Landing at an empty airport, we’re handed over to be sniffed and searched like drug lords. The customs officials are seemingly clueless to “las tablas de surf” and, because of their whiteness in color and lightness in weight, suspect we are trying to bring some “white lady” into the deprived land of Cuba. An hour passes and we finally make our way to the outskirts of the airport, back into the warm, fresh air of the Caribbean where the visuals take me back in time.

The old buildings and beautiful women, the Morris Minors and Ladas that rule Cuban streets all evoke memories of movies from the ‘70s. We hop into our ride, where the air-conditioning is blasting, contrary to the heat I expected among these numbered streets. Calle 70… We search for our temporary residence while the warmth of the air and the rumbling sea feeds my urge — now I’m itching to submerse myself in Cuba. I feel alive. We pass children singing and playing in a park among decaying leaves beneath an enormous natural fortress with vines reaching from the limbs, and we arrive. We climb up to the middle of the 20th floor and out onto the balcony to take in the coastline. Lined with jagged Boston Bay-type rocks that remind me of Jamaica, the Cuban beach hosts a small crowd of spectators watching local watermen dance to their delight across playful walls just inches away from the shoreline’s teeth.

I find myself running across the jagged rocks, dancing and jumping from spot to spot where my feet can find some comfort, and then I’m out there. “Ola!” My Spanish sucks, but my obvious joy of surfing ingratiates me easily with my new partners for this session. They use the bits of English they know to ask about my land, while I return the favor between the sets that get pushed in by howling onshore winds. Now I’m stoked; in the waters of my closest neighboring island, the discarded country, I’m discovering the truth in the word “peace.” These people have nothing of what we rave about at home, and the air is even more relaxed as I compare it to the tension of walking in the streets of downtown Kingston a few years ago, when politics lowered a blanket of unease on the lives of Jamaica’s pedestrians.

Now, as the evening grows old and the light fades, I grab my towel and try to warm my cool flesh. I’m stopped again by a group of local boys on the final stretch of my run. Intrigued by my dance on the sea, they bombard me with questions about my sport, my land and my surfboard. “Jamaica, Bob Marley!” is the usual greeting I receive, but this time it’s followed by more unusual ones directed at my surfboard: “What this make of? Where we learn?”

As I realize the potential surfing has to blow away the social and cultural barriers in Cuba’s neglected society, my mind drifts off to a lively street and coastline surrounding the capital city of Havana, with traveling surfers treating themselves to the power of critical swells pounding the shoreline. There is so much more to this dream than I could even imagine, but wind gusts from the coast of the United States remind me of the time and I retreat to find some relief for my rumbling stomach.

Our hotel’s restaurant bubbles up a fine array of local dishes and we gather in the chilled dining room as the mariachi band appears. They sing words I could never begin to comprehend, but the bass and maracas are reminiscent of my beloved reggae music. The Spanish in fellow traveling surfer Ametza Nicholls’ blood keeps her rocking, though she’s trying not to let it show. I feel the mood and the band passes around a handkerchief on a saucer for donations, earning them only a few Convertible Cuban Pesos (CUC) as tonight there aren’t many people dining at this restaurant. The band manages to make a living, though, for in a society cut off from the wider world, it’s evident that every bit counts.

My thoughts on Cuba have never been like this. All the news stories could never capture the truth of personal experience. The love in the eyes of the people and the astonishment as we race and fly across the water takes me back to a village I once visited in Haiti. When I rode my first wave at a firing left-hander there, the children danced and sang with every move I made. Now the Cuban locals beg us to go back out and a crowd grows on the beach. Families start to make this spot their evening social scene, while the local surfers beg for tips on moves, then charge the swells with their carefully repaired wave catchers.

It’s funny how local Cuban surfers battle the waves on bent and twisted pieces of boards, yet a grom’s ability to share a surfboard does not come easily, if at all. The locals’ stoke drives them to work harder, make those few extra CUCs, and tailor the pieces of broken surfboards back together so they can continue to feel this rush. It’s the same rush that causes many to call in sick on a Monday morning, miss the best home-cooked meal on a Sunday evening ‘cause the waves are going off, and even date girls who love to tan so you can get the extra hours on the beach. This love of the sport seems to keep us all pushing, changing our decisions and thus altering our lives as we live to share the stoke and ride waves of pure, raw energy.

The windswell is dying as our trip winds down, and our new family gathers to plan for the remainder of the visit. Junior Gomez and Edwin Then, brothers from Cuba’s neighbor, Dominican Republic, became an addition to our clan as we hunted for surf and ventured through the city. Junior and Edwin, fellow competitors in the first-ever international surf event held in Cuba and Spanish speakers, help us to overcome the language barrier and we cling to the locals even more than before. We hear stories of a point not too far away. This spot, the locals say, pulses even when the swell is dying, so we walk the streets, boards in hand, admiring the architecture and scenery in the old town. We pass through an amusement park, which catches the eyes of the children passing by, and then through mangrove patches that give me the feeling of sneaking onto the coast in my homeland.

The waves are tiny but, knowing the truth in the dropping swell, we hurry across the rocks to catch a few. Booties are a plus, but my Jamaican feet make easy work of Dog Teeth’s rocks and we share the last of the waves with our friends from neighboring islands. Now the cold air from the northern land that stands so close but has grown so distant chills us. This group of friends now takes to the streets where buses are our chariots. The sport of kings makes us stand out from the norm as we make our way to a social gathering on the beach. Surfing breaks the barriers of language and society, as does a game of pool. Hours pass by as we call pockets and test our luck and skill. Women glance at us, smiling and gathering eyes from the men in the room. They may see it as an easy way to meet the bills or a fast track to high status in the eyes of the locals, but we hurry off as the morning promises a day of adventure and exploration.

In the morning, we assemble in the lobby of our hotel and head off to the old town of Havana, which greets us with stunning architecture and the amazing fort that once guarded this land. The streets are rich in life with people buzzing about urgently in the morning rush hour. Walking up the Paseo del Prado, we watch the local children playing marbles and football in the walkway, while other groups stand on the sidewalk throwing water-filled condoms into the street, cheering as they roll, dodge, or get popped by passing cars. These cries of excitement fill the air as we make our way further into the capital. Great buildings and statues constructed to seemingly signify the strength of the country grid the town, and tourists like us are treated to local carriage rides that show and tell its history.

Gazing to the west, as the sun sets on our trip, I reflect on the memories I’ve gained from traveling the streets and hunting the beaches of this land. The great friends I’ve made and lives I have touched instill a sense of belonging in my heart. This is what I live for — traversing the world and submersing myself into new cultures, finding myself through inspiration from my experiences. Cuba will forever be a stamp in my memories of the world, for the sights, sounds, and experiences I enjoyed have exposed me to a side of our world rarely seen. The future of surfing in Cuba is being shaped by love and the pure rush and joy felt from the sport. Now, as I leave this land, my heart remains with the people I have met, those who will continue to persevere and reap success. I hope to return one day to this great land I call my neighbor.