Out of Captivity: Surviving 1,967 Days in the Colombian Jungle

by Gary Brozek

  I was eager to call Mariana, but I wasn’t able to reach her. The first familiar voices from home I heard were those of my brother, Steve, and my sister, Sally. We talked for a few minutes, but it was getting late and I had other phone calls I wanted to make. Before I knew it, the exhaustion of everything caught up with me and I was out.

  The next day began with a battery of physical exams and several forms of psychological evaluation. We were all amazed by how kind and compassionate the staff was. Without stating it directly, they made it clear that Marc, Keith, and I would not be separated from one another for long periods of time. Some of our question-and-answer sessions were done individually and others as a group. The thinking seemed to be that only the three of us could really understand what we’d been through, and not having one or the other of us to rely on might be too disconcerting for us.

  After being treated indifferently at best and inhumanely at worst by the FARC’s “doctors,” it felt wonderful to be in the hands of amazingly talented and compassionate physicians, nurses, orderlies, and technicians. I was never so glad to be subjected to so many tests, answer so many questions, and have so many people concerned about the various fluids and by-products my body produced. I almost laughed whenever someone tending to me said, “You’re going to feel a little pinch here.” Or “You may feel some discomfort.” I felt nothing but wonderful and alive and well.

  My son, Tommy, had been with some of my in-laws at a remote farm in Peru, so it took a few days for him to arrive. Mariana’s mother accompanied him into the room, and as much regard as I had for her, it was almost like she didn’t exist in those first few moments. The years apart could not break the special bond that Tommy and I had shared since he was born. We held on to each other and time disappeared. Neither of us could speak. Before the crash, if I’d wanted to hug him, I had to kneel. That day in July, he was big enough to bury his head in my chest. I bent my face down and breathed in the smell of his freshly shampooed hair. After a few moments we parted a bit to let his grandmother join in the embrace.

  The next day, Mariana and I saw each other. I was nervous during the hours leading up to the meeting. I didn’t have high hopes for an intensely romantic or dramatic greeting. I knew that she had been in Brussels when I’d been released. Always a cool, somewhat reserved, and refined woman, she wasn’t capable of a public display of emotion and affection. Holding in your arms a woman you’ve loved but been estranged from for so long was odd. I wanted so much for it to feel familiar and right, but I’d also been prepared by the psychologists not to expect too much too soon. Mariana and I were cordial with each other but our exchanges felt scripted—a kind of forced politeness between two people who were hoping to keep up appearances. Gradually, as we spent more time together, it seemed as if some of the tension began to ease, but until we got back on our home turf, everything was going to feel a bit strange.

  As part of our reintegration, we were gradually introduced to social settings through brief trips to off-base locations. The highlight for me was a trip to the local Harley-Davidson motorcycle shop. We had never stopped talking about and dreaming of the Freedom Ride. Walking into that dealership, Marc was like a motorcycle addict in a chrome shop. Row after row of gleaming new bikes and parts sat spotlit and glinting.

  “Guys,” Marc said to Keith and me, “I think I’m in motorcycle heaven.” I inhaled the aroma of rubber, leather, and the faint scent of motor oil coming from the dealership’s shop.

  “Unreal. Look at all this.” Keith turned a tight three-sixty with his head thrown back and his arms wide, “Two floors of nothing but the finest the motor company can produce.”

  I immediately walked over to an Electra Glide and sat down on it. “Someday,” I said with a resolve that surprised even me.

  The staff at the dealership was as kind as could be. We were never sure how much advance warning they had of our arrival and how much they knew about us, but they provided us with hats, T-shirts, and pins to commemorate our visit. We may have worn out our welcome by sitting on just about every bike in the place, but we saw no sign of it.

  On July 7, we agreed that we were ready to do our first formal press conference at what the army called its Yellow Ribbon Ceremony. We each got a blue sport coat. I’d never felt that comfortable getting dressed up, but when the three of us stepped on the raised dais in front a few hundred folks gathered to welcome us home, it was very easy to stand tall. Mariana, her mother, Tommy, and my stepson, Santiago, joined me in front of the assembled staff and members of the public.

  We all posed for photos in front of a large American flag. Having a lump in my throat at the sight of that potent symbol was something I’d not experienced since the days just after 9/11. I was never prouder to be an American and never more appreciative for what the governments of Colombia and the U.S. had done. Later, as the motorcade drove us to the jet that Northrop Grumman had provided to take us back to various points in Florida, I found myself wishing that I had been able to spend more time in Texas, getting to know the people who had helped me come home. I was equally indebted to the heroes of the Colombian military who, at great risk to themselves, pulled off a chess move that not even I was capable of. Operation Jaque—Operation Checkmate in English—gets its name from the move in chess when the king is in jeopardy and must be moved out of the line of direct attack. I could not have played the game any better than they did, and I remained confident that a checkmate against the FARC was soon to follow.

  During our time in captivity, Keith, Marc, and I really had become brothers, and just as in some families where feelings remain unspoken or not demonstratively paraded in front of everyone, it was fitting then that our farewells were low-key. At each airport where we were dropped off, we hugged one another, slapped one another on the back, and said a quick “see you later.” With upcoming visits to the White House, various meetings and reunions with coworkers, debriefing sessions, and sit-downs with military personnel who had connections to our situation, we were going to see one another quite often. Our farewells were a bit anticlimactic, but some bonds don’t need to be massaged to remain strong.

  Walking through the door of my house, I couldn’t help but think that I’d spent five and a half years thinking about this place, but I’d only spent two weeks actually living in it. My first few days at home were occupied by my attempts to get reacquainted with the space that I’d traversed in my mind so many times throughout captivity. I would close my eyes and move from room to room. Upon opening them, I’d find myself shocked to be staring at an actual room and not the green of the jungle. By the time the novelty of the rooms wore off, I had resumed a somewhat normal routine. Once school started, it was a real pleasure to take Tommy there, to be up in the morning ahead of him to have his breakfast prepared and his lunch made.

  For Mariana and me, that routine was harder to establish. I don’t think you can take any two adults, let alone two with independent streaks as prominent as ours, and expect them to bridge a five-year gap. We’d both grown in different directions, and after a nearly three-month period of failing to adjust, it became clear in late September that it would be better for all three of us if she and I ended the marriage. In the jungle, I’d told myself that no matter what, I was going to do everything I could to keep our family together. My son deserved to have an intact family, and if I just worked hard enough at it, I could make the marriage last. The reality didn’t work out that cleanly, but with everything I’d been through, in some ways, I was ready for it. I didn’t want my son to live in anything less than a good and positive environment. He and I are still as close as it is possible to be, and in the end, that’s all that matters.

  Meeting President Bush and President Uribe was an honor, and it felt good to express my gratitude toward them both—in particular to Mr. Uribe—for their support and the amazing job the Colombian military did in deceiving the FARC and rescuing fifteen hostages without a single shot being fired. None of us wanted to see any more lives lost, and we were en
ormously impressed and grateful that Operation Jaque had accomplished that.

  Perhaps my greatest joy these days comes from my motorcycle—not my old bike, but a new one. During an interview we did with CNN, we mentioned the Freedom Ride, and someone at Harley-Davidson heard about our story and our desire to ride the country. They contacted each of us and invited us to Milwaukee for the company’s 105th anniversary celebration. Hanging out with all kinds of fellow enthusiasts was great, and the generosity of the people at Harley was unbelievable, especially when they told us we could each select a model of our choice from our local dealer as a gift.

  It was an amazing gesture. Every few days, I take my new bike out and go for a morning cup of coffee at a shop called Osorio. There’s nothing all that swanky about the place, but being able to go out and get cup of coffee in a paper cup just because I can is pleasure enough. In some ways, Osorio reminds me of where I’d grown up in Cape Cod. Chatham is a nice little touristy village, and Cocoa Village, Florida, has much the same feel. I enjoy the leisurely pace of life down there. I can sit in the sun and watch the other coffee drinkers come and go. For now, I’ve got no better place to be, and I like that.

  When my cup is empty, I don’t linger for long. The ride home in the steadily warming air is always refreshing, but nothing beats pulling into the driveway of my house. One thing the hostage experience taught me is the pleasure of the hammock. I have one alongside the pool where I can see the citrus trees in my backyard. Fruit was a rare treat while in captivity, and so being surrounded by orange, grapefruit, lime, lemon, and mango trees, and lying in a hammock perfumed by those scents, is just about every bit of the peace I craved when in the hands of the FARC. For a guy who spent most of his adult life in the pursuit of adventure and a way to get a leg up financially, I’m enjoying having both legs up in my hammock, appreciating the time I have before I immerse myself in household projects.

  I haven’t flown since I’ve been back, and though that was one of my life’s passions, I know that rushing around in a headlong dash to achieve what someone else might define as success is not for me. In my mind, I’ve already won whatever game I was playing, and there is no greater demonstration of that than exercising my ability to choose whether to swing or lie still, answer the phone or let it go to voice mail. Nothing is too important to let it interfere with the comfortable bubble I’ve found in my private tropical paradise.

  KEITH

  “Keith, welcome home and welcome to Fort Sam Houston.”

  From the first words that Major General Keith Huber spoke, I knew that we were being reintroduced to gallantry and service. His firm handshake and intense blue eyes underscored the fact that the brutality that had marked our lives for so long had finally come to an end. General Huber set the tone for everyone else at Fort Sam Houston. The folks there at the BAMC exceeded our expectations in every way, and so much of this had to do with the compassionate command of Major General Keith Huber. From the moment we set foot on that base to the day we left it, General Huber was there—whether it was offering us his advice and wise counsel or driving us from one location to another. This was my first real extended contact with a man of his rank, and the man had no airs about him, even if I was a lowly ex-Marine.

  As we settled into our room on that first night, I ate a cheeseburger that a full-bird colonel had been nice enough to rush from home to prepare for me. In between bites, I anticipated the next day. I’d managed to get ahold of a cell phone from a colleague while we were still in Bogotá, and I spoke with my mother and father in Florida. Our conversation had been brief, but their excitement and relief at hearing my voice stayed with me through the rest of the day. They promised that I’d be seeing them the following day.

  The next morning, they arrived, along with Lauren and Kyle. All of them were led into a conference room where they found me sitting at a table. We all grabbed one another in one big huddle and had a good cry. Kyle was now sixteen years old and stood six feet six inches tall. I could not believe that my boy had gone and eaten one of Jack’s beans and become a beanstalk himself. Lauren was now nineteen and about as beautiful a young woman as any man could be proud to claim as a daughter. Seeing them and their transformations was almost too much, and after I’d quieted everyone down, I felt the need to say something.

  “You guys. Listen up, all of you. I can’t thank you enough for the messages. You have no idea how much your words meant to me—hell, meant to all of us. You were with me when I needed you and I will never, never be able to thank you enough, but I sure as hell am going to try.”

  My dad’s an intellectual, the kind of guy who lives through his books. I’d never seen him so choked up, and just looking at him with tears running down his cheeks was enough to bust me up inside.

  “Dad, I’m on the other side of it now. I’m bulletproof from here on out. Nothing, nothing can touch me anymore.” I reached across the table and grabbed his arm.

  He put his hand on mine and said, “So many things I want to say. Should have said before—”

  I cut him off. “You said it all in those messages. You took care of my son and daughter. You looked after things for me.”

  “I know but…”

  Only during the next few days did I learn what he meant when he said “but.” I’d suspected from early on that Malia had jumped from the sinking ship to save herself. I didn’t really blame her. My dad was worried I’d expected her to be waiting for me with a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne, and he didn’t want to bring me down. But he didn’t have to say a word. I’d long known the truth and confronted it in the jungle. I hadn’t heard from her for almost four years. Marc, Tom, and I had all said that we didn’t expect anyone to put a life on hold because of us. I knew that even before the crash, I’d put my relationship with Malia in jeopardy, and I didn’t have any illusions about what would happen now that I was free. We always said that captivity would reveal the truth about ourselves. Well, the same was true for the people we left behind. When I told my dad I was bulletproof, I meant it. I’d already moved on.

  The second day back, Patricia and the twins were scheduled to visit me, and before they arrived, General Huber came to our room to talk to me.

  “Keith, listen. I’m a family man myself, blessed with a loving wife, two great kids, and my first grandson. I want you to be sure you’re ready for this. Meeting those two boys could be real tough on you. I just want to make sure you’re ready.”

  “Yes, sir. I am. I’m their father and I need to see them. They need to know who I am.” I’d thought a lot about the twins while in captivity. The radio mix-up regarding whether or not they’d both survived the birth had made me worry, but later I just generally wondered what their lives were like with Patricia. Through Lucho, the world understood that she and I were engaged, but this was reality and I knew it.

  My heart was in my throat as I walked from our room to face Patricia and the twins. General Huber stepped in front of me just as I was about to open the door. “You’re sure?” he asked. I could see the genuine concern he had etched in his eyes.

  I nodded and he smiled and swung the door open. The first thing I saw was two young boys sitting on the floor playing with cars with their backs to me. When they turned around at the sound of the door opening, they jumped up and ran to me, yelling, “Papa! Papa!” They each grabbed a leg, and I swear to you, it felt like both of them could have taken me down. I was so weak-kneed and rubbery-thighed I just wanted to sink down right there and cry. Instead I went down on one knee and let them put their arms around my neck. I looked at Patricia and that cemented in my mind what I’d been thinking about for the last few months: Here was a woman who knew how to do the hard right thing. For all the shit I’d put her through, for all the walls that I’d put up between us, and for all the tangled mess that had been my life in captivity, she found a way to break through and embrace me in a way that no one ever had before.

  To see that gorgeous woman sitting there with her hands in front of her mou
th and tears welling in her eyes, I knew that one person had failed me but another had delivered in ways beyond belief. I was not about to consider questions of deserved or not, I just wanted to hold in my arms a woman who really understood what it was to love and to forgive.

  “How did they know?” was about all I could manage to squeeze past my constricted throat.

  “I had a photo of you on the wall in their room. Right between their beds. I told them all about you. I told them about the bad men who had you, and that was why you weren’t with us.”

  We sat down and I took her hand.

  “But how did you know?” I alluded to the fact that she had no way of knowing what my feelings for her were.

  “Before Luis Eladio came home, I didn’t know. I just trusted—and hoped.”

  The first night that we were in the hospital, I’d taken my first hot shower in five-plus years. I couldn’t believe that I could actually turn a knob and hot, clean water would come out a showerhead. Actual soap and shampoo were there for me, and not laundry soap. Staying in that soothing stream of water for hours felt like the best way that I could begin to scrub off the layers of accumulated filth that had marked my experience with the FARC.

  Sitting there with Patricia and my two boys made me feel like I’d been given another chance. I wasn’t going to squander that opportunity to be washed clean, to remove some of the layers of selfishness and ego that had been building up on me long before I’d crashed in Colombia. If I hadn’t gotten the message that giving of myself to others was a necessary and beneficial thing that enabled us all to survive our captivity, then Patricia’s selfless devotion drove the point home so that even this big dumb country boy wouldn’t forget it.