The Cole Williams Story

Chapter 2 – The Conch Republic-3

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 18th 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.