Islands always carry with them an inevitable mysticism. Cuba, an island everywhere, seems as if it is multiplied into one and another and another island. Because from the sea comes our faith, but not our nourishment. Our patron virgin did not appear on terra firma like other ones in the Latin American lands of the Virgin Mary’s. She appeared for the first time like a golden queen emerging from the violent sea where the eyes of the storms grow. The appeased sea where treasures filled with coral thrown away by bandits, centuries before, onto reefs. We submerge ourselves in these salty waters with the unconscious illusion of the lukewarm and liquid memory of the maternal womb and in them we also make offerings and wash the wounds of the defeated battles against hostility without cause that prey on us daily. We allow ourselves to cradle in the horizon, immobile, turning our backs on the ordinary that constitute our daily life. Like stranded pilots looking at the city at times from afar. We find ourselves returned to nature itself, even upon reaching 90 years of age. The body rests from the weight of our heads, guillotined by the waves. We permit salt to alleviate rancor and loss, burning under the sun. The sea is our freest and healthiest of territories. During our most difficult moments, Cubans seek the sea, because in it we are born again, free.