HAVANA BLUES:
A STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS ABOUT A CUBAN SURF TRIP GONE BY
Photography by Dylan Lucas Gordon • Words by Jared Mell
Cuban cigars, checkers and chess. Her laughter, a melody against the back drop of Havana’s crumbling facades, echoed in my mind. The sea’s salt mingled with diesel fumes from vintage cars. Sweat trickled down my neck as I sipped a cold beer waiting for the others to arrive. Cuba, “Patria o Muerte, Venceremos”. Homeland or death, we will win.
The locals watched with curious eyes, their faces etched with stories of revolution and resilience. Old men played dominoes under the shade of ceiba trees, their cigars casting spirals of smoke into the humid air. Children laughed, splashing in the shallows, their joy untainted by the island’s scars.
We loaded up the old Chevy bus. No expectations, most of us had never met each other before. The driver looked like had been left behind from the Soviet Union. With the potential of surf with over 3,000 miles of coastline we headed off.
The surf was fickle, waves rising and falling with the moon’s whim. Some days, the ocean lay still, a mirror reflecting our restlessness. Other times, it roared to life, challenging us to ride its wild, untamed energy. Wiping out, tumbling beneath the surface, I felt both the ocean’s wrath and its embrace, a baptism in turquoise depths.
An evening, a power outage plunging the city into darkness. We gathered around a bonfire on the beach, the flames dancing in her eyes as she spoke of dreams and distant shores. The taste of salt on her lips, mingled with the sweetness of stolen mangoes, lingered long after the embers died.
Venturing into the city’s heart, where music spilled from every doorway. The strum of guitars, the beat of drums and the soulful wail of trumpets created a symphony of life. In dimly lit bars, we danced with strangers who became friends, our bodies moving to the rhythm of salsa, our spirits lifted by rum and revelry.
An afternoon, a sudden downpour trapped us in a small café. The rain hammered the corrugated roof, creating a cacophony that drowned our words. We sat in comfortable silence, the storm outside mirroring the tempest within, as we pondered the transient nature of our journey.
As days blurred into nights, the line between reality and dream faded. The island’s magic seeped into our consciousness, its history becoming part of our narrative. We spoke of Che and Hemingway, of revolutions fought and stories penned, feeling the weight of their legacies in the humid air.
Leaving Cuba was like waking from a vivid dream, the memories lingering like the aftertaste of strong coffee. The scent of the sea, the warmth of her touch, the rhythm of the island’s heartbeat—all etched into the fabric of my being. The journey ended, but its essence remained, a reminder of a place where time stands still, and life is painted in bold, unfiltered strokes.
Cuban cigars, checkers and chess. Her laughter, a melody against the back drop of Havana’s crumbling facades, echoed in my mind. The sea’s salt mingled with diesel fumes from vintage cars. Sweat trickled down my neck as I sipped a cold beer waiting for the others to arrive. Cuba, “Patria o Muerte, Venceremos”. Homeland or death, we will win.
The locals watched with curious eyes, their faces etched with stories of revolution and resilience. Old men played dominoes under the shade of ceiba trees, their cigars casting spirals of smoke into the humid air. Children laughed, splashing in the shallows, their joy untainted by the island’s scars.
We loaded up the old Chevy bus. No expectations, most of us had never met each other before. The driver looked like had been left behind from the Soviet Union. With the potential of surf with over 3,000 miles of coastline we headed off.
The surf was fickle, waves rising and falling with the moon’s whim. Some days, the ocean lay still, a mirror reflecting our restlessness. Other times, it roared to life, challenging us to ride its wild, untamed energy. Wiping out, tumbling beneath the surface, I felt both the ocean’s wrath and its embrace, a baptism in turquoise depths.
An evening, a power outage plunging the city into darkness. We gathered around a bonfire on the beach, the flames dancing in her eyes as she spoke of dreams and distant shores. The taste of salt on her lips, mingled with the sweetness of stolen mangoes, lingered long after the embers died.
Venturing into the city’s heart, where music spilled from every doorway. The strum of guitars, the beat of drums and the soulful wail of trumpets created a symphony of life. In dimly lit bars, we danced with strangers who became friends, our bodies moving to the rhythm of salsa, our spirits lifted by rum and revelry.
An afternoon, a sudden downpour trapped us in a small café. The rain hammered the corrugated roof, creating a cacophony that drowned our words. We sat in comfortable silence, the storm outside mirroring the tempest within, as we pondered the transient nature of our journey.
As days blurred into nights, the line between reality and dream faded. The island’s magic seeped into our consciousness, its history becoming part of our narrative. We spoke of Che and Hemingway, of revolutions fought and stories penned, feeling the weight of their legacies in the humid air.
Leaving Cuba was like waking from a vivid dream, the memories lingering like the aftertaste of strong coffee. The scent of the sea, the warmth of her touch, the rhythm of the island’s heartbeat—all etched into the fabric of my being. The journey ended, but its essence remained, a reminder of a place where time stands still, and life is painted in bold, unfiltered strokes.
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