The Cuban Delusion

Watching the fishing boats glide into the harbor, unloading what I assumed was fresh marlin, I took a slow sip of my mojito and lit a cigar. My book could wait. The blinking cursor was holding the line—patient, loyal, ever hopeful. Yes, I was certain: I was the reincarnation of Hemingway.

Except… I wasn’t.
There were no marlins.
Just sardines. Maybe.
And the book? Let’s just say, if it ever becomes a masterpiece, it’ll be by accident or divine intervention—whichever comes first.

But this is not about some book.
It’s about cigars.
You see, I don’t plan a dinner and then pick a cigar. I pick the cigar. Then I choose a meal that won’t ruin it.
That’s not a hobby. That’s a lifestyle. A deeply flawed, smoky, utterly satisfying lifestyle. Bad for health, bad for longevity, bad for practically everything.
Except my happiness.

So naturally, I went to Cuba.
The real deal. Tobacco plantations. Cigar rollers. History soaked into the walls like decades of fine smoke and mild defiance. I walked those factories like a pilgrim at a holy site, watching hands roll leaf into legacy—summoning revolution, relaxation, and respiratory issues in one elegant twist.

And somewhere between the dried leaves and the overpriced rum, I felt it: I was a Cuban war hero in a past life.
Liberator of villages.
Possibly continents.
I was overdue for another cigar.

But this week, something unexpected happened.

My oldest son—small, serious, and suddenly equipped with moral clarity—walked in.
“Dad,” he said, “can you stop smoking cigars? It’s bad for you.”
I was floored.
Not because I thought cigars were healthy—I’ve read the warnings, thanks.
But because someone else cared.
Someone in a Pokémon hoodie who’d never read Hemingway, but somehow understood consequence better than most people I’ve coached.

So I made him a deal.
I’ll quit.
Starting today.
Completely.
Except during our holiday in Ibiza.

Which brings us to now.
Balcony. Sea breeze. Someone else’s ridiculous yacht in view. Pretending I own the whole damn thing—including the boat, the island, and the linen shirt I haven’t bought yet.
I’ve thought about growing a beard.
Moving here.
Smoking cigars like a retired philosopher-warrior.
But I haven’t lit a single one.
Not yet.

Instead, it serves as my sons Terminal 1 of his airport. Turns out, when the right stakeholder shows up, even a war hero can lay down his cigar.

And maybe—just maybe—that is the real revolution.