The Escape from Cuba

Mac was a successful Miami attorney. He had it all…yet he was bored with life.

Legal briefs and court calendars exacted tedious tolls…Mac craved excitement, something to remove him from his “comfort zone.” This was his mistake, and almost his demise.

Mac needed relief but was conflicted: a gorgeous wife, a perfect family, a legal practice that minted money and a single-digits golf handicap. Still something was missing. The shadow of “not enough” stalked him relentlessly…he needed a change!

His phone rang early on April 1, 1980. “This is The White house calling, please hold for The President,” a voice said. Carter, or a joke, he wondered? The whiny voice asked, “Mac, how about your representing the United States in Havana for Cubans seeking asylum? It is a dangerous and delicate task. Castro is a madman, the situation is tense and national security is threatened. What do you say?”

The escape hatch had finally opened, promising relief from his mundane Miami comfort zone. “Yes,” Mac shouted, “When?” There is a God, he thought.

After the usual intense security checks and endless briefings, Mac was prepared. Yet something gnawed on him. “Why me,” he questioned? The “what-ifs” crept in, threatening his resolve. His confidence was restored by an assigned military attaché, his bodyguard, Col. Dwight “Ace” Blackbanks, a hardened, grisly operative called from retirement.

Col. Blackbanks and Lady Caroline, a scion of Lord Whitehead of Lancashire, England, lived innocuously in the Golden Isles. He lived under an alias given him by OPA (Operative Protection Agency) after retirement as a CIA Black-ops agent. He had survived the nasty trade of counterintelligence, having exploited Central American juntas, tortured Khmer Rouge thugs and sparked insurgencies in Serbia. Some say it was “Ace” who “terminated” Ivan Brusco, The Siberian Assassin, in the aftermath of the Bhutto assassination.

Mac and “Ace” shared a common trait…disdain of too much comfort. Men of their ilk love life only on the edge, pushing the envelop, often too far. Their fates would soon be tested to the limit.

That day came on a sultry Havana morning. Mac and his voluptuous assistants, Marie and Elena, worked frantically on the asylum applications. The Mariel Boat Lift exodus had begun. Sweat dripped in beads on official papers as the swirling ceiling fan stirred the humid air. Working closely with bronzed Latino women was distracting for a virile man like Mac. His wife’s memory kept resurfacing, reminding him he was taken. Conflicted again, he thought…but maybe one day. Wrong.

Suddenly the door burst open, kicked in by large black boots worn by smarmy men in olive green uniforms, Castro’s elite corps. The assistants fled while Mac was slammed to the floor, a 9 mm pistol in his face. Lying rigid on the dusty floor, he wished for his comfort zone again. Fear froze him upon hearing the Spanish word rescate, ransom. Terror gripped him.

Colonel Blackbanks had gone dark that morning. “Ace” preferred the shadows, the dark barrios, like Manuel’s Cantina. Soon Maria’s shadow moved silently through the dimly lit hallway, and whispered, “Senor, Mac has been kidnapped.”

The comfort zone of too much waiting ended as “Ace” gulped the last of the warm beer. At the Embassy’s side door Mac was being dragged to a jeep. As a trained killer, an expert in martial arts, “Ace” was in his element. Five Cuban goons, soft from too much rum, soon lay among the detritus in the ally.

The men sprinted towards the Mariel Harbor, lungs bursting in the thick air. The Boat Lift had departed…escape seemed improbable. Sirens pierced the air as the men leapt into a tiny Styrofoam raft with a lawn chair duck-tapped snugly within, paddling frantically among the moored fishing boats. Soon a dark overhead cloud opened and torrents of rain fell, providing cover to escape into the waiting Gulf Stream. Miami was now only 90 shark-infested miles away.

Scorched by the heat, and against the advice of “Ace,” Mac had earlier plunged into the sea. A huge shark had instantly attacked him, stripping his clothes but leaving him his life and gold Rolex watch as a reminder of the encounter. The next morning, the raft bobbing helplessly in the sea, they were found by a fishing trawler and rescued. Their ordeal had ended, but stories of the saga were just beginning.

There is a strange epilogue to this story. As I drove into my driveway recently, I noticed a paddle standing at the back door. It had a playing card taped to it…an Ace of Clubs. I knew only one man who could have left this, so I called Col. Blackbanks. “What gives,” I asked. “Come over, have a drink, and I’ll tell you the story,” he said.

Secrets never remain hidden; the urge to tell is too strong. “Ace’s” recited his version, but Mac, now resting in eternal peace, remains forever silent. Somehow the paddle, and the gold Rolex on “Ace’s” arm, convinced me of the validity of the events. You’ll have to make up your own mind.

Family and friends keep Mac’s memory and the “escape-from-his-comfort-zone saga” alive each year at a party in his honor. Yet for my part, also in Mac’s honor, I can only add this caveat: “If you plan an escape from your own comfort zone, be careful for what you wish…especially if a politician calls!”


Bud Hearn
April 6, 2009