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.

g

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.

g

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.

g

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, his 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.

Cole knew the Coast Guard was on high alert that evening, given the weather. There were almost certainly cutters, aircraft, and small boats all scouring their radars for a little green blip, indicating someone sneaking south. Satisfied each time that no one was in their immediate area, Kevin throttled the engines back up and pressed south. The stars were bright and Cole’s mind wandered back to nights on watch on Delaney. He’d forgotten how bright the stars were at sea. Moonlight reflected down on the water, and Cole’s nerves settled after an hour or so. He was back on the open water and could feel the ocean air on his skin. It was exhilarating and the Grady-White was a solid boat out on the water. Cole almost forgot entirely about what they were doing as he enjoyed the ride.

After midnight, Kevin brought the boat to a stop. He squinted and looked forward, standing up on his toes. Cole looked too and could see faint lights to their left.

Havana.

“Holy shit, that’s Havana,” Cole said as the reality set in.

Kevin never stopped looking forward. “Yup.”

“We’re heading west of Havana, but here’s where we start to worry about the Cuban Border Guard. Do you see anything ahead of us that looks like a boat?”

Cole scanned back and forth, his eyes well trained to pick up the faintest hint of a running light. He’d tracked boats at night, but with the help of radar. The Grady-White had one, but Cole knew it was short range and if anything came up as a blip, it would probably be too late, so they left it turned off.

Cole pressed his lips together, taking one more slow and deliberate scan. “I don’t see anything.”

He stepped to the back and took a leak off the stern as Kevin continued to scan forward for any signs of danger. To the north, all Cole saw was a dark sea. He walked back forward and looked again for trouble, but there was none.

Kevin pressed the throttles ahead, keeping the speed back a bit. They worked slightly west of their original course and before long, Cole saw the rocky coast of Cuba in front of him. It started out as a dark jagged line rising from the horizon and took on a more defined shape as they crept closer. Kevin stopped a few more times, and they both scanned ahead and behind. The only sound was the motor at an idle purr and the water lapping against the hull.

With the landscape emerging in front of them, Kevin spent more time looking down at the GPS. He played the throttle and slowed down gradually. Cole kept his eyes out and on the water in front of him. He could see the outline of trees now and the moonlight against palm fronds. There was a rocky coastline in front of them and some sort of small coral peninsula on the bow. A wave broke over a reef in the distance every few seconds, its whitewater seemingly floating on an invisible plain. Kevin drove straight at the peninsula then made a hard right turn and slowed the boat as they entered a large bay. A fire smoldered somewhere in the distance and its smell caught Cole’s attention. Unlike a wood fire in the States, a fire in the Caribbean burned mostly green brush—no doubt cut by hand and machete—and its odor was a sweeter and more complex scent. Whoever the farmer was who’d cleared brush that day was certainly asleep by now, and the smoldering remnants of his day’s labor drifted in the midnight land breeze out and over the water.

Even in the middle of the night, Cole could see it was a beautiful bay with coral heads dotting the water. There were no lights and the bay was calm like glass. The moon cast slivers of light down as it climbed above them and over a low layer of scattered backlit clouds. Kevin sent Cole forward with a flashlight and told him to point it towards a small sandy area nestled behind the peninsula and to flash it three times quickly. Cole complied.

From somewhere in the brush beyond the beach, three flashes came back towards them. Kevin was as serious as Cole had ever seen him. He pushed the bow right up to the beach and it nudged the sandy bottom a few feet shy of the dry shore. Bodies emerged from the brush and Cole counted eight of them. One more, a man, stayed halfway between the brush and the water. He whistled softly at Kevin and called out, “Ocho, si?”

Kevin called back, “Bueno.” The man hurried back into the brush and disappeared.

The passengers wore ragged clothes and each carried a bag about the size of a teenager’s backpack. Kevin and Cole helped them up one at a time and sent them down into the crowded cuddy cabin. They were all thin and their skin dirty, likely from the daylong trip to this much-anticipated rendezvous in the middle of nowhere. They talked to each other softly, some holding hands, and seemed to reassure each other that things were going well. There were two men, but the rest were women and two appeared to be teenage girls. After the last one was onboard and down below, Kevin jumped back to the wheel and reversed out. The motors churned up an immense cloud of sand and the water was clear enough that Cole could see it under the moonlight. Not good for an engine, Cole thought.

“Drive it like you stole it, huh?” Cole was looking at Kevin as he said it.

Kevin grinned.

They backtracked out of the bay the same way they’d entered. Kevin was cautious around the coral heads as a hole in the hull this far from home could spell disaster, and both knew Cuban prison was no fun. After clearing the bay and pointing due north, Kevin opened up the throttles again and the Grady-White surged up and into a rhythmic plane as they screamed back to the north. Cole looked at his watch and saw it was after one in the morning. With the added weight below, they were making 25 knots over the ground. Kevin explained that they wouldn’t stop on the way back like they had heading south, because if they were stopped now, they’d be screwed. This was simply a mad dash. On the trip south, they could have always claimed stupidity or error as their reason for heading into the Florida Straits in the middle of the night. But with eight illegal migrants in the cabin, there was no bullshitting their way out of this one.

Cole knew that many smugglers would find themselves the subject of hot pursuit as they neared the Florida coast. Customs, Coast Guard, local police, even Florida Wildlife Conservation officers often joined the chase to catch smugglers and defend the integrity of the U.S. border. Cole had been on more than a few chases himself and knew that more than half of the migrants made it to dry land, meeting the “Wet Foot/Dry Foot” policy of the United States. If a Cuban touched dry land, he or she was welcome to stay. That was the goal, and it didn’t matter if they were in handcuffs ten seconds after setting foot on solid ground. They just needed to touch sacred American soil.

Cole also knew that many made it to the coast without ever being detected. Planes, helicopters, ships, and boats patrolled the waters every day and night, but it was a vast expanse to cover and smugglers knew their routes well. Their chance of success was quite good, or else they wouldn’t bother with the risks. The Cubans who built homemade rafts and attempted to paddle their way north with a trash bag full of their worldly possessions were the unfortunate ones who often died of dehydration or found themselves caught in the Gulf Stream, unwillingly pushed east, then north and into the Atlantic. Cole had seen every stage of death as a boarding officer. He’d carried men and women reduced to skin and bones, many too weak to even stand. In some ways, he knew more than he realized about the eight souls in the cabin below.

g

In all likelihood these migrants onboard the Grady-White were well connected in Florida. Someone, maybe a dad or an uncle, had found their fortune in America and paid a hefty sum to give their family the best shot at reaching Florida. The Cubans who took to rafts and paddled the 90 miles were the most desperate. The eight below were fortunate, and they knew it. Cole looked down at them from time to time and saw the fear of uncertainty on their faces as they were jolted back and forth by the boat as she screamed north.

He smiled at one lady who kept staring at him and gave her a thumbs up. “Bueno.”

She relaxed a bit, but kept an eye on Cole, looking for the first signs of trouble as they edged closer to Florida. Two hours went by at full speed. Cole scanned the horizon and then the fuel meter on Kevin’s console. They had a quarter tank left. Kevin exchanged a look with Cole and then back down at his GPS.

“Thirty minutes, bro.”

It was now four in the morning. Key West was a faint beacon on the horizon. Kevin kept it on their right side and once again scanned the horizon, comparing what he could see with what his GPS showed on its tiny display. They rounded the uninhabited islands to the west of Key West then turned sharply to the east. Kevin wove the boat at speed around shoal after shoal and brought her to idle after nearly 20 minutes, showing a near-photographic memory of the shallows surrounding Key West. He picked up the phone again and made a call.

“Normal dropoff?” Kevin nodded as he listened.

“Cool man, give me ten minutes.” He put the phone down and pushed the throttles forward. Cole could see on the GPS that a marker was sitting where they’d dropped off the Aquaholic. Kevin spotted the bay after some time and slowed the boat. Next to Aquaholic was yet another center console. The eight passengers below were whispering and each of them were trying to look out of the tiny portholes of the cramped cabin. Cole looked down and said, “Bueno,” once again. The older lady smiled back at him this time. Cole could see, and smell, that someone had vomited on the trip, yet none of the other migrants complained.

Kevin pulled up next to his boat and shut the engines down. They’d run hard for more than six hours and the fuel tanks were all but drained. On the third boat were two men who waved at Kevin. As the migrants stepped up and out of the cabin, they scanned around them, unsure of exactly where they were. Some stretched their arms out and yawned. One of the teenage girls let out a loud screech and ran across Kevin’s boat and into the arms of one of the men on the third boat. He hugged her and motioned with his pointer finger for the rest of them to be quiet. He couldn’t hide a contagious smile as the other seven climbed across Kevin’s boat before exchanging hugs. Cole thought it was surely a long-awaited family reunion, but he watched with indifference. There was no right or wrong in what he’d just been a part of—there were valid and well-intentioned arguments on both sides of the debate over illegal immigration. All Cole knew was that he’d just tasted adrenaline once again and he liked it.

The driver of the third boat tossed an envelope onto the deck of Kevin’s boat, threw off his mooring line, and idled off into the darkness. Kevin went back to his boat for a plastic two-gallon jug of gas. Cole, already back on the Aquaholic, watched as Kevin poured gas all over the console, deck, and rails of the Grady-White. Thinking for a moment he might burn it, Cole sat on the far rail and looked to Kevin, who just smiled and laughed. “Relax dude, it’s just to make sure we didn’t leave any prints.”

Kevin hopped over to the Aquaholic and parted lines with the Grady-White, now sitting quietly again at anchor. He tossed the GPS over the side in the depths of the main channel and took both his and Cole’s gloves and stashed them in his pack.

Kevin looked back once and then said to Cole, “Well, we broke it in for some doctor.”

The two laughed and relaxed as they motored back to the Garrison Bight docks. Cole tied the Aquaholic to a cleat at their usual place, and both of them walked back to the apartment. Hues of blue were beginning to form in the sky as they walked into the living room. Kevin tossed the gloves into the trash and went straight to the refrigerator. Tossing Cole a beer, he grabbed one himself, and the two took their usual seats on the front porch. Daylight was breaking. A rooster came alive somewhere in the distance and, with that, it was just another day in Key West.

Cole took a giant sip of his Dos Equis and focused his energies on remembering the smell of that smoldering fire somewhere on the wilds of the Cuban coast. On an empty stomach, the beer worked quick on Cole’s mind. He fancied himself as a modern-day pirate, now sharing in an ancient profession of arms, wit, and bravado. As they sat there with their feet on the railing and their chairs kicked back on hind legs, Cole thought about the family that was reunited. He’d now seen the entire spectrum of southern Florida’s illegal migrant epidemic. It had plagued the country since its inception and Cole took a second deep sip of his beer as he tried to figure out where he stood on the issue.

“What’s your take on all of this?” He was looking at Kevin.

Kevin pulled the envelope from his pocket, opened it, and counted out bills with one hand. He put ten one-hundred dollar bills on the table and pushed them over to Cole. “That’s how I feel about that.”

Cole counted them himself then folded and stashed the money in his pocket. “All right, then. Good enough for me.”

Kevin looked back out at the quiet street in front of them and finished off his beer. “You’re in, bro?” His tone indicated more of a question than a statement.

Cole laughed for a second and nodded. His mind was clouded, partly by fatigue and partly from the beer. It was a dangerous decision. He thought back to the feeling of being on the water, the rush of breaking someone else’s rules, and the roll of hundred-dollar bills in his pocket. He thought too of the Coast Guard, the years he’d spent pursuing a dream, and how it had all fallen apart in front of him.

“Sign me up,” was all Cole said.