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With miles of red tape fluttering in our wake, we board the Soviet Yak 42 and head south. The plane is a petri dish of chaos: broken seats, no seat belts. Two American priests have also boarded, one is slinging an American Secret Service gym bag. By the time we take off for Cuba we are nonplussed by the smoke billowing around our legs. We touch down in Havana and quickly realize that even though there aren't many advertisements, Cuba certainly rivals the US in the icon worship department. Fidel Castro's omnipresent image flickers across television screens. Locked in time, Argentina's dashing revolutionary Che Guevara gazes intently over public squares. His face graces currency and appears on T-shirts, mugs and pins. It occurs to me that in another time and place, Che would have definitely been a fly fisher. Although we are in Cuba for work, we are not immune to side trips. Like swank corporate executives who manage to plan their annual meetings near world-class golf courses, I have secret plans to wet a line or two. Cheryl, a fashion photographer from New York, is a non-angler intrigued by my fishing fascination. She's in on my plan to test Cuba's famed waters-I've heard that the fresh water lakes and lagoons teem with tarpon, bonefish, snook and largemouth bass. Cheryl and I are the youngest members of our small group. Being Norte Americanas born in the mid-sixties, we grew up on academic lesson plans short on Cuban history and admit that our image of Cuba spreads over a gray, commie lockstep palette. "Until recently all I've heard about is Fidel's dressing habits and some ancient Bay of Pigs incident, " says Cheryl sarcastically. "Yeah, and a Kennedy conspiracy theory that Oliver Stone didn't buy, and Castro's jail purge of the late '80s," I add. As we talk over our usual dinner of chickens, beans and rice, some of our Cuban companions tell us about hiding under their school desks during the Cuban missile crisis. I'm interested in their stories but am suddenly struck by a paradox. Water water everywhere and we've yet to see fish on a single menu. I find out later Fidel apparently tried to thwart this cultural bias by handing out fish recipes on slips of paper to his hungry people wherever he went. It doesn't appear his campaign worked. The wheels in my fish-obsessed brain start turning: If Cubans don't eat much fish, and don't sport much fish, then the lunkers could well have been growing fat for the past three decades. We try to work, but long sweaty days end with whispered quotes: Cuba offers freshwater fishing in five of its 14 provinces ... the star of the show is largemouth bass. Cheryl and I weave in and out of Cuba's Swiss cheese potholed byways, filming, dancing, meeting people and trying to understand this country where music, passion and magic sit right alongside ration cards and dark irony. Where Caribbean energy and mushrooming entrepreneurialism fly in the face of communism's rigidity. We press on across the island, passing through most of Cuba's provinces, many of which offer top-notch freshwater fishing. Finally, pleading crew respite, I steer our roadtrip off course to Lake ZaZa. Cheryl and I share a conspiratorial glance. The next morning I put on my best Hemingway swagger, call up my five weeks of intensive Spanish and ferret out a man named Cheo. He has a boat, a fishing rod and a pocketful of Cuba's best Romeo y Julieta stogies. Just because they call it Merino wool doesn't mean it's SmartWool� We starႀ with the finest grade of 100'10 Merino and add ·Smart Technology." That's what allows us to guarantee our socks will not itch or shrink (or your money back), while giving you superior insuႀ䊉tion, moisture control and the best overall comfort. If you thinႀ all wool is the sarne, you've had it pulled over your eyes. Make the smart choice-SmartWool. For a dealer nearest you, call1-800-550-WOOL. Backpacker Editor's Choice awarded to SmartWool Hiking and Expedition Trekking socks t -I( . -. • . ,, � � _'