Chapter 2 – The Conch Republic

COLE WALKED DOWN the aging pier away from Delaney with his eyes partly focused on the bright blue water of the small harbor, home to the Coast Guard’s fleet of cutters and boats that patrolled the Keys and the Florida Straits. The morning air smelled of salt and subtle hints of gasoline mixed with engine oil carried along by the gentle breeze. A cruise ship’s whistle sounded in the distance, signaling one either arriving or departing from the downtown waterfront, only a 15-minute walk away. He slowed to keep the sweat from building too fast and looked with half-hearted curiosity at the evenly spaced patrol boats tied up pierside. Their white hulls and orange Coast Guard stripes were clean and well maintained, a testament to the orderly discipline of a seagoing military service—the same one that had just kicked him out. Blue fitted canvas covers were lashed down over their deck guns as the small flotilla bobbed gently and baked under the climbing Caribbean sun. Their mooring lines were neatly made up to rusted cleats bolted to the pier, while a radio played country music from inside the garage of the small-boat station as petty officers and non-rates tended to their daily chores. A half dozen or so of them tinkered quietly on an engine of one boat as Cole passed within earshot without saying a word. A resting black lab with tired eyes, the mascot of sorts for the station, looked up at Cole from the shade of a palm tree and rolled over slowly, going back to its morning nap. It was warm, the breeze was light, and the bright sun reflected off the turquoise water and the bleached concrete, forcing Cole to squint as he walked. In so many ways, it was the ideal Coast Guard lifestyle.

From there, Cole passed through the side gate that led to a shortcut downtown. He had come and gone through that gate more times than he could count, often drunk and stumbling back to Delaney after a night of partying with the crew. The port calls always came and went too fast. Delaney had patrolled for weeks in the Florida Straits, working all hours of the day and night interdicting migrants in everything from homemade rafts to stolen power boats. Their near-daily interdictions were interspersed with the occasional search-and-rescue case that broke the monotony of law enforcement. The crew’s reward for their hard work was Key West for a night, maybe two at most, and only long enough to fill the ship’s tanks with diesel, replenish the food stores, and give the crew a night to blow off steam. The entire crew always worked at a furious pace to finish up the odds and ends of tying up, focused entirely on their first taste of alcohol, loud music, and debauchery that waited for them downtown.

The truth was that Cole felt relieved to pass through the gate again, this time without the looming last call that always signaled his impending return to the ship. Once off the base, he made his way down Trumbo Road, right around a corner, and onto the wooden boardwalk that wrapped itself around Key West’s inner harbor. Most of the party catamarans were already gone for the day. So too were the dive boats, all making their way out to the reef overloaded with amateur divers and their rented gear. The charter flats boats floated quietly in smaller slips next to the boardwalk. Their captains, most devoid of expression, passed the time either sitting at the consoles with their tanned bare feet up on the wheel, or seated on benches along the boardwalk, watching and hoping silently for some business to materialize from the morning foot traffic.

The boardwalk was slowly coming alive, but still quiet as most of Key West’s residents and visitors were asleep or at best slowly working their way to a state of low consciousness. The bartenders were busy cutting limes and lemons, and their bar staff carried cases of beer back and forth, filling up the ice chests before the start of another drinking day. Cole stopped briefly at Turtle Kraals to watch some tarpon swim under the dock and disappear into the depth of the basin before he continued on his way downtown.

It was now approaching 11 o’clock and Cole’s seabag weighed heavy on his shoulder. His back wet with the onset of a good midday sweat, Cole realized he had nowhere to go. The sting of failure and the weight of the unknown once again grew heavy. Ahead was the open-air Schooner Wharf, an oasis of sorts, and Cole knew from experience that its rum drinks were always a good blend. Dropping his bag at the bar, Cole eased himself onto a heavy wooden stool and followed a seam of the wooden bar top with his fingers, his elbows pressed against the rail. Soon thereafter the bartender approached without a word, knowing from the expression on Cole’s face that he was there for business.

“Rum and Coke please, with a lime.”

The bartender, a slender older woman with a leathered face and unkempt hair, looked at him for a moment before replying with a coarse voice, “Honey, we call that a Cuba Libre around here.”

Part biker chick and part hippie, she smiled as Cole acknowledged with a smirk, “I’ll have one of them as well then, please.”

She brought his drink in a small white plastic cup and a wedge of lime rested atop the mountain of ice now stained dark with a bubbling blend of Coke and spiced rum. Cole squeezed the lime and drizzled its juice over the ice, stirring with his pointer finger. Taking a mouthful for his first sip, Cole held it for a moment, relishing the burn of rum and the fizzle of soda, before swallowing and setting the cup back down. Nearly a third of the drink was gone. He looked slowly over each of his shoulders, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of Key West. It had a certain charm to it, a mystery that never quite revealed itself until one was dizzy from drink and burned by the sun. All too often it came as a fleeting moment of clarity amidst a drunken haze, and was all but lost by the next sip. Key West’s allure was addictive and, with drink in hand, Cole had his first fix. The bartender brought him a second without asking and Cole took well-spaced smaller sips, taking his time as the rum warmed his core and slowed his worried mind. His momentary mild panic eased to a passive bliss as the rhythm of Key West became increasingly louder.

Almost an hour had passed. The crew from Delaney would be on Duval Street by now. The bars along the boardwalk that Cole loved so much were an afterthought for them. They wouldn’t reach the Schooner Wharf until well after midnight, as they made their way back to the side gate. Cole liked the inner harbor more than Duval Street and always tried to steer the party crowd there earlier in the night, rarely with any success. He thought Duval Street, while an experience in itself, was more a sideshow than the real Key West. And so Cole sat, content among strangers, for a few more hours as he tended to his dizzy mind.

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The sun passed overhead and worked its way west in choreographed fashion for the sunset party at Mallory Square. Cole paced himself, managing the rum on his brain and making small talk with the passing patrons that came and went throughout the day. Feeling the first hint of late-afternoon air, Cole settled his tab and slung his sea bag over his shoulder once more. Past the boardwalk, he finally hit Duval Street. The uncontrolled chaos of Key West was bursting with energy. A cruise ship, two perhaps, were most certainly tied up as sun-burned tourists nearly stumbled over top of each other while sipping fruity drinks and making their way from bar to bar. They wore straw cowboy hats, flower-patterned bathing suits, and Hawaiian shirts. Pure joy beamed from their faces as they soaked up each warm second of a vacation they had probably been waiting on for months.

Intermixed were the Key West regulars—misfits in normal society who had run from all over the country to call the Conch Republic home. They moved with purpose, towards their shifts as bartenders, bouncers, strippers, and entertainers. Their faces wore years of hard living, and not yet on the clock, they made no effort to hide the toll of decades under the sun with substances running through their veins. Cole slowed amidst the human traffic and ducked inside the lobby of the La Concha hotel. The front door closed behind him, the sounds dissipated, and the tidiness of its lobby was a study in contrasts. The air conditioning almost gave him a chill as it cooled the beads of sweat on his chest and back. Walking up to the desk he asked about a room for a few nights. The receptionist smiled, swiped his credit card, and sent him on his way with a plastic room key in hand. Up an elevator and down the pastel-themed hallway, he opened a door and walked into his dark room. Dropping his sea bag on the floor next to a king-sized bed, Cole opened the curtains overlooking Key West.

The room was silent. Floors below, Duval Street was booming. The bars were blasting reggae and Jimmy Buffett and top-40 dance songs. People were drinking, screaming, yelling, and thinking to themselves that this must be heaven on earth. Farther down the road, performers were taping together their makeshift stages at Mallory Square, hoping to God that the impending audience would be generous with their tips. Bartenders were busy shuffling back and forth, filling the never-ending orders for drinks and bar food. From his room, Cole felt nothing. There was no rush, no sense of urgency to quell his thirst, no need to hurry for anything or anyone. It was far removed from Delaney, and he relished the feeling. He looked forward to sleeping for hours in that bed, with its clean linen and warm comforter. He walked over to the thermostat, cranked it down a few notches so that he would sleep well under all the blankets, and picked up his sea bag.

Dumping it out on the bed, he took the few sets of clothes he had with him and put them away in drawers and hung the button-down shirts on hangers. He had six t-shirts from Delaney, each a faded blue with the crest of the ship over the left breast. Folding each up the same way he’d been taught at the academy, he put them away in drawers as well, and then tossed the sea bag over in a corner. With a brief respite from the madness of Duval Street, he found himself drawn back into it and the clean cool fragrant smell of the room seemed too artificial for his liking. The bass of a dance song was a faint bump in the distance, and Cole headed back down to the madness.

Walking again through the lobby, he passed through the front glass door and stepped out into the noise and the smells. Not too far down Duval Street, he took a secluded corner seat at Fogarty’s and ordered the fish tacos, a dish he ate each time the opportunity presented itself. Sipping on a rum drink, he ate quickly and in silence, having not eaten anything since a bowl of cereal on the messdeck earlier that morning before his last watch. The moment wasn’t lost on him. Like a prisoner freed from jail, this meal tasted better than any he’d had before. Cole had eaten the same plate dozens of times, but on this occasion it lifted his spirits.

With his belly full and his teeth numb from the booze, Cole settled his bill and descended again into the absurdity of Duval Street, ready to say good-bye to his shipmates and occasional friends from Delaney. They were easy to find at Fat Tuesdays. More than a dozen Slushee machines churned behind the bar, each a different color but remarkably similar in taste after one had consumed enough of them. The dozen or so junior officers were in the middle of the bar like a pack of wolves devouring a young deer. Walking up the steps, Cole laughed to himself at the sight of them, already drunk and smiling like it was the best night of their lives. He saw in them a new camaraderie. Perhaps it had been there all along. The thought saddened him for a moment, but he pushed it aside and put both his arms around Wheeler in a gentle headlock of sorts, as the whole crowd seemed happy to see him alive and smiling.

Wheeler hugged Cole with strong arms and shook Cole’s shoulders after he let go.

“Brother, I owe you for the apple thing.”

Cole shrugged, “Don’t sweat it man. I was screwed either way.”

Wheeler looked down to hide his discomfort before replying, “You got a bad deal on this one Cole. I would have done the same thing off Colombia.”

Cole laughed, saying, “No you wouldn’t, Wheeler. You don’t make my kind of mistakes.”

Wheeler hugged Cole again and they both smiled, then turned back into the fray. Cole took solace in Wheeler’s appreciation. If only the past two years had gone that way, he thought.

The party went on through the night. The crowd meandered down and back up Duval Street, stopping sometimes for ten minutes and other times for two hours. Beers intermixed with rum drinks passed from hand to hand and Cole enjoyed his last night with the wardroom. Potts, Walters, and OPS were nowhere to be seen, and Cole’s former shipmates let their guard down a bit around him. But even as they smiled and laughed as friends, underneath it all was an unspoken distance between Cole and his former shipmates. They all knew he’d just been kicked out. And as the bars began to shut down after midnight, Cole found himself on the receiving end of half-assed high-fives and handshakes. Allison gave him a long hug and wished him all the best, and Cole knew she meant it. He thought for a moment to try and kiss her, but things were confusing enough so he fought off the urge. He preferred her friendship over drunken lust. Under the lights of a sidewalk painted with neon signs, Cole parted ways and walked alone back to La Concha.

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He awoke early the next morning with the familiar post-party thirst and a mild hangover. Lying awake in his bed, the morning light creeping through curtains he had forgotten to close, the room seemed oddly quiet. Unlike Delaney, it didn’t roll and pitch or shudder under the force of a passing wave. No pipes protruded from the walls nor were there the constant thuds and rattles of a ship at sea. It was only seven o’clock, but Cole had slept for a good uninterrupted stretch, something that rarely happened at sea. He felt quite good, even with his head partially swollen and his tongue imitating a cotton ball.

He stood up and dressed himself with the same clothes he’d worn the night before, fastening only the two middle buttons on a familiar linen shirt. He drank water from his palm under the faucet until the cotton feeling subsided, and, grabbing his wallet and room key, made his way downstairs. If he hurried, he could beat the tourists to Blue Heaven and scarf down some banana bread with butter without waiting in line. When he stepped outside of the hotel, the sidewalk was shaded, still hidden from the rising sun as storefront owners swept out the debris from the night before. Some simply hosed it off the curb. Plastic cups, beads, cigarette butts, and the occasional shirt all gave subtle clues to the party from the previous night, and the air smelled cool with the faintest hint of stale beer.

Blue Heaven hid itself down a backstreet, a landmark breakfast place for visitors and locals alike. By eight in the morning, the line would stretch out the door. Cole walked in at 0720 and sat at the shantytown-styled bar perched on a sand floor. Coffee and banana bread gave him new energy and he passed the time watching a rooster chase chickens around the plastic patio furniture that served as the outdoor dining room. Delaney would be underway at 0900, and Cole hoped to watch her out to sea from Mallory Square. He ate the last crumb of bread soaked in butter, finished one more cup of coffee, settled his bill with an attractive raven-haired bartender, and was on his way.

The walk to Mallory Square was pleasant in the morning air. The breeze blew soft against Cole’s face as he walked, a light mood settling in around him as taxis and scooters made their way up and down the street. Key West went to sleep each night like a stumbling drunken fool, but the town recovered each morning with a renewed vigor and freshness that kept its inhabitants coming back for more. Reaching the square, Cole pressed his forearms against the railing and looked out over the bluish-green water, breathing the salt air deep into his lungs. Sunset Key, across the channel, was manicured and the resort-style bungalows tucked among palm trees had a look of tropical luxury. The white sand beaches were all freshly raked. It was the kind of picturesque landscape one saw in advertisements, and was the image most thought of when the word Caribbean was spoken. Just to the north, Wisteria Island sat windswept and barren. The gnarled underbrush that covered the island looked inhospitable and cruel. The mess of mangrove and brush extended itself out over the water, a stretch of sandy beach barely visible underneath. Cole looked back and forth at the two islands, wondering which of the two was the true Caribbean.

Meanwhile Delaney was backing away from the pier at the Coast Guard base a few hundred yards to the north and east. Her stern crept closer to Wisteria Island until she shifted her rudders and swung hard in place, pointing her bow south toward open water. In his mind, Cole could hear the barking of orders and see Walters fidgeting in her chair and craning her neck as the two dozen crew members shuffled about on the bridge. Delaney inched ahead until she was centered in the channel and picked up speed as it approached Mallory Square. The lookouts were leaning against the railing talking to each other, and Cole couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh and shake his head.

The boatswain’s mates were hard at work on the weather decks, dragging the heavy waterlogged mooring lines back and forth, stowing them below decks until their next port call. He could almost hear them ribbing each other and re-telling tales from the night before. Crew members stood on the flight deck, resting their arms on the railing and staring back towards Key West, no doubt with faded memories of the previous night replaying in their heads. Delaney knifed ahead through the calm waters and disappeared around Cut Bravo, pointing back towards the straits. The ship disappeared and Cole felt a deep and bittersweet sadness.

All at once he also felt a longing for the swells under his feet and the dark open sea. In less than a day, he already missed it. Standing only a few feet above the water, Cole felt detached from the sea and some gnawing urge to be on it again occupied his mind. The same longing for adventure burned in his soul and he watched with curiosity as cruising sailboats and center consoles motored past. Surely he could pick up a job with the U.S. Customs agents, or the local police, or even as a Fish and Wildlife Conservation agent. It was time to turn a new leaf and as the first beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, Cole left the square and headed back towards the boardwalk.

He went back to his hotel and cleaned himself up as best he could. After a shower and shave, Cole changed into some clean clothes and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked for some time and assured himself that he would do just fine in whatever job lay ahead. With that, he headed down to the lobby and pulled up a chair next to a courtesy phone. Thumbing through a phone book, he found numbers for the Key West police, the local Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission office, and the U.S. Customs office. He dialed each and managed to set up appointments throughout the day to fill out applications. Feeling confident, he set out and made his way around town. The local police department seemed promising and was interested in Cole’s experience. The officer Cole spoke with made it sound like a sure thing and the paperwork was nothing more than a formality. When it asked for his past supervisor, Cole hesitated for a second, but then listed Potts and his email address on Delaney.

Once done there, Cole did the same thing with the Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, who also seemed interested in his skills as a boarding officer. After the same paperwork drill, Cole left feeling good about his prospects. His last stop for the day was with the U.S. Customs office. An agent met him at the front door and walked Cole back to a conference room where they both sat down. In his third meeting of the day, Cole felt good and answered the agent’s questions assertively. After some time, the question came up about Cole’s employment with the Coast Guard.

Cole was as honest as he felt was appropriate, but the agent pressed the issue as to why Cole had separated so suddenly. Feeling no need to hide the truth, Cole explained the incident off of Colombia and saw the expression change on the agent’s face. The agent nodded along as Cole explained his situation. After a few more minutes, the agent looked away from Cole for a moment, then back at him and said matter-of-factly, “Sorry, Cole, but I just don’t think you’d make it past the selection process with a history like that.”

Cole thought for a second and tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to his mind. It was awkward as the agent escorted Cole back out and shook his hand before sending him off. It was not the end to his day that Cole had expected, but he knew he still had a good chance with the other local agencies. By then it was late afternoon, and Cole walked for a bit around the town to clear his head. He knew it would be a few days before he’d hear back from the police or the Fish and Wildlife agents, and even longer before he’d go through their initial training and start a job, so Cole weighed his options as he walked down to the boardwalk and along the waterfront.

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The afternoon was on its last breath when Cole walked up to find the Yankee Freedom II tied to her berth. She was a high-speed catamaran that had just come back in from one of her daily trips. The passengers now gone, some of the crew walked about cleaning up from the day. Cole walked out onto the pier and caught some movement in the cabin. He called out a loud, “Hello.” A tanned stranger of Cole’s age stepped out onto the aft deck and said hello back.

Cole cleared his throat and asked matter-of-factly, “Don’t suppose you’re hiring any deckhands?”

The figure smiled, laughing almost at Cole’s direct line of questioning and asked back, “Do you know your way around a boat?”

Cole’s turn to smile, he replied with a chuckle, “More than I care to admit. My name is Cole and I’m just looking for some work around here. I just got out of the Coast Guard, so yeah, I’m pretty good on a boat.”

His counterpart replied, “I’m Kevin and I run the deckhands. If you’re serious, we can talk over a beer.”

Kevin looked the part. He was about Cole’s height, of similar build, and wore a faded pair of cotton shorts low on his waist with a white t-shirt stained as one would imagine from a day’s work in the sun and salt. He had short dark hair and a distinct laugh that revealed a laissez-faire approach to all things in life.

Cole offered to buy the first round.

Needing to clean a few things up, Kevin invited Cole up before ducking back inside the cabin. Cole, now alone on the aft deck, instinctively went about tightening the lines over to the dock and cleaned up the bitter ends, coiling them neatly beside their cleats. The cat bobbed gently and the fiberglass deck felt good under Cole’s feet. He kicked off his flip flops and reflected on the significance of the moment. He was on a boat again, but this time on his own terms. Suddenly the ocean wasn’t so far away and by simply standing on a deck devoid of military protocol and nonsensical tension, Cole felt a renewed appreciation for the calming force of the sea. It was a feeling he’d cherished as a cadet at the Coast Guard Academy each time he set sail down the Thames River, pointed towards Long Island Sound and the cold Atlantic Ocean beyond. The sea always meant freedom, and here Cole felt it once again. On the deck of this catamaran, a boat he’d known for only a few minutes, he recognized in himself that his love for adventure and open water had never left him. Two years on Delaney had only buried that feeling, and it had remained hidden and dormant until this moment.

Kevin emerged from the enclosed cabin and looked down momentarily at the lines Cole had tightened and seemed somewhat impressed. It was almost a look of disbelief. It took Kevin a minute to piece together in his mind the fact that Cole had enough good sense to do something without being asked. Cole watched Kevin’s facial expression change and sensed immediately that the two would be friends. Kevin shook his head and let out another one of his hearty laughs.

They chatted about nothing on the walk up the dock and agreed to beers at Turtle Kraals. Over the course of an hour and several rounds of Corona, Cole agreed to start the next day as a deckhand. It paid just over minimum wage, but would be plenty for Cole to sort things out over the remaining summer until something more steady opened up with law enforcement. On top of that, the job offered hours each day on the open water between Key West and Fort Jefferson. It was easy work: show up at six in the morning, set up the fruit and bagels for breakfast, clean the main cabin, and wait for the tourists to board a little after seven. The trip took a bit over two hours each way, and Kevin pointed out the downsides of dealing with seasick passengers, all things Cole was familiar with from his time in the Coast Guard.

They chatted idly about girls, places they’d lived, things they’d seen, and the addictive nature of warm tropical water. Kevin had moved down from central Florida and said he couldn’t stand to leave the fishing. The catamaran job paid the bills while he lived a life others could only envy. Cole sensed that Kevin was more intelligent then he let on and quickly developed a measure of respect for his professed way of life.

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Well after the sun had set over the Keys, Cole and Kevin shook hands. Kevin went on his way and Cole ordered a plate of fish tacos to settle his stomach. He ate by himself, one last bottle of beer sweating next to him before he made his way back to La Concha for the night. Key West was alive as he walked back up Duval Street. He thought that perhaps he was now a regular. In a town of misfits, he wondered, What does one need to become a local? His mind pondered such inconsequential questions as he walked alone up the sidewalk. The bar music blended in with the raucous noise as Key West repeated its same drunken mistakes yet again. He turned in to his room a little after nine and smiled under the crisp and clean cotton sheets, ecstatic at the thought of eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

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He woke early at a half past five and brewed the junk coffee in his room. Dressing quickly and in silence, he grabbed the coffee to go in a Styrofoam cup and made his way down Duval Street to the Yankee Freedom II. The feeling of a first day at work was new to him, and he enjoyed the thought of the day ahead. Meeting Kevin at the dock, Cole caught a Yankee Freedom t-shirt Kevin threw at him and replaced his button down shirt with it. Hopping aboard, Cole went to work with little direction from Kevin. He helped carry crates from the dock, set up the meager breakfast foods, and introduced himself to the few other crew members wandering about.

The tourists showed up shortly after seven. Cole was polite and realized that his smile was contagious. It was easy work. The sun was up, the engines were running, and Cole could hardly wait to slip the lines off the cleats and smell salt air in his lungs again. With the last of the guests aboard, the nimble cat cut through the light chop of the harbor and pointed south, her engines vibrating the deck beneath Cole’s bare feet. She cut the same path through the water Cole had steamed so many times before on Delaney, but this time was different. Cole pictured himself content like the boatswain’s mates on the decks of Delaney. His pace slowed as he stowed the last of the lines and the cat picked up speed southbound approaching the sea buoy. She rocked more as the open swells pushed under her bow and the cat made an easy turn to the west. Quickly coming up on speed, Cole’s work was done for the next two hours. Perhaps he’d take a photo or two at the request of some tourists, or even pose for one, but the next two hours left him mostly alone with his thoughts.

Twenty minutes after rounding the reef, Kevin approached Cole on the aft deck and the two stood facing out over the water.

Kevin said, “If this is something you wanna do, you’ve got the job. I was just impressed you were here early this morning.”

Cole replied, “Yeah, man. I think this is good for me.”

“Cool.” Kevin didn’t say much after that. The two stood side by side, their arms against the railing and their shirts blowing in the breeze. The sun was warm and the breeze was stiff as the Yankee Freedom dug through a groundswell and pointed towards the Dry Tortugas.

Two hours later, Kevin and Cole made their way to the bridge as Fort Jefferson came into view. The cat slowed as she neared the island, and Cole was struck by its secluded charm. Dating back to the middle of the 18^th century, the fort served as an outpost against piracy and commanded control of the straits. It was monstrous and a sight to behold. Her massive brick walls pressed up against the shallow waters of a larger lagoon. During the Civil War, it had housed hundreds of army deserters. Cole knew the history of the fort and smiled to himself in appreciation of the mindset of a deserter. He felt like one himself in some ways and imagined what life must have been like for a prisoner on such a remote stretch of islands.

As the cat approached the dock, Cole hopped over first and tied her off to several rusting cleats on a weathered wooden dock. Helping passengers off, he smiled and directed them towards the beach. Some brought snorkels and masks, others walked through the abandoned fort or took guided tours with the park rangers. Others were already drunk from the ride over and flopped themselves down on the sandy beach, happy to be on terra firma. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.

Cole had a few hours to burn before the cat would head back towards Key West. He walked the quiet side of the island by himself and stopped at an open field littered with half-a-dozen homemade rafts. They were leftovers from Cuban migrants hoping to make landfall in the United States. To buck the Gulf Stream and end up west of Key West was quite a feat. Most had a crude engine, many from an old lawnmower or other small power equipment. The rafts were made of wood, plastic, Styrofoam, and even worn tractor tires. Each showed unappreciated craftsmanship. The vessels had been born out of the desire to escape communist poverty at any cost, and Cole admired the clever way the migrants had fashioned them. Cole walked past each of them, baking under the sun, awed by the fierce determination required to cast off from Cuba in the middle of the night, pointing straight at the northern darkness. All odds were against a successful landing. All too often, they were swept up by the Gulf Stream and never heard from again. Cole knew from first-hand experience that dehydration drove many insane and they simply rolled off their rafts to the circling sharks rather than face another hour of agony at sea. Some would fight among themselves and many would simply let death take them by the hand.

He’d picked hundreds off of rafts just like these. Some had fought Cole, the fire still burning in their cores to reach American shores. Most though were too weak to resist and many more were glad to be rescued at sea. Their impending return to Cuba was never a good thought, but those who still cherished life knew that beatings and prison sentences at the hands of Cuban authorities were better than a slow and painful death at sea.

Kevin walked up as Cole stood silent next to the sturdiest of the rafts.

“Gotta wonder what they’re thinking to try something like this.” Kevin obviously shared Cole’s respect.

“I’ve interdicted hundreds of these and I’m always amazed at their effort,” Cole responded, grabbing the rail of a raft with both his hands as if to give it a once-over before taking it out for a spin.

“No one knows what to do with the rafts that end up here, so the park rangers just drag them up into the grass and they sit here for years,” said Kevin, who walked around to the other side of the raft and peaked underneath at the hull.

Cole asked, “You ever see these on the trips between Key West and here?”

Kevin replied, “Nah, I always figured you guys picked ʼem up before they made it this far north.”

Cole laughed a bit out loud and answered back, “You’d be surprised, man. Most never make it in these things. We’d catch maybe half of them. A quarter might make it and the rest end up cooking under the sun. The ones that make it have enough money to pay a smuggler to pick them up in something fast.”

Kevin looked Cole in the eyes and replied, “You don’t say.” He grinned just a bit as he said it.

They walked back to the dock together. There was nothing more to say about the rafts. Just as he had as a boarding officer, Cole felt an immense respect for any human who would set off with his family in search of something better. Always focused on the law enforcement mission before, Cole allowed himself to look subjectively at the choice so many Cubans made to flee their homeland. The rafts pulled up on the beach of Fort Jefferson were just a fraction of a much larger and endemic problem. It seemed appropriate that Fort Jefferson, a last bastion for America’s borders, still stood a silent watch over a smuggler’s paradise.