Chapter 5 – Points South

THE MIGRANTS WERE GONE. They’d surely been briefed about what to do in the event plans changed and clearly, the plan had changed. Cole was standing up under the overhang of some palm fronds as he fumbled for his phone—the dog still barking in the background and the helicopter still a ways off. Dialing Mickey, Cole tried his best to explain what had happened.

Mickey cut him off before Cole even got a full sentence out. “What the fuck man, you woke up the cavalry. Where are you?”

Cole thought about it but didn’t know. “I dunno. I’m somewhere east of Key West. The cargo is good and dry, but I don’t know where they are at. They split pretty quick.”

“OK. You go hide. Let things settle down. I’ll call you in a few hours.” Mickey pronounced the word you as jew.

Cole hung up the phone and tucked it back in his pocket. Mickey wasn’t much help and Cole was mad at himself for letting things get so out of control. He meandered his way around the small beach a bit until finding a trail, then followed it some 50 yards or so until he spotted some lights. Proceeding carefully, Cole figured out that he was butted up against someone’s backyard. Sure enough the lights were all on in the house and Cole ducked behind a patch of palmetto grass and sat down in the cool sand, his back against the trunk of a palm tree. It was early morning and the stars were still bright with enough moonlight to see a good ways in any direction. Cole knew he was not in a good spot and the chopping sound of helicopter blades in the distance was his greatest concern.

Cole told himself to be smart. His mind got away from him for a second and he forced his thinking to slow down. He was facing the house, the beach behind him, and he saw a gravel driveway to the right. Cole knew cops would be here soon and hiding in someone’s backyard was not a good option. Bent at the waist, he hustled over to the driveway, ducking behind trash cans and a minivan. The driveway led out to a road and he made a quick run for it to get some distance between him and the boat. The gravel crunched under his wet shoes as he ran and Cole felt the onset of blisters on his feet. He could hear the helicopter closer now and as he approached what must have been the main road on the Key, he could see the helicopter to his east, its spotlight combing back and forth.

He took off in a full sprint, hitting the main two-lane road where he saw another gravel drive opposite the one he’d just come up. Cole sprinted north 100 yards or so until it opened up in an empty lot. There was a rocky beach just to the north then dark open water beyond that. If it was anything like the rest of the Keys, it would be knee-deep water for hundreds of yards and full of shells, rocks, and the occasional coral head. Swimming for it wasn’t an option—the helicopter would spot him in minutes. But going back wasn’t an option either and Cole exhaled loudly, fighting back the first tinges of desperation.

In the lot were a few abandoned and dilapidated overturned boat hulls. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to see him under the hulls, even if it had infrared cameras. At the same time, the cops would probably bring dogs to sniff Cole’s trail. With that in mind, he jogged towards the water and ran in up to his knees, then turned west and waded back around the mangroves to where one of the hulls was overturned about 50 yards away. His feet were cold and made it all the more difficult to walk over the uneven rocky bottom, but he was able to grab the phone in one hand and flop the rest of his body in the water to wash his scent as best he could. He rolled a few times then waded directly towards the hull, shivering as he walked.

Cole was careful to take as few steps as possible as he crawled up to and under the boat. With the glow of the phone, he looked around his cramped hideout then curled up under the bow and waited. Cole was soaked. Shivering in the chilly pre-dawn air, he was frustrated, but knew he’d have to sit tight for a while. This was not where Cole hoped to be, and as the sky grew lighter to the east, he heard the helicopter pass overhead several times—a constant reminder of his current predicament.

Less than 15 minutes from when he’d beached, police sirens sounded in the distance. Cole figured the cops were on the main road when the sirens cut out and he heard a car door slam shut. The helicopter passed overhead again, but he never saw the bright spotlight near his hideout and it seemed that the helicopter kept its speed up. His stomach was in his throat as 30 minutes passed by before daylight took hold and warmed him up enough to stop shivering. With a bit more light, he looked at his surroundings, finding he was was sitting amid small rocks with some old fishing net down by his feet. Grabbing it, he made it into a bed of sorts to ease the pain of sitting on jagged rocks for the past hour. He began to relax and soon nodded off.

g

Cole woke to the cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He was groggy and slow to answer.

Mickey was yelling at him, “What the fuck man. Where you at?”

“I’m under a boat, Mickey.” Cole saw the clock on the phone telling him it was past ten in the morning. He’d been asleep for almost four hours.

“What the fuck you mean, you under a boat?” Mickey seemed confused.

“I’m under a fucking boat, Mickey. I don’t know what boat. I don’t know where. Thanks for asking, though.”

Mickey relaxed his voice a bit, “Well, I’m out here looking for you. I’m on a jet ski.”

Mickey’s pronunciation of jet substituted a yet for jet and Cole again laughed quietly and shook his head. The humor of it helped ease his mind. He wanted to say, “So jew are on a yet ski?” but knew Mickey wouldn’t get the joke, especially at this particular point in time.

Mickey continued, “They were all over Sugarloaf Key this morning. The news said the police picked up the twelve already. Where you at on the key?”

Cole connected the dots in his head. Sugarloaf Key made sense. He’d turned east during the chase and Sugarloaf wasn’t too far. He scolded himself for not thinking about it during the chase—if he’d been any further to the west, he might have ended up on the Navy base and his chances of hiding out would have been slim to none. It was dumb luck that he ended up on a sparsely populated key. Better lucky than good—but he’d have to do better next time.

He answered Mickey, “I’m on the north bank of the Key. Hang on.”

Cole thumbed through the phone until he found a GPS menu that gave him the coordinates and he read them off to Mickey.

Mickey took the coordinates and told Cole again to sit tight—he was on his way.

Cole relaxed a bit. The pressure was off, and he’d kept his cool through the toughest parts and was now on the home stretch. His mouth was dry to the point that he had a hard time swallowing and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His clothes had fared no better than his body, having been soaked for almost 12 hours. The salt that had dried on his skin itched to no end, and as Cole shrugged it off and waited, he thought about drinking a beer and taking a hot shower.

He was a long way off from where he’d been a few months ago. As he sat, soaking wet under an abandoned skiff waiting for Mickey, Cole did a bit of self-reflection. Smugglers had run all manner of contraband through these waters for centuries. Cole’s career had started off on one side of the law and he’d found that life dull. Moreover, he’d been told over and over again that he was not good at it. The Coast Guard small boat from the night before summed it up well. They were duty-bound to respond but had played it safe when it came down to it. There were operating procedures the crew had followed and that particular coxswain wasn’t willing to venture outside of those parameters to make the intercept. The U.S. Customs boat was similar. While the coxswain had shown some damn good seamanship in timing his intercept, he’d bailed when Cole approached the reef line.

Their hearts weren’t in it like Cole’s was. As he sat there Cole realized that he’d just put every ounce of energy he had into avoiding capture and had come out on top because of it. Cole knew he’d won because he’d worked harder and taken more risks. There was far more at stake for him than for the boat crews that came after him. He felt a renewed sense of courage, the kind that comes from doing something well entirely on your own. He’d risked everything and basked in the satisfaction of it under the rotted hull of an abandoned boat as he waited. His soaked clothes, the blisters on his feet, and the fatigue that wore heavy on his mind were akin to a badge of honor.

It wasn’t long before he heard the hum of Mickey’s ‘yet ski.’ Peeking under the hull, he saw Mickey idling up towards him and scanning back and forth in the sky for trouble. Cole crawled out and waded to Mickey.

“Let’s go man!” Mickey was still scanning the sky.

Cole joked, “You didn’t bring one for me?”

Mickey was not amused. “Get on the fucking jet ski.”

“Only if I can drive,” Cole quipped.

Mickey was not happy. “Get on the mother-fucking jet ski or I’ll leave your dumbass for the cops.”

Cole climbed on the back and Mickey throttled ahead out towards a creek taking them south to the open flats.

As Mickey punched the throttle, Cole yelled over the engine, “Nice Yet Ski Mickey.”

Mickey yelled back at Cole, “What did you say?”

Cole was laughing as they screamed back west to Key West. “Nothing,” he replied, almost as an afterthought.

The warm sun and breeze against his face were a welcome relief from the hours he’d just spent huddled under the skiff. Life was good once again. His fingers were still a bit numb from the nighttime chill, but the sun warmed the back of his shoulders and Cole smiled.

Mickey dropped him off at a dock inside Garrison Bight, from which Cole walked several blocks back to Kevin’s apartment. As he meshed back into the midday atmosphere of Key West, Cole realized he was free and clear. Hours before he was a wanted man, but now he was just another face on the street in dirty clothes. A police car slowed as he cut down a side street and Cole waved with a smile as it passed. He laughed out loud after the officer drove past him.

Rounding the last corner, he walked up the steps to the apartment. He strolled inside directly to the refrigerator and grabbed a Dos Equis. Popping the cap off, he downed half of it in his first swig before kicking off his sandy shoes and making his way to the shower. Hotter than he normally had it, the shower shook the last bits of cold from his core. He took long, deliberate blinks under the steaming water and felt the crusted salt melt from his body, taking the opportunity to finish his beer with another swig. The salt from his skin burned the corners of his eyes as the hot water trickled down from his matted and sun-bleached hair. He soaped up then stood under the water in silence for another minute or two.

The beer soaked his brain. His teeth felt slightly numb and he paused to fully embrace the loss of balance that ensued. Drying off, he threw on some clean shorts and pulled a button-down cotton shirt around his shoulders, not taking the time to button it up. Armed with another Dos Equis, he stepped out of the air conditioned apartment and took his usual seat on the porch. Cole managed his buzz with the second beer and leaned his head back against the wall and watched the afternoon’s cumulus clouds climb towards the heavens.

Hours went by. Cole thought he had a respectable collection of bottles on the table when Kevin finally made his way back from work. As Kevin came up the steps, they made eye contact and Cole knew his drunken smile probably looked stupid and mischievous at the same time. Kevin was laughing and shaking his head as he disappeared into the apartment. Moments later he came back out with two more beers.

“You’re nuts.” Kevin took a good long sip from his bottle.

Cole took it as a compliment. “Tag along sometime, I’ll show you a thing or two.”

Kevin just smiled and kicked his feet up on the railing. “Mickey says you ran straight over the reef. That’s a fine line between brilliant and desperate.”

Cole thought for a second and steadied his mind. He was serious when he replied to Kevin. “I know, man, but what the fuck were my options? I’m running aground either way at that point.”

Kevin nodded his head in agreement. “How did you know they wouldn’t follow you?”

Cole smiled. “I didn’t. I just assumed they wouldn’t. I fell back on what I know and I’ve seen it too many damn times. We—or they—won’t push things, and my only option was to exploit that.”

They were both silent for a moment. Cole took the first sip of the beer Kevin had brought for him. He broke the silence and stated matter-of-factly, “I got the job done. That’s all.”

They tapped bottles in a drunkard’s salute to Cole’s efforts and both took another sip.

“Mickey thinks you’re nuts.” Kevin was looking at Cole’s face for a reaction.

“Mickey is also getting his money because of me.”

Kevin nodded in agreement.

No sooner had Cole mentioned Mickey by name when the man himself came walking down the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. Kevin and Cole both waved hello. Mickey walked halfway up the steps and tossed an envelope onto the table.

Cole harkened back to The Old Man and the Sea and quipped, “Tell me about the baseball,” in his best drunk impression of a Cuban accent.

Mickey and Kevin both looked at him like he was out of his mind.

Kevin spoke first, asking, “What the fuck did you just say?” Then he laughed. Mickey followed. “He not only crazy, he nuts.” Mickey shook his head and tried to avoid laughing but couldn’t ignore the absurdity of it all.

Cole was a bit disappointed that neither of them understood the reference. “You both should read more Hemingway.” He sat back and took another sip of his beer.

Mickey shook his head again and walked down the steps. Turning back towards Cole and Kevin, he spoke softly. “You did good amigo. I’ll be in touch.” Mickey disappeared around the corner and was gone.

“So what do you do when they’re on your ass?” Cole asked.

Kevin was quiet for a moment and replied. “No idea. Never happened. But I might have pushed through the channel before turning to shake them.”

Cole was shocked. Kevin had never been chased. He seemed like a veteran, but now Cole, in his first run, had set the bar pretty high for outrunning the law. Cole had a new appreciation for what he’d pulled off.

Kevin, his feet still crossed over the railing and the beer in his hand, opened up.

“I’ve never been chased, at least that I knew of. I haven’t really thought about it much, but I don’t think I’d stop either. I just don’t know that I’d run a boat at full speed across the fucking reef. You could have split her in half.”

Cole took the hypothetical as constructive criticism.

He answered with his best explanation. “I honestly hadn’t thought about it either. But I knew the Coast Guard wouldn’t follow me and I doubted Customs would either. I was just playing the odds since it seemed like the best way to shake them. Maybe it was reckless, but so is what we’re doing out there.”

Kevin nodded in agreement. “Have you eaten anything?”

Cole shook his head no and realized he hadn’t had anything to eat in almost 24 hours.

Kevin suggested they go get some dinner out in town. They both finished their beers and staggered around the apartment for flip flops, keys, wallets, and the like. The sun was falling to the west and the blue sky showed the first signs of morphing colors for the impending sunset. Cole felt better than he had in a long, long time.

They walked the few blocks to El Siboney, and took a corner seat inside. Cole was lit up beyond where he’d been for quite some time. He had four hours of bad sleep in the past 24 and had hardly eaten anything. Kevin did his best to catch up and the two worked their way through several more rounds of Dos Equis.

Ordering grouper, Cole and Kevin both dug into steaming plates of black beans and rice, topped with a blackened filet of fresh fish. Halfway through, Cole came back to his senses enough to think again about the past day. The envelope Mickey had dropped off had enough cash for Cole to live for several months without working again, but Cole knew he’d be better off keeping his day job. There was no telling when Mickey might call again.

Cole cleaned the plate and slowly lost his appetite for more beer. His mouth burned a bit from the blackened grouper and his nose was running. The air conditioning was cranked in the restaurant and Cole felt his fingers getting cold again. His body was fading pretty quickly and he knew it. While a good part of him wanted to set Duval Street on fire, he knew the smarter option was to call it a night. They both settled up and left a generous tip among the scattered array of empty bottles on their table before taking a leisurely walk back to the apartment. Cole barely made it to the couch before he was in a deep sleep.

g

Waking early the next morning, Cole was back to his normal self. He suited up to go for his morning run but his shoes were still soaked. Behind the couch, he fumbled for his old pair and laced them up, taking off running from the porch, down the steps, and onto the street. He was full of life. He ran fast and took deep breaths, making it down to Roosevelt Boulevard before he really opened up along the boardwalk. He felt a bit of the hangover, but it was the mild kind that he could easily run right through. He’d work up a good sweat and by the time he was back at Kevin’s he’d be at 100 percent.

Cole finished up on the side street by the apartment and took a few minutes to walk around back and forth and catch his breath. Once steadied, he headed inside, took another shower, dressed and was out the door with Kevin down to the Yankee Freedom. He went to work like the last day had never happened.

As she plowed into open water and the catamaran came up to speed, Cole spent a bit more time on the open back deck as he coiled lines and straightened things out. The cat rolled gently in the groundswell, every now and then digging deeper than usual into a wave. When she did, he felt the boat drive into the swell, then rocket back out, up, and over into the next one. Salt spray caught his face a few times, but it was pleasant and nothing like the stinging he’d felt at full throttle two days before. Finished with his work for the time being, he rested both his forearms on the railing and stared out at the sea in front of him.

It wasn’t a particularly bad day, but the wind had come up from the northwest and Cole watched gusts push across the crests of the swell, driving up bits of spray as the cat’s wake crossed theirs. The water was a dark and inviting shade of blue, unlike water he’d see anywhere else. Strung out lines of orange seaweed marked the tide and currents that swirled in all directions. He knew that mahi-mahi schooled up under the weeds and saw the gulls circling above the bigger patches, confirming the presence of fish below. Birds swooped down as flying fish popped up from the depths on the backside of the swells, flying just a few inches above the water for a few seconds before disappearing into the face of another wave. The hum of the engines, the rolling of the cat, and the smell of exhaust swirling in the air satisfied Cole’s senses, giving him a feeling of weightlessness and freedom that for so long he’d thought was lost. All the while, this same sea kept his secrets tucked in her depths.

Having slept more than eight hours the night before, Cole had too much energy to hole up under a palm tree on Fort Jefferson. He spent his downtime walking around the island and ended up back by the migrant rafts that were pulled up high on the beach. They were the same ones from the last time he had poked around. Cole kicked at the side of one of them and despite its worn appearance, the wood was still solid. Someone had put time and craftsmanship into it. Cole wondered if someone like Hemingway’s Old Man had built it. He wondered too if the crew of this raft had made it to American shores. That someone could row 90 miles across the Gulf Stream still seemed impossible, but here on the beach was proof that some did indeed. Cole tried for a moment to put himself on a wooden boat in middle of the straits, no land in sight, and armed only with oars.

Ain’t that some shit, he said to himself and walked back over the catamaran to get her ready for the return trip.

He spent the entire leg back to Key West on the fantail, looking out over the water and thought about those rafts. He was interrupted from time to time by seasick tourists, and he did his best to help them steady their nerves. Some were unsteady on their feet, others puked and rallied, while some were green and looked like they would forever hate the sea. Cole gave them the basic tips. Look out on the horizon, take a few deep breaths, think about something other than the boat. The ones who ended up on the fantail were usually too deep in the throes of seasickness and resigned themselves to riding it out on the back deck. Cole felt bad for them, but at the same time he knew that not all men were cut out for the sea.

g

He made another run almost a month later. It was cake. He’d nosed up on yet another crescent beach just east of Havana. The palm fronds reflected moonlight, the smell of burning brush lingered in the air, and another dozen migrants scurried out from under the trees and onto yet another stolen center console. Screaming back to the north with his passengers tucked up on the bow, Cole scanned the skies more than he did the horizon, looking for aircraft anti-collision lights, a telltale sign he was in trouble. But they never showed.

He ran just west of Key West, up to some uninhabited Key, and met Mickey with another boat. Cole hopped over to Mickey’s cuddy cabin and was greeted by a smiling man who shook Cole’s hand and said gracias, muchas gracias, more times than Cole could count before hopping over to the center console and motoring off to the east. Mickey patted Cole on the back and took him back once again to Garrison Bight. An envelope of cash in his pocket, Cole walked in the dark alone back to the apartment and inside. He slept for an hour or two and woke up to Kevin walking around the kitchen.

Cole spoke first, “That was an easy one.” He was rolling over on the couch, his arms outstretched over his head as he shook the fatigue off and steadied himself on his feet.

Kevin was making a pot of coffee. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t anyone tell me that the first time?” Cole laughed and grabbed his shoes. He decided to skip the morning run after the previous night’s excitement and told Kevin he’d meet him at the cat.

“No coffee?” Kevin seemed unusually offended.

“Nah, your coffee tastes like shit. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“You’re gonna work today?” Kevin laughed as Cole walked out the door while pulling a t-shirt over his head as he did.

“Why not?” Cole closed the door behind him.

He treated himself to a breakfast of champions at Blue Heaven. He was ahead of the morning crowd and sipped coffee at the eccentric bar while he devoured a plate of eggs, bacon, and banana bread.

“Quite the appetite.” The girl behind the bar was making small talk.

“One of those nights, if you know what I mean.” Cole stopped eating just long enough to flash his shit-eating grin at her. She was cute, but Cole didn’t intend to put on a show for her.

“I know what you mean.” She was now leaning against the bar.

Cole had two hours of sleep on him at best, and he was on his way to a full day of work. She was clearly sending signals, but he didn’t have the energy or the desire to play along. He tipped well and threw her a half-assed salute as he made his way back out onto the street and down to the Yankee Freedom, albeit an hour later than usual.

He powered his way through the morning routine and settled under a large palm tree just before noon. An hour and a half later, he felt more tired than he had the night before and it took all his energy to get up and prep the boat for the return leg. Kevin passed by him on the dock and deliberately knocked his shoulder into Cole, which threw Cole off balance in his current state.

Kevin laughed. “You look like shit dude.”

Cole regained his footing and laughed as well. “Yeah, but I have a roll of hundreds that will make a real nice pillow tonight.”

Kevin shook his head and hopped onto the cat. Cole followed a moment later and went to work.

g

They were both laying out food and drinks for the return leg in the main cabin when Kevin seemed to offer some genuine advice.

“Look, man; you’re killing yourself. Take it easy for a bit. The work’s always gonna be there.”

Cole nodded, “I know.”

He continued on with the mundane tasks before him and thought about Kevin’s advice. Kevin was the type to seize life by the balls. He took risks not for the sake of pushing his limits, but rather as a means to an end. Living the good life, which is what he did, was the end for Kevin. Running migrants gave him an influx of cash to keep on keeping on. It was gas for his boat, new dive gear if he needed it, or simply some extra dollars in his pocket to make a night on Duval Street a memorable one.

In a way, Cole envied him. For Cole, the adrenaline was an end in itself. He’d hardly spent any of the money he’d made. Some new running shoes, and few shirts when his others were practically falling off his shoulders—that was it. He ate well, but well below his means. Behind some books on the shelf next to his couch, Cole had 10,000 dollars rolled up with rubber bands. He liked to pull out the rolls from time to time, but it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the feeling of driving a hull up onto the sand under the radar of the Cuban and American governments. It was nothing compared to the feeling of running a boat to her limits under a midnight moon. He knew the water more intimately than he ever had before, and that was what he sought from life.

Each run he made left him exhausted, both physically and mentally. But the fatigue was gone by the next morning and the addiction to adrenaline never ebbed. It was only a matter of days before Cole felt it creeping into his veins again and he wasn’t sure it was something he could control. Even if he wanted to, Cole felt he was going down a path from which he couldn’t turn around. It scared him, but at the same time it was exciting.

A week went by before Mickey called. Cole made yet another uneventful run. The temperature had come down quite a bit as fall was setting in and as Cole walked back in the darkness to the apartment, he wasn’t as satisfied as usual. Kevin was asleep in his room as Cole mixed up a Captain and Coke. Squeezing a lime over the top of it and stirring with his finger, he pulled a sweatshirt over his head and took his seat on the front porch. He put half the drink in his mouth and held it for a moment, taking in the last few minutes of darkness, then swallowed. He dialed Mickey.

“What the hell you up for? It’s five-thirty in the morning, kid.” Mickey sounded half asleep.

With his feet crossed and pressed against the banister, he held the phone in one hand and the half-empty plastic cup in the other. Cole finished the drink, leaving nothing but the ice and a coke-stained wedge of lime in the bottom. Setting the drink down, Cole spoke matter-of-factly into the phone.

“I want more, Mickey.”