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Authors: Brian; Boland
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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
“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
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