“But we’re at the mouth of Havana Harbor, Fidel. If I keep rowing we’ll soon be out to sea.”

“Very, well, Diego. We’ll sit here and float for a while. Ahh, breath in that salt air. The sea is where a man can be a man.”

“On the ocean in a rowboat? I don’t understand, Fidel.”

“Think of it, Diego. Our little craft is at the mercy of the currents, not unlike our workers paradise that is propelled by the winds of change. We rock, we roll, but we do not capsize. Oh, if only we could break the chains of the concert embargo that bind us, we would truly be free.”

“But, Fidel, you’ve spent your whole life trying to bring concerts to Cuba. Bob Dylan, The Commodores and Schleigho, they all said no to your offers.”

“Bah! The men who control the ebb and flow of the concert world are like children, Diego. I talk and talk, but they do not understand. I ask them for The String Cheese Incident and all they care about is the door percentage and how much they can make on the parking. I’m afraid Papa was right.”

“Papa? You had a father, Fidel?”

“No, you simpleton, I’m talking about Hemmingway. I knew him when I was a young man. I can still remember that day. We were in a boat much like this one, Papa with his rum and me with my letter of acceptance to the Joseph Stalin Mail Correspondence School for Marxists. He told me that a revolution is like a ‘shark hunt.'”

“But, Fidel, Hemmingway used a machine gun to hunt sharks.”

“Si. He was truly a man of vision. And when I think of the years I’ve spent trying to snag a one-off date for Three Dog Night or one of those rare Perry Farrell DJ shows, I feel that maybe I should have used less rhetoric and more bullets. Que Sera Sera, Diego.”

“Hemmingway said that?”

“Either him or Doris Day. It’s been so long. And now we float at the mouth of the harbor and look back on our beloved island as the people toil away at their dreary existence, their hearts yearning for a single night with Union Underground or Jerry Jeff Walker.”

“That and maybe a washing machine, Fidel. I could use a new Maytag.”

“And what good are clean clothes if one cannot wear them to a Backstreet Boys concert? No, Diego, I did not dedicated my life to facing down the so-called leaders of the world so that you could have fresh Fruit Of The Looms and a crease in your pants. Status Quo first, then we talk about spin cycles and permanent press.”

“Uh, Fidel? The current is carrying us out to sea. Maybe we should head to shore.”

“Very well. Row, Diego. Turn us around and set a course for the dock. Row with all your might. We’ll show the people, that while we may be old, there’s still enough spunk left in us to fight for Brooks & Dunn. Row like the wind and we’ll show the people that I still wield enough power to stand up for Cuba and choice seats for Jimmie Vaughan and Gladys Knight. Row against the tide of bourgeois capitalism. Row, Diego, row!”

“I’m rowing, Fidel, I’m rowing.”

“Then row faster, Diego, because…”

“Because ‘what,’ Fidel?”

“Because the day is still young, and I wish to water ski before we return to port.”

“Aye, aye, Fidel.”