There’s something magical about the sea—the way it calls to you, generation after generation. For me, it’s clamming and casting lines, my faithful 19-foot Boston Whaler bobbing in the tide, waiting for warmer days. But one memory, one unexpected moment from a journey far from home, always floats to the surface—Cuba, March 2019.
It was my first time setting foot on the island, a place that felt frozen in time and yet vibrant with life. I was traveling with Hunt’s Photo Adventures, led by the ever-wise Don Toothaker—“Obi-Wan,” as I like to call him. We had just arrived at a new location, cameras slung over our shoulders, eager to capture Cuba’s charm through the lens.
The streets were colorful, the air thick with the scent of salt and music. But my eyes wandered, as they often do, toward the water.
There, just offshore—something caught my attention. Men were fishing, but they weren’t in boats. At least, not any kind I had ever seen. At first glance, it looked like they were adrift on scraps—bits of flotsam barely buoyant enough to stay above water. But no, there was a design to this madness.
Curiosity piqued, I lifted my camera. Not mine, technically—it was my son’s old Nikon D90, a relic by today’s standards. I had taken some friendly flak for bringing it, but in that moment, it did exactly what I needed. I zoomed in.
What I saw astonished me: handcrafted watercraft fashioned from Styrofoam blocks, repurposed wood, stitched canvas, even old rollers. There were no motors, no fancy hulls or gleaming chrome. These were vessels born of necessity, designed with three simple requirements: they had to float, be light enough to carry, and offer a place to sit and steer—with flippers, no less.
It was improvisation at its finest. In a world where most people measure their boats in horsepower and luxury, here were men with little more than desire and ingenuity. And yet, they fished with calm purpose, surrounded by the rhythmic slap of waves against handmade vessels.
In Cuba, invention isn’t optional—it’s a way of life. The people take what they have and turn it into something functional, even beautiful. It’s not just about survival. It’s about pride, resilience, and deep-rooted creativity.
And that’s what makes Cuba unforgettable. Not just the weathered facades or vintage cars, but the people. Everywhere we went, it was the people who colored the journey with warmth, humor, and an openness that defied borders.
If you’re ever lucky enough to visit, look beyond the guidebooks. Watch the shoreline. You might just witness a quiet marvel drifting across the waves—an old piece of Styrofoam, a canvas seat, a man with flippers, and a dream that floats.
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