Crossing the Windward Passage, in the middle of the night while we were asleep on deck, the ship ran headlong into a sudden September squall … With dozens of other deck passengers, we were rain-soaked, wind-tossed, and in danger of being washed off the open deck into the sea by the mounting waves. Finally the chief mate allowed us all a crowded shelter between decks where the ship's supplies, ropes and chains, were stored. There, with some fifty seasick peasants squatting in the dark waiting for day, the heat and stench were almost unbearable.

The immigration authorities did not know what to make of two American Negroes traveling on the open deck, unable to display between us as much as fifty dollars. They argued that only sugar cane workers traveled in that fashion. Therefore, since we had no working permits, they refused to allow us on Cuban soil until we posted bonds. We were consigned to Santiago's “Ellis Island,” a jail-like fortress in the harbor, zooming with mosquitoes, crawling with bedbugs, and alive with fleas … We were released only on the condition that we cross the island immediately, embark at once for Florida, and not stop anywhere to work in Cuba.