Revolución Continuó 

The old man in aviator shades and revolution-inspired clothing wandered around the plane greeting people in Spanish, telling stories for most of the flight through his wiry gray mustache. Then he was suddenly in his seat with his seatbelt fastened. Odd vibrations and the sound of churning metal penetrated the cabin—the landing gear grinding open. 

As I peered out the window, the seemingly boundless ocean beneath us was intercepted by shades of green. I looked into the cockpit and watched the readings on the altimeter drop. Below the wing, I began to make out thick jungle, small towns, and farmland. There were no metropolitan cities in sight, no intricate highway systems jetting out toward the suburbs—just single-lane roads that connected small pockets of civilization. Any noticeable signs of development seemed dilapidated. 

Two years of research, writing, planning, and anticipation had finally manifested. I looked at my teammates: Scott Proctor (graphic designer and translator), Will Saunders (photographer), Sam Ewer (producer), and Torrey Piatt (director of photography). No words were said. Our slight, shit-eating grins were all that needed to be communicated. We were about to embark on the documentary project we’d envisioned together.

Some people view Cuba as enemy territory. We’d heard about the “mysterious sonic attacks” on American diplomats that left some temporarily deaf, which had recently stolen headlines. And we knew that the opportunity to freely travel to Cuba, thanks to President Obama, was about to be restricted once again. But we were there for reasons beyond politics, judgment, or the vilification of a people, a government, or a country. In our minds the island represented an opportunistic unknown—home to a small surf and skate culture whose story needed to be told. What we ultimately found spanned beyond our informed expectations: a tight-knit community of hospitable, supportive people with a strong sense of passion and purpose.

Cuba isn’t particularly known as a surf mecca. Without official numbers to reference, a broad estimate of the amount of surfers in the country ranges from about 80 to 150. Compared to its 11.48 million citizens, wave riders are an extremely small minority, perhaps one of the smallest minorities in the entire country.

Foreigners introduced surfing to the locals in the early 1990s, which is to say that it’s still very much in its infancy on the island. Aside from a few legitimate surf spots toward the eastern tip and a handful of hurricane setups near the greater Havana area, the majority of the known waves along the country’s 3,570 miles of coastline are more novelty than reasons to travel there.

Nevertheless, Cuba’s waves are unique. Take Marina Hemingway, named after the writer who spent so many years in Cuba, which grinds and thumps against the concrete wall of the harbor. Or Baracoa Bay, which wedges off the rusted, tetanus-ridden hull of an old shipwreck. 

According to the New York Times, around 95 percent of Cubans have participated in a form of organized sport or exercise in their lifetimes. The country has famously produced some of the world’s best baseball players and boxers. But surfing and skateboarding are viewed differently than traditional sports in Cuba. The government has categorized them as pointless, renegade activities—nuisances. As such, there is zero acknowledgment or support from the regime and no financing for surf teams or contests. Since commerce is regulated by the government, there are also no surf shops to sell boards, fins, wax, or resin. 

Roberto is a 50-year-old surfer who lives among the tall, limestone cliffs and thick, wet jungle just outside the town of Baracoa in the Guantánamo Province—a bumpy, neck-breaking 24-hour drive from Havana. His house is conveniently located overlooking one of Cuba’s best and most consistent surf breaks. 

Being so far from the capital, he and his son, Robertico, are some of the only surfers located on that side of the island. For people like them, the effects from this general lack of support in surf infrastructure and industry is particularly difficult.

“The first surfboard I ever had came from a guy from California,” he told us. “He brought it to me as a gift. Later, over time, more surfers came and they’d lend me boards. Sometimes we’d make them out of wood. When I see foreigners come with their cars and their surfboards, who can surf all over Cuba, it makes me feel upset knowing that I can’t do that, like they do. It would make me very happy to see my surfer friends from Havana come here, but it’s difficult for them to travel from the city.

“My boy, to me, is someone very special. He’s my heart. I see him learning more and more every day with surfing. But he needs a smaller surfboard, you see, where he can surf like he wants to. He had a shortboard once, a 5’0″. Ever since a wave broke his board in half, he has been down. He can’t do the same things on other boards. His sense of pride and happiness was found in that small board.”

Throughout our travels we would often pass a man, woman, or child sitting on the sidewalk or leaning over their apartment railing. They often shared a similar, longing stare. I wondered if it was a look of contentment, or one of realization that their dreams were unattainable from their circumstances. In a country where economic opportunities are scarce—doctors are paid $60 a month—the first option is to submit to your situation. The second is to conquer your problems. Those in the intertwined Cuban surf and skate communities seemed to have chosen the latter. They possess a contagious energy and a shared sense of purpose. “We’ve created a sort of family,” said Roberto, “as if we are sisters and brothers.” 

Charlie, a dreadlocked longboarder, fixes Apple hardware in Havana for a living. “We are the type of people who know how to find happiness,” he said, “where many times it doesn’t exist. We know how to change things for the better when it’s not going well. I believe this is one of the most important qualities of Cubans. When Cubans have a problem, they don’t think about the problem. They think about the solution.”

Lorena, a freediver, biologist, dolphin trainer, and part of a scant handful of women surfers on the island, shared similar thoughts. “In the end,” she said, “it’s the most important thing in life—to be happy. Cubans are people who value the moment, not having material things, only the things that they feel like they need to make those moments happen.”

Those who are fortunate enough to own a car stack the roof as high as they can with boards, piling in as many bodies as physically possible to go surf. Sometimes a restless crew will pitch in whatever money they have to rent a car or buy bus tickets to get to another part of the 780-mile-long island. 

Yojany Pérez, one of the country’s best surfers and skateboarders, spoke in a soft, almost shy voice as we hopped on a beat-down blue bus packed full of people— some hanging their bodies halfway outside the doors. We followed him to a place on the outskirts of Havana known as Ciudad Libertad, or Freedom City. We reached an abandoned school turned homemade skatepark, where the hand-poured concrete ramps and bowls were covered in graffiti—a communal space, a convent of sorts.

Everyone was there for an outlet. Weaving in and out of beginners, rollerbladers, and scooter riders, Yojany gave no hierarchical treatment. “I enjoy helping other people,” he said, “no matter who asks me how to do something. Because the thing is, when I started learning to surf and skate I learned by myself. I don’t know if it was competition or rivalry, or that the people who knew a lot didn’t want there to be other people like them. But it really bothered me at that time. Now I enjoy teaching those that come and ask me, because I see that they’re having fun, that they feel good, and they’re appreciative. I hope that they don’t go through the same thing I went through when I first started.”

 “Here in my town,” Roberto said, “I always explain that we have to give our best waves to those who visit. Because after one or two days they have to leave, but we stay here and get these waves everyday. Very quickly we will tell you, this place is great for surfing—here’s where the best waves are. The waves are for everyone that come to surf.”

Listening to them, I wondered to myself if Marxist ideologies, especially the ones associated with equality, had permeated the collective consciousness of these people? Or was this genuine solidarity among a small, outcast community? Or rather a sentiment that digs much deeper? 

Roberto’s son, Robertico, has a single surf magazine and a VHS tape, which he has watched hundred of times on his black and white television. He also possesses some of the best style of any surfer we met during our trip. When I asked him if he wanted to be a pro, he responded, “I’d like to become someone in this life—a surfer who can teach others, so that they may also become someone.” 

“Cubans are very hospitable,” Roberto said. “We’re a [type of] people who are very humanitarian. It’s in our blood to be honest, attentive, affectionate, and helpful.”

Surfing in Cuba will eventually become pervasive. Who knows if any of these belief systems will remain, or how long they will stand the test of time. For now, though, there is a purity of thought and action among the surfers and skaters there: an honest regard for others, reflective of broader Cuban culture, which uplifts the whole and can be applied to the very basis of life.