Caribbean's Keeper (12 page)

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.”

Chapter 6 – Habanas

MICKEY HAD NOT BEEN in the mood to discuss business that morning before the sun was up. He told Cole to sleep it off and they’d talk the next day. Cole had the day off, so after ending the call with Mickey, he mixed up another Cuba Libre to celebrate the sunrise. By the time he’d stirred it and taken his seat, the sky had turned a lighter shade of blue and wispy clouds were backlit by the rising sun. Cole was drunk but happy, and his mind was alive with thoughts of what might lay in store.

He turned in for some sleep once the temperature started to come up. Cole guessed that in the darkness of the night, it had dropped into the low 60s and it felt clean and crisp. As the day progressed, it would end up somewhere in the upper 70s or low 80s—enough to feel hot under the Florida sun. With the AC humming and the curtains drawn, Cole slept well past noon and finally began to stir shortly before two in the afternoon. Kevin was nowhere to be found, so Cole worked through a pot of coffee, then went for a quick jog to the airport and back.

He’d missed a call from Mickey and had a text message suggesting they meet for a late lunch. Cole showered up and changed into some clean clothes. He pulled on a pair of jeans, flip flops, and his trademark button-down linen shirt. Stepping out the door, the midday sun was warm, but the air felt cooler against his skin and he enjoyed the leisurely walk downtown. It was by far his favorite time of year. While the rest of country was preparing itself for winter, the Keys were coming into their prime. The nights were cool, but each day the sun did its best to keep temperatures comfortable during the day. The Gulf Stream never let the water cool too much to stop anyone from a midday swim. The vacationers still flocked to Duval Street and basked in their long weekends away from the snow and wind up north.

Cole took the long way around to Margaret Street and settled onto a barstool at Turtle Kraals, overlooking the marina. There he ordered a skirt steak and another Cuba Libre. He’d been sober for a few hours by that point and figured the most productive part of his day was already over. Mickey showed up 15 minutes later and pulled up a stool next to Cole. It was mid-afternoon and the two had an entire corner of the restaurant to themselves. A steady breeze rolled in off the water, and the mix of boats bobbed back and forth in their slips. On the sailboats, halyards and shackles slapped against aluminum masts. Feeling dizzy from his drink, Cole likened it to a chorus of off-key bells rung by an orchestra of idiots. It was a sound that Cole loved. He couldn’t help but take a deep breath and smile.

Mickey sat silent for some time as he perused the menu and Cole waited patiently, sipping on his drink. After ordering some ceviche and a Dos Equis, Mickey put his menu down and crossed his arms, looking at Cole with a stern face.

“I don’t get you, Cole.” He paused. “You make good money, you good at what you do, you live the good life, but you still telling me you want to do something else?”

Cole laughed a bit and realized that Mickey accentuated the J in words like ‘you’ when he was irritated. It wasn’t all the time, but right now he really emphasized them. Here Mickey seemed to act more like a concerned father than the ringleader of an international smuggling operation.

“What the fuck do you care, Mickey?”

Mickey tossed his hands in the air, up and over his head in an exaggerated manner. “OK, then, I don’t care. I no give a damn. You just tell me what you want and maybe I can help.”

Cole finished off his drink. He held it almost inverted for an extra second or two to suck down the last few drops of coke and rum. The glass was now empty, the stained lime stuck between the remaining ice cubes. He wanted to open up and pour out his problems, but Mickey was no shrink, and Cole wasn’t about to show any sign of weakness to a seasoned criminal.
Delaney
was always in the back of Cole’s mind. The honest truth was he didn’t know what he wanted, but every run to Cuba and back only fueled his appetite for open water, fast boats, and adventure. Perhaps it was reckless and stupid, but Cole felt that each time he made a run, he was stuffing it in Potts’ face. He wanted more of that feeling.

Cole knew he was only skimming the surface of the Caribbean underworld. He was ready to take off the training wheels and hoped that Mickey could point him in the right, or more appropriately wrong, direction. He didn’t fully understand why he wanted to make his way south, he just felt an undeniable longing for a new chapter. As nice as it was, Key West felt small and constricting. Every time he cruised past the Coast Guard base, it reminded him of his shortcomings. He felt like it choked him. “What else you got Mickey?”