I watched the land fade into the horizon, the glass of anchored boats reflecting brilliant orange rays of the rising sun.
"That was probably the last time you'll see your grandparents," Dad said, eyes fixed ahead.
He was probably right. They wouldn't listen. They never did.
A couple months earlier, he'd emailed to invite me on this trip—sailing from Florida through the Panama Canal. "It's probably going to be a tough sell for Mom," he'd written. But I'd said yes immediately. Part of it was the adventure. But part of it was something else. I wanted to be with my dad. I wanted to prove I was like him, not like the others who couldn't see what was coming.
To my surprise, Mom agreed on a promise I'd be back before school resumed, and I joined my brother on a flight to Florida.
My father received us with open arms and a broad smile on his too-tan face. It had been a year since he'd seen his children.
I understood why he'd left. He was trying to save us—to save all of us. The economy was going to collapse. Food crises. Riots. Neighbors turning on each other. Anyone not living far off-grid with their own supply of food and water would be in serious danger.
Dad's plan was meant to be even more resilient: off-land. Our family would live on a boat in the South Pacific, catching fish and desalinating water to survive while the world disintegrated around us.
It was one iteration of the near-endless cycle of survival plans that had filled my childhood. Some featured escaping to exotic sanctuaries like American Samoa, while others involved outfitting camper vans for mobility within the U.S.
But now, it was the boat. A year prior, he'd flown to Florida to buy Ono Kai—a 30-year-old racing boat in need of repairs. For twelve months, he'd lived onboard, spending every waking moment getting it sea-worthy.
And here we were at last.
The plan was for my brother and me to sail with him to Panama, then fly back home to Hawai'i. After that, he'd either head straight to the South Pacific or come get us first—depending on how things developed. He figured it would be the latter. There was so little chance the world kept functioning a few weeks from then.
We'd done a final Sam's Club run, stuffing a rented Prius with tools and enough food and water to last a couple weeks.
Cuba was to be our first stop. U.S. tourist travel was still banned, and any other visit required special authorization we didn't have. So we left under cover of night, slipping past Coast Guard boats that might ask where we were going.
Now, Dad sat at the helm, eyes beaming with the promise of freedom and safety. My brother—a senior in high school, still submitting his college applications—typed an update to Mom on a small satellite messenger, our only link to the outside world.
I watched the waves, thinking about my friends back home. I wondered what they were doing. I wondered if I'd tell them about this trip when I got back, or if it would be too hard to explain.
Midday, my brother spotted a ship off to our left. After watching a few moments longer, we realized it was a cargo ship, and its trajectory seemed to match ours exactly.
Dad didn't think we should slow down. He thought we could beat it.
I watched it edge closer toward what seemed like an inevitable collision, my heart racing. Why are we doing this?, I thought. It was massive—at least ten times taller than our boat. As we held our course for the final stretch, it sounded its horn. A low, furious blast that rattled my chest.
But we made it.
A few minutes later, the hull plowed through the water we had just crossed.
I took a deep breath. We're fine. Dad knows what he's doing.
Eight hours later, we saw land approaching on our GPS. We pulled into a wide inlet that would lead us to Havana.
It was well past sunset now, the night sky dotted with thousands of bright stars. Along the ridge, canons pointed down at us from an old military fort as the putrid stench of burning rubber filled our nostrils. In the distance, plumes of flame shot into the black above. Dad told me they were burning trash.
Then: a boat.
In the darkness, a Cuban military boat with a machine gun mounted on the front had sidled up beside us. My heart pounded, hoping they wouldn't use the weapon they so prominently displayed.
They shouted a string of Spanish. Our only response: "No hablo Español."
Frustrated, they repeated in broken English: we needed to go to a different marina another 9 miles down the coast—our boat was too small for Havana.
We turned around and motored the final stretch before arriving at a dock where a man with a flashlight yelled and guided us in.
Then, immigration officials boarded our boat. They needed to search everything.
I sat aside and watched them sift through our things, wondering if everything would still be there when they finished. After a thorough sweep and some paperwork with our passports, they were almost done. They just needed one more thing: Christmas presents.
Dad checked his wallet for the bribe money. He didn't have it. He whispered something to my brother. After an exasperated look, my brother went down into the hull. A few minutes later, he came back and forked over $80 of his own summer job money, and Dad threw in a few nuts and apples for good measure.
And with that, we were in.
They returned to their posts. Dad sat us down to discuss the plan: he didn't want to stay on Cuban land any longer than necessary. Tomorrow, we would go to a nearby ATM for pesos to pay the docking fee, then leave immediately, anchoring offshore at night for the rest of our time in the country.
I could hear something in his voice I wasn't used to. He always sounded so certain. But right now, he sounded... careful.
We said goodnight. I went down to my sleeping quarters: a three-foot by six-foot enclave carved into the side of the hull.
I lay there in the dark, listening to the water lap against the boat. My mind drifted toward home. My mom. My friends. A girl I liked. I'd told them all I'd be back in a few weeks. I hoped that was true.
Dad knows what he's doing, I told myself. It'll be alright.
I believed that. I had to believe that. He was my dad, and he was doing all of this to protect us.
But as I lay there—fifteen years old, in a foreign country, in the hull of a boat my father had bought to escape the collapse of civilization—something sat heavy in my chest that I couldn't name.
It wasn't doubt. I didn't know enough to doubt. It was something quieter. Something in my gut that wouldn't settle.
I didn't feel safe.
And I didn't understand why, because I was supposed to.
I wanted to go home, but I pushed it down. I told myself it was just nerves—first-night jitters on a new adventure.
By morning, I'd almost believe it.