Sixty years have passed since they graduated from high school in Havana and they long ago scattered all over the world. But the De La Salle High School Class of 1938 remains like a close family.

Though in their 70s and 80s -- the ``youngster'' is 75 -- and most are gray-haired and pot-bellied, they're saucy as ever.

``We are like brothers and sisters,'' Ricardo Abreu, 77, said surrounded by classmates at their 60-year class reunion Saturday.

They flew in from New York, Chicago and other U.S. cities. One came from Spain, another even from Cuba. Most, however, live in Miami, and just had to drive to the reunion at the Miami Airport Marriott hotel.

``I couldn't miss this,'' said Roberto Castellano, 77, a retired architect who flew in from Puerto Rico. Sitting in a wheelchair, he said, ``I am in heaven here, surrounded by my classmates.''

The class had about 65 members. They left the island at different times in their lives. One was imprisoned by Fidel Castro's government.

Still, they kept in touch through phone calls, letters and visits. They were there for one another through marriages, births and illnesses.

Nearly 30 graduates were able to attend Saturday's four-hour lunchtime reunion.

Those who have died were honored at a Catholic service before the reunion by Rev. Tomas Marin, Chancellor of the Archdiocese of Miami.

Most of the graduates went on to be doctors, lawyers, businessmen, engineers and accountants.

Abreu, a retired engineer who lives in Coral Gables, is one of about 20 of the ``boys'' who meet religiously every month for lunch at Habana Vieja, a restaurant on Coral Way.

The ``girls,'' busy watching grandchildren or running errands, skip the monthly meetings. The couples get together every few months. They tell jokes, compare who has lost the most hair or gained the most weight. They share vacation plans and brag about their grandchildren's accomplishments.

But they most love to laugh about the travesuras (pranks) they pulled as youngsters. Like the time one boy sneaked a cat into class and its head got stuck in the desk.

The teacher asked who was responsible, but no one gave up the name.

``As kids, we didn't respect anything and had no compassion,'' joked Otto Garcia, 77, a retired University of Miami pediatrics professor who lives in Westchester. ``That hasn't changed.''

In spite of their turbulent lives -- leaving their homeland, starting from scratch in a foreign country, learning a new language and adapting to new customs -- they say their personalities have remained more or less the same. Even their nombretes (nicknames) have stuck.

``If you saw someone walking with a limp, then his name would just become `cojo,' '' which roughly translates to gimpy, Garcia said. He explained that nombretes poke fun at people, yet are an expression of friendship. ``If someone was ugly, you would just call him `feo.' ''

Abreu's nickname is mono (monkey).

``Once I lost a bet and had to shave my head,'' he said. ``People said I looked like a monkey, and the name stuck.''

But one thing has changed: their looks, they joked.

``That's why we are wearing name tags,'' said Alicia Abreu, 70, who worked in the Archdiocese of Miami and is now retired.

The closeness they have maintained through the years is rarely found, they say, even among other graduating classes from their school.

``Whether you stay close depends on the people, how much they care,'' said Aldo Zervigon, 77, a lawyer who lives near Coconut Grove. ``Keeping in touch with our classmates keeps us young forever.''