she had thoughtfully xeroxed a copy of Sunday's puzzle for me so we could companionably work side by side. A few minutes had passed and I was still stuck on 1 Across when she looked over at me and said impatiently, "Move on, Joan. First do all the words you know. Then go back and worry about the ones you don't know."

Excellent advice. I've followed it ever since, at least when I'm working on a puzzle, if not always in life. You out there who also love puzzles would do well to remember it as well. By the way, as long as I'm admitting to my addiction, I confess that I only work in pen, never pencil. A form of arrogance? Perhaps. I just prefer the feeling of a pen. Towards the end of the week, as the puzzle gets harder, the page may end up with multiple write overs. Fridays are always the worst. Monday's the easiest.

I was fascinated to learn that there is actually an annual "superbowl" for crossword players. Check out the 2006 documentary "Wordplay", that focuses on the world of crossword puzzles, those that construct them, those that love to solve them, and those that compete in the annual competition.

I'm not sure I'm ready for puzzle prime time just yet, but I'm working on it. Just need to fill in a couple of more spaces. . .does anyone out there know a six letter word for a stunted ear of corn??

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Photo caption: Miami Herald puzzle page, Wednesday, May 14th

To the Northwest and back. . . .

Just back from six days in Seattle/Vancouver and I'm still trying to warm up. My sister and I went to spend the Passover holiday with her son and my favorite nephew, actually, my only nephew. We still call him Bobby, although I believe he just passed his 60th birthday and has three grandchildren of his own.

Seattle is a fascinating city. The weather changes on a dime, from brilliant sunshine to grey and drizzly, but we charged onward regardless, and I do mean charged. Bobby gives no quarter and attaches no age to his mother (my older sister) or his aunt. Flattering, yes. Tiring, you bet.

We arrived on a Friday at noon and were out on the streets sightseeing and visiting two winerys by mid-afternoon, ending the day at what passes for a food court in Seattle, but seemed more like a middle-eastern/far east array of distinctly foreign food offerings. Forget Miami's Cuban food fetishes, this is Indian, Vietnamese, Japanese and Chinese, all rolled together, with a little Russian and Polish thrown in for good measure. Dinner, actually, was delicious, especially since we were joined by Bobby's son Mark, wife Kate, and adorable grandkids, Sam and Caroline.

Saturday morning at 7:30am we were on our way to the train station and the 8:30 train to Vancouver. The 2 1/2 hour trip was visually wonderful. . the northwest is magnificent with towering trees and lots of lonesome farm houses. After checking into the hotel where we would spend the night, we were off again, boarding a tiny, toy-like ferry to Granville Island where we had lunch (this time the food was Greek) and enjoyed a rare bit of sunshine in a large3 open patio, serenaded by a street musician who looked like a homeless person and seemed to be playing a giant stick. (See photo)

Vancouver is actually a spectacular city and we enjoyed every minute there before boarding the train on Sunday evening for the trip back to Seattle. Bobby allowed Fran and me to relax on Monday. Actually, I relaxed, my sister started cooking for the Passover seder we were having that evening.

I made the mistake of agreeing to take a "walk" with Boomer and Bosco, Bobby's two dogs. I put quotes around "walk", because neither Boomer nor Bosco have ever heard that word. They only know "run" and maybe "run fast". Boomer is a gorgeous Siberian Husky and all he needs is a sled to compete in the Iditerod. Bosco is a giant size brown lab, extremely sweet, but as Bobby admits, he has "issues". Basically, he's nuts. He specializes in qucik bursts of stop and go followed by a need to wind his leash around your legs. There was no way I could keep up with Boomer so I won Bosco. A couple of miles and 45 minutes later, on a steep hill, I called Uncle. . or rather Aunt. . and handed Bosco's leash back to his father.

On Tuesday we did the Tulip Festival . . acres and acres of absolutely gorgeous color. . .and Wednesday we drove to Tacoma to visit the incredible renovated courthouse, once a train station, (did I mention Bobby is a lawyer?), plus the marvelous Glass Museum. Tacoma is the home of Dale Chihuly, the glass artist, and I spent several months as a guide of the wonderful Chihuly installation at Fairchild Tropical Gardens, so it was very exciting to visit the source of all that beauty.

Wednesday evening we boarded the "red eye" and flew back to Miami, arriving at 7:30 in the morning, 4:30am, Seattle time. My inner time clock is still confrused, but it was a fun week. Miami's warmth feels wonderful. Did I mention it was in the low 40s most of the time?

The Northwest is spectacular, no doubt about it. But as I sit at my computer I am looking out the window at Biscayne Bay, the sun is shining and there are jet skis and fast moving power boats moving across the skyline. If you don't mind, I think I 'll stick with Miami.
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Photo captions: Top left: Gorgeous tulips everywhere. Top Right:Boomer & Bosco showing me love. Bottom left: The sisters in front of a field of daffodils. Bottom right: Street singer on Granville Island, Vancouver.