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Bad Sailing and Thirst for Tequila

“Imperialist pig dog!” came the war cry from the tavern door. The dingy yellow light silhouetted the man’s paunchy figure, a golden ray filtering through the sloshing contents of a bottle in his hand. The sigh left my lips as any hope of enjoying a few shots of tequila left my mind.

With another whoop of aggressive joy the chase was on, me skittering around corners of old Havana while two or three drunken communists stumbled with amazing rapidity considering their inebriation behind me. This was not how I’d imagined my sojourn abroad, but poor planning and half rate sailing have a way of conspiring against a poor soul.

I ducked. I wove. I lost most of them. The persistent one got a brick to the face as he rounded a corner. He may have been gravely wounded or close to dead even. That was life on the wrong side of old Havana, and I tried not to think about it much. Survival had needs, and exigency its dictates.

I never was much of a philosopher, just a bad sailor and a bit of a drunk.

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