Freedom Fighters

20. Landing

November 24, 1956
Port of Tuxpan

The monumental day had come. It was the day where the Movement shall finally embark on their journey back home to Cuba. As they arrived at their embarkation point, Dario took a moment to scrutinise, in the evening twilight, the boat that would take them to their destination. Men piled up as many provisions they could get, which was rather few in fact, along with uniforms, rifles, equipment, and two antitank guns with hardly any ammunition. It now dawned upon him with reluctant dread as to why Fidel had told Juanita that the journey would be exceedingly tough.

Ever since the plan for landing had been announced, the preparations were necessarily feverish. The boat was named Granma out of affection, but Dario suspected, quite cynically so, that it was aptly named. Rickety, slow-looking and heavy, the former luxury yacht was definitely not designed for a perilous military expedition such as the one they were about to undertake.

"I can't help but say that I am actually worried about the voyage there, if we are able to make it," Camilo commented beside him. "Don't you think it's a little too small?"

Dario merely gave a hopeful smile, before sighing. "I'm sure many others here share your worries. I guess we can only hope."

As lines of revolutionaries queued on the beach to embark the vessel, Dario spotted Alberto standing by the side, a rare smile gracing the passing ranks of young men.

"Commandante Alberto!" Camilo greeted when they came close to the grizzled trainer.

Alberto's rheumy gray eyes lit up at the sight of the duo. "Well, if it isn't Dario and Camilo."

"You are not coming?" Dario asked.

Alberto let out a harsh chuckle, before shaking his head. "No, unfortunately I am not. I would have liked to, but my knees are weakening and my back is aching. I believe it is time for the new generation to fight this battle. I guess I am going to stay here to see out the rest of my days."

As the two young men nodded with visible sadness, Alberto sighed and continued, "Remember what I told you two towards the end of the long march. Cherish each other, for it is in a collective strength that victory becomes possible. I have watched the both of you and I see many qualities that can be the making of two very special men. Camilo, I am sure you know it yourself, you are a natural leader. Dario, in you lies a unique and relatable strength that will propel you to greatness. Steel yourselves and never give up, and perhaps one day I will see your faces in the papers as the liberators of Cuba."

At those words, Dario felt a surging wave of emotion threaten to overcome him like a tidal wave. A swelling of pride with a pinch of sadness. Alberto made the revolution sound much simpler than it should be. To just be strong and not give up? Would that be enough? As he looked into those weary gray eyes, he got the sense that the old trainer meant every single word, but there was even more left unsaid. The harshness of reality, and inequality in life. Sniffing back his tears, Dario gave a last salute to the trainer. Camilo followed suit.

"Now go on ahead, young men. Don't keep the rest waiting."

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The Movement left the port of Tuxpan on 25 November 1956 at 2 a.m., an infernal heap of men and all types of equipment. The lights had been purposely left off for fear of detection by hostile authorities. They entered the Gulf of Mexico and shortly after turned on the lights when the estuary seemed calm enough.

It did not take long for the first storm clouds to be brewing ominously in the sky. The revolutionaries made a frantic search for antihistamines to combat seasickness, and could not find them. They sang the Cuban national anthem for a while, and then the whole boat assumed a ridiculous, tragic appearance. Men clutched their stomachs, anguish written all over their faces. Some had their heads in buckets, others lay immobile on the crowded deck in strange positions, their clothes covered in vomit.