Cuba libre

'Welcome home.'

I spent the holidays swanning around a Cuban resort in the shortest pair of shorts I own and an outrageously pink hat.

Although this kind of existence certainly softens the body, it can do wonders for the soul.

From the edge of an infinity pool overlooking the sea, countless thoughts came to mind — like how in the world I came to be in this sun-splashed paradise. About a year ago, I was shivering in an apartment stairwell, with only the filthiest clothes on my back, a painful skin infection, and just one thought:

How am I going to get my next high?

I didn’t know it at the time, but the answer proved to be in a recovery program. That’s when I found all sorts of new ways to get high.

Still, that doesn’t quite explain how I ended up watching pelicans glide over crystal waters all day. My former partner took me there. It was a celebration marking a year without drugs.

Which brings me to another thought. Why would someone who bore the brunt of my addiction whisk me away for a Caribbean vacation?

The answer still eludes me. We’re not getting back together. But we’re both in recovery. Me from whatever nameless trauma pushed me towards a crack pipe. And her from me. Still, despite the collapse of our union, we found something even more special — the most pure-hearted friendship

And that brings even more thoughts. How could I have pivoted in such a short time from looking for ways to end my life to marveling at the grace of birds dive-bombing into the sea?

Again, I’m at a loss. But I suspect that recovery somehow allowed me to finally see the love that had always been in my life.

So many questions. So few answers. And still, it felt good to turn them over in my mind, as I sprawled on a cushioned lounge chair.

There was, however, one question that shook me. It came from a Canadian customs agent back at the Toronto airport in the early hours of a cold winter morning. We had just touched down, weary and overcooked by the Cuban sun. The officer wasn’t responding to my light-hearted banter as well as I had hoped. He was the kind of customs agent we all know. Suspicious, officious and inflexible.

He separated me from my travel partner, before asking that fateful question:

“Does she know?”

“Umm… know what?” I replied, my thoughts racing. Then I knew exactly what he meant. “You mean… the thing with drugs at the border? From last year?”

“Yes, that thing,” he said, scrutinizing his screen, before continuing. “It says here you were stopped at the border with cocaine, fentanyl and heroin in your car.”

It’s true. About a year and a half ago, I was so strung out I missed my highway exit, and ended up at the point of no return. The only way to avoid crossing into the U.S. was by turning back into the Canadian border.

The problem was that my passengers were all equally strung out and carrying all sorts of imprisonable substances.

The border guard promptly flagged us for inspection. Then, in a spasm of people-pleasing, I told my passengers to give all their dope to me. I was led off in shackles for interrogation, my car impounded.

At the end of the day, the charges were dropped. Don’t ask me why authorities declined to take the case. It was one of those lucky horseshoes that had inexplicably been embedded in my posterior for most of my life. Pure providence.

Until that early morning at the airport, when I faced another stone-cold customs agent.

He repeated his query: “Does she know?”

Then I remembered I had the most beautiful answer.

“Yes,” I said, looking back at my friend. “She knows everything.”

I told the officer a bit of my story — what a spectacular junkie I used to be. He didn’t have anything else to do and seemed interested.

I also thanked him for being sensitive in separating me from the person he thought was my partner.

“This whole trip,” I continued, “Was her idea. A celebration for a year of staying clean.”

Then I braced for the officer’s pre-programmed reaction: judgment.

After all, it takes courage to come forward as a former addict. It takes none to judge someone for that courage. I had the feeling they don’t teach that kind of courage at border agent school.

But he surprised me by mumbling something about how he tries his best to be discreet in “delicate” situations. Then he waved my partner over. He explained that although I hadn’t been charged with drug smuggling, there was a note in the system.

“You’re probably going to get pulled aside whenever you return from travelling abroad because agents will see the same note. They’ll search your bags to ensure compliance.”

As he dutifully inspected our luggage, he grew chattier, even sharing a story about an earlier passenger who tried to smuggle several kilos of weed out of the country.

While rummaging through toiletries and vitamins, he even apologized a couple of times.

“I know you’re doing your job,” I said.

Then he explained a few more helpful things about my situation and offered advice on future travels.

Finally, my gatekeeper did the unthinkable. He shook my hand.

“Congratulations on being sober for a year. Welcome home.”