There it was, the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen in my young life: a shimmering green island afloat on the bluest water. Our chartered plane dipped a wing as we headed in for a landing at the José Martí International Airport in Havana, Cuba.
As I drifted off to sleep later that night, after having taken part in a noisy, festive carnival parade through the streets, I briefly reflected on how I came to be a part of the S.S. Water Follies, a first-class water ballet and stage show.
In 1949, I was a 21-year-old from a small town in Iowa, but in the few years before that I had lived in Chicago, New York, and Boston. This time, adventure came to me while I was working as a cocktail waitress at Boston’s Hotel Touraine.
Sam Snyder, producer of the S.S. Water Follies show, was seated at one of my tables. After noticing my athletic shoulders, he said, “My show really needs more swimmers. How would you like to go to Havana?”
Would I ever! Hollywood glamorized Latin American countries in the 1940s, so I was definitely interested in experiencing that life for myself. I passed a requisite swimming test and the very next day took a train to New York, where rehearsals were already in progress.
There were 17 other girls and more than a dozen other people involved in the show. I was probably one of the few girls hired for her actual swimming ability, but was clueless onstage and didn’t know my right from my left.
The show’s director was an impatient man, and after I turned the wrong way four times in one rehearsal number, he fired me.
Fortunately, Mr. Snyder was in the room, and I was soon back in the chorus line, trying to remember which way to turn. From that point on, the director always had me in the back row, because he was never really confident that I would remember the choreography.
After our week in New York, then a stop in Miami for dress rehearsals, we arrived in Havana. The show was an upscale production with brand-new costumes and a live orchestra performing in what had once been a bullfighting ring.
We danced onstage and at a certain point peeled off our plumed headdresses and sequined costumes to reveal golden yellow swimsuits and rubber swim caps. Floating on my back in starburst formation with the other girls was one of the best parts, especially when we all slowly sank to the bottom of the pool with 18 shapely legs held high, toes pointed to the beautiful Caribbean sky. I don’t recall seeing an empty stadium seat once in our six-week run.
On my first day in Havana, I met a tall, slender Cuban man named Willie, who spoke excellent English and looked a lot like American actor Dana Andrews. Willie had been hired as the water show’s master of ceremonies, and he immediately asked me out on a date.
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He was a brilliant dancer who loved taking me to Havana’s popular nightclubs. We often lunched at the Havana Yacht Club, and I swam in the pool at the Hotel Nacional. At that age, I had no problem doing one or two shows a day, then dancing into the small hours of the night.
After several months in Havana, the producers announced that they had a contract for us to perform in Caracas. I reluctantly said goodbye to Willie and, after Venezuela, to my tropical adventure. I left the show and went to Chicago, where I met my future husband.
In 1959, I sadly watched Castro’s takeover of Cuba in the news. A year later, I received a phone call from Willie: He was married with two daughters, and had managed to escape from Cuba under cover of darkness, seeking refuge with his brother in California.
He said that Castro had taken everything he had worked for all his life. Willie bitterly told me, “At first we thought Castro was our liberator, until he showed his ugly Communist face.”
There was a time when I wanted to return to Cuba, but that time has passed now. Still, when I hear a tune from South Pacific, the music used in our show, I dream of doing the aquacade backstroke under the Cuban moon.
from Reader's Digest http://ift.tt/2iloHct
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