THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, May 18, 1995 TAG: 9505180068
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: FIRST PERSON
SERIES: UNDER THE BANYAN TREE
Part Two
GUANTANAMO BAY
SOURCE: BY SUSAN DORSEY BOLAND, SPECIAL TO THE DAILY BREAK
LENGTH: Long : 375 lines
JERRY REA, like Jim Newton, is good with kids. Their immediate question of ``Whaddya mean?'' brought explanations a 10- and 13-year-old could comprehend.
Sometime next week it would begin. Three hundred dependents would leave a day. How will we leave? By plane. Where will they take us? We don't know - Jacksonville or Norfolk. Do we have to go to school next week? No. No school. Brendan ceased to ask questions because he no longer knew if he was supposed to be happy or sad.
I paused, then asked, ``Why?''
``You are not safe here,'' Jerry said.
Jerry could see this was hard to believe, given our surroundings and the day we had just had. So he told us to get into his truck. He was going to show us why.
He took us down Sherman Avenue and made a right onto a dirt road that went completely around McCalla Airfield. The guards waved us by the security check - the XO's truck was familiar to everyone. McCalla Airfield had not served planes in over 20 years. Now the tarmac on our left was a sea of tents in perfect rows. The heat was visibly rising off the tarmac. Thousands of Haitians were milling about.
The gentle breeze at Flag Landing would be a gift from God here. The one-lane dirt road ran alongside the concertina wire that separated us from them. We could see the people clearly, and we were visibly gawking. The truck came close to a structure that looked like a large hot tub. I could tell it was some sort of a communal bathing area. One large woman was bare to her waist and cupping water with her hand and splashing it over her body. She was laughing with some friends. Brian and Brendan's eyes were glued to her breasts.
Jerry stopped the truck and showed me the spot where last week some Haitians had thrown cots across the concertina wire and had run for the water. They had to head through the small housing area on our right before they could jump into the water and swim across the bay, not realizing that on the other side was the American base, too. A young Navy wife had been making beds when she saw them run past her window and had called security.
Jerry got us back on Sherman Avenue. He made a right on Kittery Beach Road, and we drove through low, dusty hills until we turned a corner and faced a fork in the road. In front of us was a field with equipment scattered recklessly about. Jeeps were left here and there. Stacks of new lumber, spools of concertina wire, rows of portable latrines and folding tables holding an papers and jugs of water completed the landscape. Several hundred men in camouflage were turning the chaos into the now familiar sight of row-by-row tents that stretched as far as I could see to my right. These were the Cuban camps.
Jerry made a right turn. Cubans were gathered near the concertina wire chatting with some of the men in camouflage. As we drove by, they peered into the truck. One nudged another, pointed in our direction and laughed. Another, seated on the highest piece of equipment near the road, dramatically lit an imaginary cigarette. Jerry explained that this was their way of asking for a cigarette. Then, Jerry announced he was taking us down Windmill Beach. He said the kids and I might like to go there one afternoon because it was such a nice beach.
As he made his way down the narrow dirt road, there seemed to be more Cubans and more security guards. Flag Landing seemed very far away, indeed. Jerry maneuvered the truck down the road and chatted about the great quality of life in Gitmo. He spoke in present tense, but of completed acts.
The boys and I listened to his stories, but we were dealing with the complexities of could have been, should have been and would have been. It occurred to me that this ride was more to convince himself of the need to evacuate dependents than to convince us. It was perfectly obvious to me that we were not safe.
Jerry dropped us off at our front door. We entered the dark, mahogany-paneled lobby and felt the rush of the cool air. Each of us fell into a chair in the living room. I closed my eyes and could still see the endless line of Cubans and concertina wire. They had left their homes with nothing. A few hours ago, my biggest problem had been how to arrange our pair of couches in this room. Cots thrown across concertina fences were on the top of my list now. Couches are perhaps one of the last things I remember about what the kids and I now refer to as Life B.G. (Before Gitmo). I was now within a time period dominated by what might have been, and I would pop into something, as yet undefined, but to become Life A.G. (After Gitmo).
Brendan broke the silence, saying, ``How many Cubans will they be able to fit in this room?'' Brian, always ready to taunt, said, ``Well, I guess they could fit three of those tents right in this living room. That would be 60 Cubans, right, Mom?'' I told Brian to hush and explained to Brendan that they would never put Cubans in this house.
``You mean Dad is going to live in this place all alone?''
``Yeah.''
The Florida Straits
On Aug. 31, the Coast Guard cutter Nantucket was cruising the Florida Straits. If you were standing on her deck, you would see a line of rafts some 2 miles away, and it would be explained to you that the rafts and the folks on board were still within the territorial waters of Cuba. Beyond the line of rafters, you would make out the skyline of Havana. Between the rafters and that skyline, you would be able to see a Cuban gunboat.
Allan Weisbecker, a writer from New York on board the Nantucket, could also see the ship's crew of 16 was having a busy day. As the ship spotted rafts in international waters, it pulled alongside.
In four months, the Coast Guard had pulled 50,000 people out of these waters. The Nantucket's crew had saved 1,208 lives - young women holding their infants; feeble, dehydrated old men; young men who claimed to be political prisoners and insisted on being taken to Florida instead of Guantanamo . . . a wild-eyed young man who claimed he is not Cuban at all but a citizen of Russia.
When the Nantucket was filled, a Navy boat came alongside and ferried the rafters to a waiting frigate. The frigate then took the rafters to Guantanamo.
As the frigate entered the mouth of Guantanamo Bay, it passed Ferry Landing. From there, residents of Guantanamo would board a ferry to the other side of the bay to go to the airport. Usually, a flight came and departed only twice a week, so Ferry Landing was usually a very quiet place.
Ferry Landing
On Aug. 31, Ferry Landing was full of men, women and children. This was the first day of the evacuation, and the first 300 people were to leave at 9 a.m. A crew from the base radio station was reporting live on ``what it was like.'' There was a rather large crowd to see the first evacuees off. There was also some expected chaos, last-minute paperwork, confusion about tickets and a lot of talk about T-shirts. Some teenagers had painted on white T-shirts: ``I Am an American Refugee From Guantanamo Bay Cuba.'' The folks doing the radio show were asking a lot of questions about the welcome being planned in Norfolk, which was the destination of all evacuation aircraft.
Around 10 that morning, I was walking past the officer's housing on my way home after a short walk with Kerry. George Gibson passed me in his car and then turned into his driveway about 20 feet away. I knew that George's wife, Evelyn, had left that morning. He got out of his car and strode over to where I had stopped walking.
``Did Evelyn get off OK?'' I asked.
``Yeah, she got off all right.''
There was one of those awkward silences, and then he said, simply:
``You know, Susan, I was just not ready for that. Not ready for that at all.''
I wanted to put my arms around George and let him cry on my shoulder. But I also did not want to embarrass him.
Instead, I said that none of us is ever ready for that. He nodded. He kept his eyes on the ground and his hands pushed deep into his pockets as he walked over to the front door and into his house.
I should have put my arm around George.
Windmill Beach
At around 3 that afternoon, the boys, myself and Kerry were having that ``nice'' day at Windmill Beach. The boys were happily snorkeling around a lagoon, Kerry was digging a hole and I was glancing every few minutes to where the road rose from the beach and disappeared around the bend to the Cuban camps. I sat in my beach chair and silently pondered the situation.
It was Aug. 31. This was my ninth day in Cuba, and in four days, the boys, Kerry and I would leave. Two years had quickly turned into two weeks. I knew, best case, we would return to Cuba for Christmas. Worst case, we would not return before next summer. I had decided to make plans based on the worst-case scenario. All we would take would be in our allotted two suitcases each. Our house in Virginia Beach was rented for two years, and there was no way I could break the lease. I knew of one place where I could rent a furnished house at least until next Memorial Day at the North End of Virginia Beach.
Once I got the boys set up in school, I would look for a place at the beach. I had no idea where I would stay in the interim. I did not want to go into a hotel, because I would have to put the dog in a kennel. My instincts told me that Brian, Brendan, Kerry and I needed to be together somewhere quiet. I had to get my kids out of what should have been and into what is. Bookie was making some phone calls that afternoon, and I was sure he would have come up with something by the time I saw him that night.
I called my kids out of the water so we could get back to the house. Guards stopped me twice on the way out for ID checks. They said they were looking for someone in a white truck like mine who was making unauthorized videos of the camp. A group of Cubans was staring into the truck, and Jeeps were racing around. My knuckles were white as I gripped the steering wheel. I just wanted to get out of there. When we got back to the house, I switched on the base radio station. The announcer was reporting that as of the next morning, Windmill Beach would no longer be open - for security reasons.
About ``The Book''
Bookie attended the U.S. Naval Academy from 1969 to 1973. I attended the University of London about the same time.
We met at my sister's wedding. I had graduated from college three days before, and he was on his first ship. It was your standard receiving line introduction, but he seized the moment to allow his brown eyes to scan me to the bottom of my soul in about 10 seconds. He liked what he saw, I liked the sensation. Like turned into love, and 11 months later, we were married.
When Bookie was no more than 6 or 7, he saw a Navy ship gliding down the Hudson River, on whose banks he had grown up. He turned to a stranger next to him and said: ``One day, one of those ships is going to be mine.'' Many years later, while on the Inchon for a six-month deployment in 1990, his career path demanded that he get his officer-of-the-deck certificate. He needed it to get command of a ship. But Bookie Boland decided not to go for it. Command of a ship would mean more deployments, more time away from his family. The loneliness of six-month deployments was history.
On Friday, Sept. 2, 1994, at 4 p.m., I stood, flanked by my sons, in the inner office of the commanding officer of Guantanamo Bay. Following tradition, Capt. DeSpain read his orders from the Bureau of Naval Personnel directing him to leave his job as CO and report to Mayport, Fla. - his next duty station. Then Bookie read his orders, which told him to leave the National War College and report to Guantanamo Bay. This took five minutes. They shook hands, the photographers took some more pictures and there was a little chit chat.
This was Bookie's third job as CO of something. The previous two had been helicopter squadrons, and the day of the change of command had always been similar to a wedding. Lots of relatives arrive from out of town. The day starts with the ceremony - a band, color guards, all people attached to the command standing in ranks behind the seated guests. My children and I march in on the arm of an immaculately uniformed young man, a speech by an admiral, a speech by the outgoing CO, a speech by the incoming CO. Then a cake-cutting ceremony. Then a party for a couple of hundred people over at the Officers Club. Then another party back at the house. By the third or fourth time, you almost go on remote. However, I am always overwhelmed by two feelings at a change of command. I am sinfully proud of my husband, and I am deeply grateful to have been born an American.
The change of command on Friday, Sept. 2, did not follow that pattern. It was originally scheduled for 0800 on the Marine Parade Ground. But on Sept. 2, the base would be three days into the six-day evacuation. It would hold 45,000 Cuban and Haitian refugees, with more arriving each day. The ceremony was scaled back to the CO's office. On Wednesday, no one was even sure if there would be a change of command because of a major water leak in the base's main system. At about noon, I got the message to be there around a quarter to 4.
From Bookie's arrival the previous Saturday until the moment of his change of command Friday, he had followed Capt. DeSpain around for his ``change-over.'' In that time, he was expected to learn how to do his new job. Cubans were arriving at a rate of 4,000 a day, evacuees were leaving at 300 a day, and there was a rumor that Haiti, just an hour's plane ride across the water, was soon to be invaded by American troops. Because of the evacuation, Capt. DeSpain went on the radio every night at 7 to take questions over the phone. The evacuation was a very complex operation, and the questions revealed the confusion and stress.
Capt. DeSpain knew his people and answered the questions with the confidence of a leader well in control. I worried about my husband. He would have to do the radio show, and I knew that he did not know all these details. He did not know these people, soon to be his people, and they did not know him.
We lingered after the change of command, then the boys and I turned to leave.
``Are you sure you're OK?'' I asked, standing in the hallway with just my head and shoulders inside the door.
``Yeah, I'm OK. We'll go to the club for dinner when I get home. OK?''
``Yeah, OK, Book.''
Then he smiled, leaned back in his chair, raised his right hand and shaped his fingers into a pistol. He cocked the imaginary gun, put it to his head and pulled the trigger.
Saturday evening found the four of us feeling lost in the magnificent white house. I had been doing some packing in my bedroom, and on my way downstairs, I heard Bookie's voice behind the closed door of Brendan's room. They were saying their own good-byes.
Later, I was in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner. From the kitchen window, you could see the blue water of the bay, but only through the low-lying branches and trunks of the ever-rerooting banyan tree. The trunks read like a history of the white house on Deer Point. Scores of folks, lovers and friends, had carved dates and names into the bark of the trunks. Brian had shown me where he had done his own carving with his pocket knife: ``Brian Boland Evacuated Sept. 4, 1994.''
I stood at the kitchen window, and I could see Bookie and Brian standing under the banyan tree. They had their arms around each other. I squinted to be sure - yes, they were crying onto each other's shoulders. Brian was finally crying.
Then I did it. The scream started deep inside of me. It was conceived very near that part of my soul that Bookie had seen on the day we met. As it developed within me, it grew with the strength of its own power and pain. I knew it was going to hurt as it passed through my vocal cords, but it was beyond my control at that point. It was like a labor pain, a contraction of sorts, only moving in the opposite direction. There was no stopping it. The house was completely closed up and the air conditioners were all on high. No one would hear me. I squinted one more time at the scene under the banyan tree, and I screamed:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS!
I pounded the kitchen counter with my fists and I cursed Castro. I cursed Clinton. I cursed every Cuban in every cursed tent on this cursed base. I cursed every room of that cursed house I was standing in, the house my children were supposed to fill with their friends. I cursed my own stupidity to have believed for one minute that life was meant to be anything but a struggle. I pounded and cursed and pounded and cursed until tears flowed freely down my face. I got down on my knees, slouched and covered my wet face with my hands. I knelt there crying, until I heard the kitchen door creak. Oh God, please, not one of the kids. Not like this. Then I heard a familiar click of a claw on the linoleum floor and felt Kerry's warm, velvety tongue licking my hands. Her tongue discovered my salty tears, and she kept licking my hands, palms and knuckles as I lowered them to my lap.
Sept. 4, 1994, Guantanamo Bay
The gig picked us up at Flag Landing around 7:30 that morning and headed back to the airport. By 8:30, the boys and I had boarded the Boeing 727 and had found Row 1 Seats A, B and C marked VIP with our names. We dutifully sat down and waited for regular boarding to begin. Brendan took the window seat, I was in the middle and Brian was on my right. There was a young blond flight attendant, Candy, who was a real knockout, and Brian was trying to be very cool.
The hangar door was open and a line of people stretched from the door of the hangar to the stairway. It was a line of families just like mine. As each approached the stairway, the scene would repeat itself. The man would start by kissing each of his children and trying to smile. He would stand before his wife, and they would embrace and start to cry. They didn't want the kids to see their tears, either. But the kids saw. The parents would reach out for their children and draw them into their embrace.
Once the passengers were boarded, the door was closed and the stairway was rolled away. The pilot started the engines. The men in T-shirts and shorts waved good-bye from behind a chain-link fence. Bookie appeared on the tarmac in his khaki uniform. He stood by himself with his arms folded on his chest. I watched, surprised to see him there. I had assumed he had already left, because he had never been able to weather drawn-out good-byes. The plane jerked into movement as we began our taxi to the runway. As the plane began to move past him, he dropped his arms to his side, squared his shoulders and came, ever so smartly, to a full salute.
That was my best friend down there.
Virginia Beach, Spring 1995
Three days after our arrival in Norfolk, the boys returned to the schools they had been attending in ``Life B.G .'' I spent the next day house hunting, and on Sept. 15, the boys, Kerry and myself moved from a cottage on Fort Story into our rented house at the North End. I met some of our neighbors in the first few days, but only one or two seemed to know what had happened in Guantanamo. I have since met a lot of people who remember having seen ``something about that'' in the paper.
On Oct. 6, President Clinton visited the Naval Base in Norfolk to speak with sailors on one of the carriers. He had also asked to meet with some of the families affected by the operations in the Caribbean. I was introduced to him as the wife of the commanding officer of Guantanamo Bay. He told me he understood how painful the evacuation must have been and how he wanted those families returned to Guantanamo before Christmas. I doubted he could do that. But I wanted to believe him, so I drove back to the beach house with hope in my heart. He returned to Washington on Air Force One, and his administration has since done everything it could to ensure that I never lay my eyes on Guantanamo Bay again.
I have written numerous letters to our elected officials: Sam Nunn, Strom Thurmond, Bill Bradley, John Warner, Owen Pickett, Jesse Helms, Clinton. Each has been answered - except the president's. Some have told me how ``concerned'' they are. Others have told me that they will ``look into it.'' Some are outraged and send my letter to the Department of the Navy. One of them visited Guantanamo shortly after I wrote to him. Before he left, he gave my husband some freebies, one being a key ring for me. I wrote and wrote for help, and all I have to show for it is a key ring.
I stopped writing letters when the Navy was ordered to transfer the 8,500 Cubans being held in a refugee camp in Panama to Guantanamo. The Navy was also ordered to start upgrading the tent cities with permanent structures, forming communities with recreation centers, post offices, child-care centers and a sewage system. The base's Department of Defense elementary school is now being used by migrant children, and after school, their parents can take them for a swim at Windmill Beach. Cubans in the camps must be allowed visits from family members who are already living and voting in the United States, mainly Florida - a key state in the Electoral College.
My husband will finish his tour in Guantanamo and return to us in Virginia Beach by the end of this year. The Navy has promised the evacuated families that they will not be separated from their sailor for more than one year. By that time, I think I will have completely healed.
There are only three things that still bother me now. When driving the boys back and forth to baseball practice, I inevitably see a red Jeep Wrangler. Our Jeep made it to Cuba, and Bookie drives it to and from work each day. The other sight I often confront driving around Tidewater is a flatbed truck with some of those shabby plywood crates. I won't lay my hands on any of my things until my husband returns. Finally, on Sunday afternoons after a very long walk with Kerry to the Narrows in Seashore State Park, I collapse exhausted, on the couch. I work hard on the weekends to exhaust myself so I won't miss the Book so much.
That is the only time I allow myself to seriously daydream about what should have been. In my mind, the couch is a hammock strung up on Flag Landing. Bookie is sitting close by, reading yet another historical novel, his feet resting on a cooler. I can only hear two sounds. One is the water lapping at the pilings under the dock. The other is the sound of children's laughter coming from the magnificent white house on Deer Point.
Before Bookie leaves Guantanamo, there will be yet another change of command. Strangely enough, his successor opted for a one-year unaccompanied tour. His wife's career demands that she not leave home, and her husband is guaranteed to return home after his duty. It would seem my nightmare is her godsend. However, there is no doubt in my mind that someday a Navy wife will again walk Flag Landing with her children in tow, wondering in what way this tour will touch their lives. I hope she likes hammocks. I've asked Bookie to leave one stashed in the hall closet for her.
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Robert Frost MEMO: Susan Boland is a free-lance writer and adjunct faculty member at TCC
and ODU.
ILLUSTRATION: [Color Illustration]
JOHN EARLE/Staff
Teenage evacuees made up T-shirts expressing their feelings.
by CNB