Cries of glee rose from our boat-handlers. Motors caught on the first try, exactly as if they had not been idle for two weeks, and the LCVP's were backing away from Yataritas Beach, turning, heading out to sea. I whirled and looked out into the deep blue. I think all of us expected to find the Odyssey still standing off, waiting for us. But it wasn't there.
"Can we make it back to Guantanamo Bay?" I asked the motorman. "Never mind answering; we're going to!" A cheer rose from the marines and sailors as we rounded the point we had never expected to see again, and started west, in deep blue water, along the coast.
LCVP's aren't good travelers. They roll like eggs on a hill, but this time nobody got seasick.
"Outpost Zero," said someone, looking back at Yataritas Beach. "If I never even hear of it again it will be too soon!"
We kept in close formation as we approached Escondido Bay, outside the Reservation. There a cruising plane picked us up, dipped wings over us, looped and headed full speed back to Guantanamo.
We all crawled up our starboard sides, tilting the LCVP's far over, and not caring a bit, to pick out landmarks ashore that we knew—Kittery Beach, Windmill, Cuzco, Blind, Blue and Cable Beaches. Every one looked like home—and the marine hadn't lived, up to that moment, who regarded Guantanamo as home!
There were many planes out, including some of our jets, by the time we reached the mouth of Guantanamo Bay. Luckily the long run was made in fairly smooth water.
We crossed the shelf where the deep blue water of the Caribbean becomes the green-dirty water of the Bay, and were as good as home.
I planned on making it to the Marine Boat House, but the Admiral's launch came out, with a staff officer aboard, with instructions to land at the Admiral's own dock.