The fall afternoon was like many in South Florida. A typical northeastern breeze blew across an open field behind the shop, blowing cool air into an opened back door. An older green Ford Torino station wagon parked in front of the main entrance. As the driver killed the ignition, it sputtered and spat with engine run-on, the type of condition commonly seen in vehicles produced in the late ‘70s when primitive catalytic converters converged with newer unleaded fuels making a sound resembling a steel ball bouncing around in a tin can. The car ran on as the Cho Chos, Chino and Alberto Mendez, exited the car and entered the small store. Self-proclaimed twins, the brothers had a six-year age difference. Alberto, the younger and more aggressive of the two, led the way.
Inside, the store was cluttered with Styrofoam coolers, fishing poles, lures and other gear that covered the walls. On the wall next to the front door was a framed picture of a man standing next to a string of twenty or so hanging red snappers. The angler had red, curly hair and at the bottom of the photo, written with a black magic marker it said, To the Yellow Baithouse - Thanks a bunch guys - Jim Plimpton, The Redfisher.
The stench of bait filled the tiny building. In the back were tanks filled with live shrimp, ballyhoo, and mullet. Loud air pumps ran continuously aerating the saltwater in the tanks.
Alberto went for food while Chino surveyed the bait.
“What’s running?” Chino asked the American behind the counter.
“Everyone is coming back with dolphin and amberjack.”
“In that case, I had better go with the frozen.”
The short, pudgy man reached into a cold box mounted under the counter. Frosty air escaped the cooler, dissipating into the air. He pulled out three frozen packages, placing the rock-hard squares on the Formica-covered countertop next to an old metal cased cash register, bumping a point of purchase display containing the current edition of Newsweek magazine. The cover read “The War On Drugs: Are We Really Winning?” The American behind the counter punched the figures into the register, making it ring with every entry.
“One pound of ballyhoo, two pounds of mullet. Will that be all?”
“Just a second. Hey! Berto…”
“Yeah, wait a second,” his brother shouted from the back of the store.
The smaller Alberto, barely one hundred and ten pounds, hurried up to the counter, speaking in a high-pitched, wired voice.
“I hope this is enough stuff. I get really hungry when it gets cold,” he said, tossing items next to the frozen bait before returning to the back of the store. Again, he approached the counter, this time with his arms full. Two bottles of Clorox, a can of Comet cleanser, two Yo-Yos, and a Butterfinger.
A few minutes later the tired Torino wagon eased onto the paved apron of the public boat ramp at the Caribbean Club in Key Largo. The Caribbean Club had been a local hot spot for over fifty years and had been made famous because it was used as a primary location for the classic Humphrey Bogart film Key Largo. Using the car’s mirrors, Chino guided the faded white boat down the concrete incline, gradually immersing the hull into the water. From being stiff and ridged on the steel trailer, the boat bobbed free with flotation, secured to the bow with a stainless cord connected to the trailer’s power winch. Alberto quickly took a braided rope off the boat’s bow while he unsnapped the stainless cord and pulled the boat to a wooden finger pier that extended from the ramp. From there, he jumped onto the planked platform as it creaked under his feet, trying to make it to the end without stepping in one of the many bird droppings. He walked the boat to the end of the dock while Chino parked the car and trailer.
Alberto continued to hold the line while his brother jumped into the cockpit. The next few minutes were spent trying to find the keys to the twin-engine boat before starting the one functional motor. The other engine had been frozen tight since its purchase four months before. After pumping the lever-activated accelerator, the tired engine sprang to life. As Chino revved it a few times, thick gray smoke filled the air around the transom and water bubbled up around the outdrive.
The boat cruised along at a slow but steady pace making its way through the hundred foot wide passage known as the Key Largo Cut. The Cut was a man-made channel like the Panama Canal, a gorge sliced through the land. In this case though, the land was almost a mile of solid coral rock, at one time a living creature, growing from what was a reef several million years before. Now it was just a big rock, as hard as concrete, and the perfect foundation for the world’s largest carved sculpture. The channel connected the Atlantic Ocean to the east with Florida Bay to the west.
Because of the great tidal difference, three to five feet in the ocean and one to two feet in the bay, powerful currents flowed in either direction. At 4:00 p.m., the current was flowing against the La Pinta such that, at one point, she appeared to sit motionless with respect to the land while in the middle of the channel, barely keeping up with the rushing water. Eventually it made its way to the Pennekamp Park’s South Creek and a short time after that, the two were cruising out a heavily marked channel eastward towards the Molasses Reef light at a slow pace under the power of the one running engine.
Four miles later, Chino and Alberto dropped their steel anchor into the rolling sea. It sliced through the cold water striking the sandy bottom fifteen feet below, clinging to a mound of coral, holding the boat tight against the passing current. All was quiet as the small boat rolled with the passing waves. The two men walked about, trying all the time to keep their balance, setting up fishing lines and baiting hooks.
Unlike most who fished with conventional rods and reels, Chino and Alberto used the traditional Cuban yo-yo. Shaped like a small tire rim and usually made of plastic, the yo-yo was a simple device which one could wind monofilament line around. There was no casting involved which made the yo-yo easy to use. If the user could catch the current with the bait, the line would just fall off the rim, sending fifty to a hundred feet of line into the water within seconds. Reeling in was just as simple. There was no complicated tension or drag controls to adjust. Simple wrist action determined how much pressure was placed against the line when making a catch. It was an art, seasoned by time and experience; one that depended more on the abilities of the user than the design of the device itself.
Both Chino and Alberto, having used the primitive devices since early childhood, had the process down to a science. Within minutes, four lines were dragging the current. Weighted down by three-ounce leads, the baits glided, suspended in the flow beneath the boat.
* * * * *
Descent
The Captain’s Cabin was a favorite hangout for local fishermen, boat mechanics, and the agents of the Tavernier field office. Burly, bearded men sat against a long cypress bar trimmed in weathered two-inch dock line.
Grouper filets, oysters and other sundry raw bar items were prepared behind on a recessed open flame grill. The beer came fresh from the tap, always served in frosted glass mugs. The rest of the room was filled with vinyl-backed upholstered booths and a regulation pool table that was always in use. Smaller tables made from old lobster traps filled the room while ceiling fans turned constantly, circulating warm, smoke-filled air. As the saloon door swung open, the smell of belched beer and burnt popcorn hit Joel in the face.
“Joel! Amigo, how’s it going young man?” Holmes yelled as he approached the bar.
“Hey Holmes. I thought I’d get something to eat before I went out tonight,” Joel said.
“Great, try the dolphin sandwich. It’s to die for and it goes great with a nice cold beer…or two,” Holmes replied, slurring the last part of the sentence.
Joel watched over Holmes’s shoulder through a large bay window as one of the agents, Mark West, pulled into the large parking lot. He was in Jordan Cheney’s silver dually pickup and was towing the service’s 38-foot Stiletto. The sun gleamed from the bright white Fiberglas and cold stainless steel trim. Now that’s a boat, Joel thought to himself.
“Bet he sleeps with that thing…What do you
think Joel?” Holmes said, patting Joel on the back.
“Huh? Yeah, right,” Joel replied, partially distracted.
West completed his circle of the parking lot and backed the rig into the mouth of an adjacent boat ramp that fronted the canal. West was tall and thin, had dark hair and a dark sun-cured complexion. His dark aviator sunglasses completed the picture. He seemed more like a pilot than a boat captain. After exiting the truck he checked over the craft, much like an aircraft preflight check, examining the boat from bow to stern. If he was anything, Agent Mark West was meticulous.
Joel left the crowd and walked toward the trailered boat. As he approached, West was down on his knees inserting a brass drain plug into the transom.
“Hey kid. The crowd a little noisy for you?” West asked.
“Well you know, just not my kind of scene.”
“Well if you don’t mind, maybe you can give me a hand. I need you to back me down the ramp.”
“Sure, no problem,” Joel said.
“Remember, when I tell you to stop, put on the emergency brake and give me a hand tying up,” West instructed.
West climbed up the side of the boat and waited. As Joel backed down the steep decline toward the water, he felt the weight of the boat pull against the screeching brake pads. Foot by foot, the boat’s outdrives, trailer, and wheels became submerged. As the boat became buoyant, West gave the order to stop. Joel put the truck in park and applied the parking brake as requested. As he did though, the transmission popped back out of park and into reverse. Joel looked at the indicator over the steering column. The illuminated R puzzled him as he jammed the shift lever back towards park. It seemed to stay this time and he went back to tie up the boat.
The Stiletto had floated back, away from the ramp and towards a finger pier. Joel walked over to the pier and took a dock line from the captain. As soon as he bent over to secure the line to the dock cleat, a loud SNAP came from under the truck. Instantly, the whole rig started to roll backwards down the ramp. Joel’s heart stopped as he watched the trailer disappear under the surface of the water. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t bear to look as water splashed against the moving tailgate. Then suddenly, the discarded winch cable from the trailer caught a small dock cleat. The rig stopped with only part of the rear bumper underwater. Joel let out a sigh of relief. West stood motionless, still staring in disbelief.
“Well don’t just stand there kid!” he said.
Instantly, the saloon patrons, headed up by Holmes, exited the building. Most were laughing. Two approached the seawall and analyzed the truck’s exhaust pipe that was now bubbling under the cold water, illuminated by the truck’s red taillights.
Holmes and a small crowd from the bar approached Joel with drunken waves of laughter.
“You’re one of the luckiest men alive Joel. If anything would have happened to Cheney’s truck, you would have been fucked,” Holmes blurted out, red-faced and exuberant.
Joel wiped his brow as he looked down at the truck. But before he could even think of how to remedy the situation, the loose dock cleat at his feet broke away under the massive stress and the truck shot backwards, deeper into the water. The heavy truck floated for a minute, teasing Joel in the process.
Instantly, the surrounding laughter was silenced as Joel again tried to catch his breath. Holmes ran over to the side of the seawall and peered over at the hood of the running truck. It bubbled and gurgled as the cold liquid overcame it. The water became a churning mess of bubbling white froth, fuel and oil debris as the truck sank to the bottom of the deep canal.
“Holy shit Joel! You’re fucked!” Holmes exclaimed in a burst of stunned amazement.
In the crowd of silence, one person, Agent West, managed to stand out. “There are easier ways to get a box of cereal kid,” he said, patting Joel on the back before re-boarding the Stiletto.
Cereal? Joel thought to himself.
West chuckled as he started the boat’s engines that fired without hesitation.
“Are you coming Holmes?” West yelled out.
As Holmes pushed the boat off the dock, West jockeyed it from the ramp opening and powered her around, heading out the canal toward the open ocean.
•
Thirty minutes later, Joel was surprised to find out that tow trucks in the Florida Keys were equipped with diving gear and scuba certified drivers. Joel watched as the man, wearing a wetsuit that had Keys Towing and Salvage stenciled on the back, surfaced through the cold water, guiding himself up by the steel wire he had attached to the front bumper of Cheney’s downed truck.
“It’s not going to be pretty. The trailer is tangled up with the truck,” the diver said as his voice echoed from the steep walls of the canal.
“Just get the damned thing out of there, okay?” Joel said.
Seconds later, the diver was back to being the tow truck operator and after stowing the dive gear, positioned himself at the rear of the large truck. Then he activated some levers and, as the large truck’s engine started to increase in revolutions, the center-mounted boom winch wound up, drawing in its catch like a well-oiled rod and reel. Inch by inch, the truck creaked and moaned as it strained to draw up the sunken dually and trailer. It was ten minutes before the front bumper and grill pierced the water’s surface. Ten minutes after that, the boom was raised and was pulling the sunken truck up and onto the incline of the boat ramp. Joel watched as the driver opened the driver’s side door. Seawater, small fish and a lobster emptied out onto the ramp. He had seen enough.
As Joel walked back to his car, he looked down at his watch. 6:17 p.m. He was supposed to meet Owen Sands at the Tavernier office at 6:30. He shook his head. This was not going to be his day. And to top it off, he still had to face Cheney in the morning.
* * * * *
Partition
Roberto Alazar turned the switch igniting the sixteen diesel pistons below the hard Fiberglas deck at his feet. Black smoke erupted from the transom exhaust as the massive engine roared to life. Over the freshly painted decks, Roberto and Gordo’s younger cousin, Mongi Alazar, scurried fore and aft securing the loose lines and stowing shore power cables and water supply hoses under the deck. Mongi was an agent of sorts. He represented the owners of the load, businessmen who usually invested cash into a seasonal crop and took calculated risks upon its return. Mongi’s job was simple. He made the arrangements and looked over the handling of the load. He also operated the clavo in Miami. Although Roberto ran the crew, Mongi owned the load.
Alazar shifted the engine’s transmission into reverse as he spun the oversized, wood-spoked wheel to the port and increased the throttle. The immense 64-foot Vibrations moved slightly at first and then gaining momentum, it maneuvered out of the tight slip etching backwards into the larger, more versatile canal. Alazar jammed the black lever forward. The deck shuttered below as the two thousand horsepower engine diverted the rotation of the spinning propeller. The wooden wheel was spun back to starboard as even more power was requested from the red lever controlling the throttle. Black smoke ascended from the transom’s waterline and was blown over the aft deck by the cool breeze. The boat inched forward as it gained speed and momentum. A drafty wake followed, crashing against the algae-covered breakwater rocks that lined both sides of the canal. Alazar adjusted the friction control on the large steering wheel that measured almost four feet in diameter. He then began turning knobs and switches mounted on the console overhead. Instantly, lime and amber colored electronics came to life as the open radar array mounted above the wheelhouse began to sweep in slow revolutions.
As the Vibrations cleared the end of the breakwater, Alazar took a heading of 090, due East, pointing the craft out to the open ocean. Del’s guest, Gus Greico, joined Alazar in the wheelhouse.
“What time does the tide go out?” he asked.
“We are at the top of a six hour cycle. It is 7:00 now, so by 10:00 it will be at its lowest.”
“But can we make it back in at low tide?”
A
lazar responded confidently. “Vibrations draws six feet. Probably not, but by the time we’re ready to return, the tide should be at three-quarters if not all the way up.”
Greico looked concerned, “What if we go over our time? We might have to stay out here all night. We couldn’t return until 7:00 a.m. in broad daylight.”
“Gus, my father taught me to never get emotional about things I couldn’t change.”
Forty-five minutes later, as Vibrations approached the Molasses tower, Mongi climbed out onto the bow, making a roaring racket as he pulled a twenty-foot length of chain and some one-inch thick rope from a deck-mounted hawser that led to a locker below. The chain was secured to an anchor that hung suspended from the bow pulpit. Then he lowered it, letting it dangle freely above the passing waves.
As Alazar slowed the boat, Mongi looked back watching him until the captain’s signal was given. He released the anchor and with it, the scope of line he had drawn from the rope locker below. It shot through the water, gliding by its flukes to the bottom like a paper airplane slicing through the air. As the anchor came to rest in the sand, Mongi signaled back to Alazar who quickly put the engine into reverse. In a pool of churning water, Vibrations slid backwards pulling the line taut until the anchor set itself deep into the bottom. Alazar shut down the engine and all was silent except the sound of waves lapping against the bow.
As the boat laid against the moor, everyone on board congregated on the aft deck. The cool breeze blew in from the northeast and the four watched as the sun set in the west, leaving the eastern sky in a shadow of darkness.
“So what is the game plan from here?” Greico asked.
Mid Ocean Page 10
