The first time I visited La Cueva was about 30 years ago. I was going through trying times, including suffering certain symptoms that suggested acute emotional issues. That day I drove endlessly, only to be stopped at the gate of the Air Force base restricting access to Cabo Rojo. My arrival coincided with the landing of a private twin engine plane, loaded with armed men, who after dismounting, ran down the landing strip in revelry, laughing. When the air base commander saw me, instead of greeting me with suspicion, invited me to play dominos with the new arrivals. I was extremely uncomfortable, and amid small talk, I stood up, said goodby, walked to my car, and kept on driving toward La Cueva.
The dirt road to La Cueva was littered with 10 feet high hills of conch shells. I was taken aback by the primitive state of the cave dwellers. Nowhere in sight the most basic conveniences of modern living. I befriended the cave dwellers, and shared with them my last bottle of Macorix rum . I must have been in a drunken stupor when I insisted in joining several fishermen on a nightime foray for lamb?. At one moment I fell out of the boat. I remember hearing shouts. I swam for hours in the darkness, with intermitent resting periods floating on my back, toward a faint outline of the moonlit shore. Later I learned it was Bah?a de las Aguilas.