Chapter 3 – Cuba Libre
A WEEK PASSED and still Cole heard nothing from the applications he’d put in. He checked out of the hotel after the first week and, with Kevin’s invitation, Cole moved in with him. In exchange for stocking food and booze in the fridge, Kevin gave Cole a couch in the corner of his apartment just a few blocks from downtown Key West on a quiet side street. The old palm trees gave plenty of shade throughout the day and helped to mask the insanity only a few hundred yards away. Kevin’s apartment was cut out of what had been a larger house, and the rooms still held much of the grandeur of its former existence. There was one main living room with dark and worn hardwood floors, where Cole’s couch sat in a corner under a large window. There was always sand on the floor, and it stuck to Cole’s feet when he walked barefoot. Off of the living room there was a bathroom, a small kitchen, and Kevin’s room. The two struck up a good friendship and Cole embraced a simple routine well-balanced between work and pleasure.
After a second week passed, Cole stopped by the Key West police office to check on his application on one of his days off. After a few minutes, the same officer with whom Cole had met the first time came out and escorted Cole back to his office. Offering Cole a seat, the officer sat behind his desk and took a long breath before explaining, “Cole, I heard back from your command on Delaney. Frankly, they didn’t have many good things to say and I don’t think we can offer you a job without some better recommendations.”
Cole felt his mouth go dry. He couldn’t think of a thing to say in response.
The officer continued, “I’m really sorry, Cole. You do seem like a good guy, but my hands are tied on this one.”
Cole nodded and thanked the officer for his time. With that, he left the office and walked back towards Kevin’s. Cole tried his best not to let it rattle him, but he knew that Potts was not going to ever give him a good recommendation for anything. It was no surprise then that Cole hadn’t heard back from the Fish and Wildlife office either, as Cole had listed Potts’ contact info. The magnitude of Cole’s situation sunk in as he walked back up the steps at Kevin’s apartment. His only employment to speak of was Delaney, and while he had a degree from the Coast Guard Academy, he had no good work experience that would get him in the door with anything related to law enforcement. Cole took a beer from the fridge and nursed it on the small porch outside of Kevin’s apartment. He thought for a second to just pack up his things and leave the Keys, but the thought of some office job and a suit bored him. Cole took a long sip from his beer and realized that he was now truly on his own. Still, he refused to give up.
For the next two weeks, almost every morning Cole was up and out of the door just after five for a jog down to the beach and back. He’d finish up with push-ups on the front porch and take a quick shower before heading out the door to the Yankee Freedom. He basked in his newfound existence as a free spirit, but he was always on time for work, unable to shake the military punctuality of his former life. If the night before had gone too late, Cole slept under a palm tree at Fort Jefferson for an hour or two in the middle of the day while the tourists played on the island. If he wasn’t tired, he’d lounge around the upper deck of the Yankee Freedom and make small talk with the crew.
Almost every night centered around pretty girls Kevin and Cole would pick up from the Yankee Freedom. They’d come from all over the country to Key West, and Cole played up his quasi-local status to the best of his abilities. Together, Cole and Kevin tried as hard as they could to treat each night as if it were the greatest of their lives, mirroring the mood of the young women so often in their company. They lived like kings. Cole grew his hair down past his ears and it turned a muddied blond from the sun. He shaved once a week or so, almost always sporting something between stubble and a beard, and he never shaved on Mondays, as it was his unique way to distinguish himself from the laboring masses. Cole was fit and tanned from days under the tropical sun. After more than a month, Cole had forgotten about his problems with Potts and his failed attempts to get back in with law enforcement. He accepted the fact that he’d inadvertently burned that bridge and found in himself a renewed vigor for life.
He worked five days a week, normally matching Kevin’s schedule, but occasionally he found himself with a day off and nothing to do. Kevin’s apartment was semi-furnished and the owner had left an entire wall of books on heavy ornate wooden shelves in the living room. On those days when Cole was alone, he grabbed one of the novels and made his way to the Schooner Wharf just before noon. Nursing something laced with rum, he’d read for hours, stopping occasionally for conversations with passers-by. He read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea in one sitting, thinking only of the horrible taste of fish oil and wondering for some time if there were still men in Cuba so hardened as the old man.
As the summer pressed on, Cole migrated further and further from Duval Street. Kevin had a 23-foot Mako center console. It was older than either Kevin or Cole and still sported its original inboard diesel engine. Aptly named Aquaholic, she never reached a full plane, but Cole loved the reliable hum and smell of the old diesel engine’s exhaust. The fiberglass deck beneath his bare feet would rattle as Kevin pushed up the throttles and the old boat felt sturdier than the newer and fancier center-consoles that jetted around the Keys. The Aquaholic had character and charm, fitting in perfectly with the Keys. Oftentimes they’d get off work as the sunset neared and take the days’ catch of ladies for a cruise around the Keys at night. Kevin kept his boat at a dock in Garrison Bight, and each night they’d pass the Coast Guard base coming west out of Fleming Key Cut. Cole found himself a bit quiet as the cutters came into view. Months had passed, but still Cole wondered if he would ever be able to forget his past. However, the giggles and smiles of their female company never let Cole dwell too long on it.
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Kevin would, on occasion, disappear for a day or two. Cole never thought much of it nor did he care, until curiosity finally got the best of him. They were both working on the Yankee Freedom one afternoon late in the summer when Cole noticed Kevin wearing a Rolex watch.
“What’s up with the watch man?”
Kevin shrugged it off and the two stared each other down in a light-hearted manner.
“Seriously man, I’ve never seen that before.” For reasons even he wasn’t sure about Cole found himself unable to drop the subject.
“You want one?” Kevin was playing mind games and the two continued coiling lines as the Yankee Freedom approached Fort Jefferson.
“Maybe I do,” Cole said as he dropped a coiled line to the deck, smiled, and pushed the issue, but Kevin went quiet.
They tied up at Fort Jefferson, put on their friendly faces, and helped the pile of tourists off the boat and onto the island for their day of leisure. Kevin and Cole cleaned up the loose ends and made their way into the shade of a patch of palm trees.
Kevin offered up a veiled explanation.
“Listen man, I do some work on the side, the kind of shit you might not like.”
Cole looked him straight in the eyes and asked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Kevin, for the first time since Cole had met him, looked a bit uneasy. “I know you had a rough time in the Coast Guard, but I don’t really know where you stand with all this migrant shit we’ve talked about.”
Cole’s mind raced as he put the pieces together. Kevin, for as long as he’d known him, took off for a day or two every few weeks and Cole never asked questions. But now Kevin was offering up something mischievous that Cole had never caught onto.
“What are you into man?” Cole smiled to relieve Kevin’s clearly mixed conscience.
“No one gets hurt. I just help some people out,” said Kevin, clearly on the defensive.
Cole fired back, “I’ve got no allegiance to anything, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Kevin relaxed a bit and explained, “I drive a boat sometimes, any boat really, down to Cuba and back.”
He was
finally at ease, as if in a casual conversation, like any of the other hundred conversations they’d had together. “There’s a ton of shit going on down here, and I get into it every now and then. It pays like crazy. I pick up a boat somewhere, run due south with the throttles down, pull up to some spot, load up some people, and drive them back up north. It’s as simple as that.”
Cole smiled, partly because he couldn’t believe it was going on this whole time, and partly to relieve Kevin’s anxiety over the conversation. “I could teach you a thing or two about driving a boat.”
Kevin laughed, “Bullshit you could.”
Cole, with a straight face, asked, “Can I go with you next time?”
Kevin thought for a moment and answered, “Dude, they might not dig the Coast Guard thing, but I’ll ask.”
The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun. Cole and Kevin relaxed in the shade until early afternoon when they prepped the Yankee Freedom for the return trip home and helped the same tourists, now sunburned and cranky with the onset of fatigue, back onto the giant cat for the trip home.
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Days went by and nothing else came up from their conversation. Cole hadn’t stopped thinking about it, but didn’t want to push the issue. Two weeks passed and still nothing was mentioned between Cole and Kevin.
On a sleepy Monday night, the two of them were sitting on the porch outside Kevin’s apartment with a bottle of Captain Morgan and a liter of pineapple juice. Both half drunk and with the last traces of daylight disappearing to the west, Kevin spoke up. “What are you up to tomorrow night?”
Cole answered, “Hopefully a blond. I’m tired of brunettes.” He reached for the rum.
Kevin was looking right at his eyes. “Seriously, man. You got anything going on tomorrow night?”
Cole set the bottle back down. “No, I got nothing.” He felt the onset of butterflies, but kept it to himself.
“We’ll leave here around nine or so and it’ll be an all-nighter. You cool with that?”
Cole gritted his back teeth, swallowed for a brief second, and answered, “Hell, yeah man. I’m in.”
They poured another round and Kevin provided some details. They’d both call in to the Yankee Freedom and ask for a day off. Kevin knew from experience that the captain wouldn’t care one bit. After the day’s work, they’d head home and sleep until about eight in the evening. After that, they’d head down to Kevin’s boat and go from there. Cole didn’t need to bring anything, do anything, or say anything. Kevin made it clear that Cole was along for the ride. It went without saying that no one needed to know a damn thing about the whole affair.
“You cool with this?” Kevin was easing himself up from the chair while looking at Cole with as serious of a face as he could muster after a bottle of rum.
“Yeah, brother. Time to step it up a bit.”
The two walked back off the porch and into the apartment. Kevin, walking in front of Cole, reached down behind a table and flung a pair of women’s panties back at Cole’s head. Cole ducked and kicked Kevin in the back lightly as Kevin stumbled forward, laughing.
“Those are yours boss. Way too big for my taste.” Cole was smiling. The mood was light again and they both turned in for the evening. Cole knew it was a turning point in his life, but he felt no reason to dwell on the matter.
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The next day, Cole was up early for his morning run. He showered and checked in at the Yankee Freedom like he did every day. Kevin was there a few minutes later, and the day pressed on like any other. Cole almost thought Kevin had forgotten about their conversation entirely. They spent the downtime chatting with the rest of the crew, but Cole found himself preoccupied with any sign from Kevin that their mission was still a go. Kevin didn’t give away anything. Had it been a late-night boarding in the Coast Guard, Cole would have spent considerable time studying the weather, the seas, and the mission, but Kevin gave no indication of any such research.
They tied back up to the pier in Key West in the afternoon and grabbed a quick dinner of fish tacos on the way home. After reaching the apartment, Kevin said he was hitting the sack and would wake up at eight. Cole wanted more details, but Kevin shut his door and Cole was left with his mind racing. He tried to sleep a bit on the couch, but to no avail. He laid there for two hours, watching the digital clock on the television, knowing that his chances of sleeping were nonexistent.
A bit before eight, Kevin emerged from his room with a grin on his face. He chugged two glasses of water from the faucet in the tiny kitchen, advised Cole to do the same, and went about grabbing a few odds and ends around the apartment. Cole drank three full glasses, remembering all too well the feeling of dehydration from his days as a Coast Guard boarding officer toiling under the tropical sun. He felt like a fish out of water as Kevin moved about the living room with purpose. Kevin had a cell phone, a small backpack Cole had never seen before, and a handheld GPS with a suction cup mount.
Kevin grinned and asked, “You ready, dude?”
Cole fired back, “Fucking A, man. Let’s go.”
As they walked out the door, Cole realized he was wearing one of his old blue Delaney t-shirts, faded even more so by the past few months in the sun. The crest of the cutter was still visible though and it made Cole smile at the thought of his former shipmates realizing what he was up to now.
The two made their way down to Garrison Bight and onto the Aquaholic. Kevin fired up the old diesel and Cole untied her from the cleats on the dock, giving her a good push away from the splintered wooden pilings. As Kevin started a slow motor out of the bight, he called someone on the cell phone and talked for almost a minute. Kevin jotted something down on a piece of paper then hung up. The old Mako blended in with the dozens of other pleasure boats out for a balmy evening in the Florida Keys. They waved at boats crossing their paths, made their way out past the Coast Guard base, and turned sharply to the north. Kevin opened up the throttles and played with the GPS. He wove a meandering course back and forth until finally the GPS gave him something to work with.
Kevin drove for almost half an hour before ducking the Aquaholic behind a small uninhabited key well north of Key West. The sun was down and twilight was fast losing its daily battle to the darkness. The air had cooled just a bit and the nighttime sky felt good. Cole was seated on the bow when he spotted something in the darkness ahead. Almost out of nowhere, a pristine Grady-White cuddy cabin emerged, anchored and bobbing in the moonlit flats. Kevin chucked an anchor over the side and threw a line over to the Grady-White. He then hopped onto the cuddy cabin and tied the Aquaholic off to the shiny factory-new cleats of the Grady-White.
Kevin put on some latex gloves from the bag and went directly to the wheel, offset slightly to the right of the console. He turned the keys—strangely enough already in the ignition—and her two 250-horsepower outboards came roaring to life, shaking violently at first against their mounts on the transom and then finding their rhythm in idle. Cole smelled the gas exhaust mixed with salt air and remembered the same smell from the rigid hull inflatable boats he’d worked from on Delaney for the past two years. Even with those mixed memories, Cole took a deep breath and basked in his surroundings. If the summer had taught him anything, it was that boats were fun again. Kevin tossed him some gloves and Cole hopped over.
“Cut her loose,” said Kevin, already mounting the GPS to the console. Cole tossed the line back to the Aquaholic, and she disappeared into the darkness as Kevin idled forward through the flats. Cole took a seat to Kevin’s left. The sleek hull was immaculate and the engines looked like they had just arrived from the factory. There was hardly any sign that the boat had ever been used.
“All right, man. Fill me in. Where did this come from?” Cole was now standing next to Kevin, his hands braced against the console.
“This one, I don’t really know. My guy just gave me the coordinates. Somewhere in southern Florida for sure, but where I don’t really know.” Kevin scanned the horizon, h
is left hand on the wheel and his right on the throttles.
He continued talking while his eyes were busy going back and forth from the GPS to the horizon in front of them. “Sometimes I borrow a boat myself, but it gets a bit sketchy, so I prefer to just pick them up like this. It’s almost always new, some doctor’s new toy or something that we spot tied up in a channel behind a mansion.”
Cole put the pieces together as they motored along. The boat had its own GPS, but the handheld was a telltale sign of smugglers, since they could easily chuck it over the side if caught, thus preventing the cops or Coast Guard from knowing where they’d been. Cole could see Kevin knew what he was doing—smugglers almost always went for new boats with more horsepower than they needed. For centuries, speed had been a smuggler’s friend. Almost every migrant or drug operation Cole had ever seen used a center console or a cuddy cabin. Once a run was complete, the smugglers would beach the boat somewhere or set it adrift in the backwaters, leaving it for eventual discovery. Most owners got their boats back, albeit with a few more hard-earned hours on the engines.
The two of them passed under a bridge of the famous highway A1A, which ran east and north to the mainland of Florida, and then they continued past Stock Island, on the eastern side of Key West. Once in the channel, Kevin opened her up and the engines surged to life. The boat lifted out of the water before she settled on a plane and the air felt cool against Cole’s face. The GPS showed almost 28 knots over the ground. At that rate, they’d hit Cuba in just over three hours.
The seas were calm with a small groundswell that the Grady-White danced over as she screamed southward. Kevin would occasionally yell something to Cole if he saw a light ahead, and twice Kevin brought the boat to a full stop and stepped out from underneath the bimini cover, scanning the sky above them. Cole did the same, knowing they were looking for Coast Guard or U.S. Customs aircraft that patrolled the straits every night. At the same time, Cole knew it was like finding a needle in a haystack. Nights like this were prime smuggling weather, and in all likelihood, Cole and Kevin were not the only game in town.
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