Caribbean's Keeper

by Boland, Brian;

  He pointed her up the river and looked back to bid the Caribbean goodbye for now. He was hard on himself for slipping too far inshore and nearly having been caught by the surprise swell. He’d fixated on one thing, finding the river, and nearly lost the boat because of it. Cole shook it off and thought again that it’s better to be lucky than good. His cowboy seamanship had worked.

  Daylight had taken full hold, and while it was still early morning, the sun reflected off the palms that sat motionless in the now-still morning air. Mangroves and brush stretched out to the waterline, and the river turned brownish as Cole passed a narrow opening between two shallow spits of coral. There was nowhere to pull up to and not a soul in sight.

  Cole heard birds in the trees and the smell of lush vegetation overtook that of the salt air. Diego looked back at Cole and motioned with one hand to take a left into what looked like a small inlet. It seemed like another world. Just inside the cut, there were a few dilapidated buildings with rusting tin roofs. Two scrap-wood docks jutted out into the river, but Diego motioned Cole further along. The panga now crept through still water at a walking pace as Cole played the throttles back and forth from idle. Under a palm canopy 15 yards ahead, Cole saw an older man waving from the bank. He stood on a web of a tree roots and was barefoot in shorts and a dirty shirt.

  Cole nudged up to the shore and the older man took a line from the bow of the panga and tied it off to a tree. Cole’s crew hopped over and tied off the stern, bringing it in close against the shore. The second guy disappeared momentarily and came back with a tattered burlap tarp. All three men then went about pulling the tarp over the hull. Under a canopy, tucked up against the bank of a nameless river and hidden under a tarp, no plane would ever spot Cole’s panga now. He was safe once again.

  The old man walked Cole and his crew 20 yards up a dirt trail to a shack with an open porch. Three hammocks were strung in the shade of its crumbling roof, and they all sat down at a table just past the hammocks. The older man called out and a woman, also older, came from inside with a pitcher and three glasses, each worn like sea glass and filled with ice. Where on earth she’d found ice Cole didn’t know. She poured each of them a glass and Cole took a deep long sip of the thick red juice. Diego lifted his glass, said “Papaya,” and Cole thought it was the sweetest-tasting drink he’d ever had. Each of them drained their first glasses and their spirits soared. It had been a roller coaster of emotion over the last 12 hours, and despite the taste of the juice, Cole knew he’d reached his limits and would soon need sleep.

  The old man reappeared from inside with a bottle. Pulling the cork, Cole knew it was rum, and he gave himself a double shot in his glass, the ice now beginning to melt. Diego and Hector followed suit and topped their glasses off with papaya juice. Cole stirred his with his finger which now had regained its feeling from the night’s cold rain. He finished half the glass and the buzz nearly knocked him off his chair. He smiled and laughed as his two crew seemed at ease again for the first time since he’d met them. They all toasted one another.

  The woman brought out a plate of tortillas and black beans. She followed that with a plate of cooked fish, all cut into smaller bits and still steaming. Cole dug in with his crew, filling his mouth with enormous bites of the tortillas filled with beans and fish. He polished off his drink and made another. The pitcher was empty by the time the men set it back down. Cole noticed that the woman and the man served them quickly, but avoided eye contact and did not seem entirely pleased with the arrangements. It dawned on Cole that they were perhaps not willingly hosting such an event.

  Strong-arm tactics were a way of life for smuggling, and this old couple most likely had no option other than to accommodate the demands of the drug cartel that laid claim to this forgotten stretch of coast. This river that Cole had driven up was a perfect hideout. Tucked against the border of two countries, it had easy access to the Caribbean and enough lagoons and coves surrounded by jungle to hide an army of pangas as they made their way northward with loads of cocaine.

  It put a dent in Cole’s buzz for a moment and each time the woman reappeared and topped off their drinks or plates, he felt the slightest twinges of guilt for imposing on them. Half an hour into his stay, Diego and Hector climbed into hammocks and pulled the floppy sides up and around them. Cole thanked the man and crawled into a hammock of his own, staring up at the makeshift roof over his head. There was not a single man-made sound to be heard. Birds flew overhead and cackled and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. There was no breeze, but under the shade of a tall tropical canopy in the morning, the air was cool enough for Cole to fall asleep moments later.

  G

  He woke shortly after noon and saw his crew still asleep in their hammocks. Walking inside the single room of the shack, Cole found himself in what served as a kitchen, bedroom, and general store. There was a shelf of canned goods, most with handwritten labels, and two cases of soda on the floor. By the kitchen, there were some unopened bags of flour or sugar, neither of which had any markings. Over by the stove, steam came from a pot sitting on top. The older man walked in from the back door and greeted Cole with a polite yet distant Hola. The woman came in from the front and stirred whatever was cooking in the pot, placing an iron lid back over it when she was done. She paid little attention to Cole.

  On a shelf by the door was a framed picture of a boy, no older than 16. Cole picked it up and saw that the photo itself was worn, its edges frayed and some water stains distorted the colors. The boy had an innocent smile on his face. Cole stared at it for a moment before the old man spoke up, saying, “Mi hijo.” My son.

  Cole looked back to see that the man had stopped whatever he’d been doing moments before and now stood facing Cole. Cole looked at the photo again and set it back on the shelf.

  Cole asked, “Donde?”

  The man stared into Cole’s eyes, “Muerte.” Dead.

  Cole paused, not knowing what to say. He spoke softly, “Lo siento.” I’m sorry.

  The man shook his head, stared at the dirt floor, then went back to sorting things on the counter. As he did, he spoke more in Spanish, and repeated “las drogas” several times, again shaking his head. His eyes watered, but the old man didn’t cry.

  The drugs.

  Cole put it together in his head. The man had lost his son to the business of running drugs. Worse still, each time men like Cole tied up, it reopened the wound.

  Cole mouthed the words again, “Lo siento,” and walked out. He crawled back into his hammock, but couldn’t sleep.

  g

  It was late afternoon when the old man roused Cole and his partners. He spoke to Diego and Hector in Spanish and they motioned for Cole to come quickly. They walked the same trail back down to the water and Cole saw yet another panga tied to his, which was still under the tarp. Cole’s crew motioned for him to climb aboard and he did, stopping only for a second to grab his jacket, the bag, and shoes from his panga. Two men drove the second panga and slapped Cole on his back as his partners replayed the nights’ activities. Cole couldn’t understand the Spanish, but figured soon enough that they unanimously approved of his actions to avoid the P-3 the night before.

  It was hot in the afternoon sun and once out on the river, there was no canopy to block it. They motored out of the cove, back into the main body of the river and Cole stuck his hand over the side and into its muddy ripples. The water was warm to the touch, almost too warm. No doubt the river wandered from miles inland, picking up silt along the way and warming itself under the sun. The panga moved along at ten knots or so, pushing a small wake off her stern that Cole watched roll gently up to the mangrove shore and disappear. Crossing the choke point again, Cole smelled the sea and saw the reef line several hundred yards ahead of him. The sea breeze was a welcome relief from the motionless air that blanketed the river, but Cole was still tired and sore from the night before. As waves crashed and rolled in, he felt partly defeated by the Caribbean. Here she was alive and
rolling while Cole had just barely recovered over the past half a day. It humbled him as they motored along. Anyone who dared not respect this sea is a damn fool, Cole thought.

  His body ached and his eyes still felt burned by the salt, but Cole knew a hot shower was still a long ways off. Motoring out the channel, the panga rolled up and over a few swells that pushed through and the small boat crossed the reef line once again. Cole felt a shudder as one of the larger waves broke violently over the reef, the same line he’d gotten too close to the day before. He still did not have his strength back and was wary of another trip.

  Not more than 200 yards further offshore, a coastal fishing boat rolled gently in the swells. The panga pulled up next to it and all three, Cole included, hopped over onto the wooden deck. More hammocks were strung on the back deck, which was partially covered by a tarp to block the sun. The driver of the panga whistled and waved goodbye, turning once again towards the shore. Diego smiled at Cole and pointed south, saying simply, “Panama.” He then crawled into one of the hammocks and did not speak again. Hector made some small talk with the crew then did the same, leaving Cole on the deck, his hands in his pockets and his back against the railing.

  One fisherman emerged from below decks onto the fantail and dumped a bucket of fish scales over the side. He greeted Cole, but gave no indication of an itinerary. Cole found a seat on a bench along the starboard side as the fishing boat’s engine hummed louder and she made a slow labored turn to the south. Cole figured she was their ride home and would probably take all night or more to cover the distance. From the smell of it, the boat had indeed been fishing and was picking up some extra cash along the way by transporting Cole and his crew back to Panama. The same fisherman brought Cole a fully cooked fish, scales and all, on a tin plate and handed it to him. Cole thanked him and began to peal the skin back with his hand and pulled pieces of meat from its bones with his bare fingers. It was plain, but filling. This crew seemed more welcoming than the older man and woman back in Nicaragua. Perhaps this crew willingly took on the risk of the drug trade, but either way Cole felt much more at ease with the apparent kindness.

  The deck of the wood boat curved to allow water to freely find its way off the weather deck in heavy seas or storms. Its hull was painted white, and the deck had been white at one time too, but now was grey and weathered from the sun, salt, and endless days of gear dragged across it. There were a few patches of paint left, but the owner had long ago realized the futility of keeping her pretty. Nevertheless, her wooden deck was worn smooth under Cole’s bare feet and had a charm of its own. There were two lids over what must have been the fish holds below, and a neatly rolled net was tucked against the stern among a pile of buoys. The wheelhouse had once been painted green, but it too was now a faded salt-worn grey. Some other crew spoke back and forth down below, but Cole couldn’t find the strength to go below and see what they were up to. He brought the plate back to the wheelhouse when he was done and set it down just inside. He then walked back to the bench and turned to look out at the dark blue water and light blue sky around him.

  Cole sat there for some time, his elbows and forearms against the railing, watching the sun slowly fall from the sky. He remembered doing the same from the deck of the Yankee Freedom with Kevin, but that seemed like a world away. As the boat rolled along, Cole was quite content. He’d worked hard to get to this moment and he basked in it, incredibly relaxed. A groundswell pushed in from the east and the boat rolled through the troughs of each swell, then up and over peaks with grace. If she could tell stories, Cole would have listened all night. With sunset approaching, a cooler breeze blew from the northeast and swirled around the open back deck. The water was that same beautiful dark blue that marked open sea, and as the daylight faded, Cole was lost in his own thoughts. He took deep exaggerated breaths, filling his lungs with air.

  The sun now gone, Cole climbed into a hammock that afforded him a clear view off the stern and he watched the wake disappear into the darkness behind the boat. He thought of his morning rounds on Delaney, where he’d done the same thing from the fantail. He wondered what Walters and that cursed cutter were up to, then shook away the thoughts to enjoy his present surroundings. There were no storms like the night before and the air was cool as the boat’s motor hummed Cole to sleep, and he nodded off for a night at sea.

  Chapter 9 – Banana Wars

  COLE WOKE LONG after the sun was up. He was almost cold in the morning chill and fresh breeze that had picked up with the sun. The sea was dotted with occasional white caps and with no land in sight, nor any other boats in view, Cole felt the same weightlessness as the evening before. He basked in his complete lack of responsibility and threw his hands behind his head, driving his fingers through his salt-crusted hair again and again as he stretched and chased the fatigue away. He didn’t care how long the transit took, it was a wonderful feeling and he held onto it with a smile he couldn’t hide. As he stretched once again and twisted his torso around in his hammock, he heard his two companions talking from their hammocks. He yawned and settled back into his nest.

  Half an hour went by and the boat chugged along with a steady but gentle roll that rocked Cole back and forth. The engine hummed from below and traces of exhaust wafted in the breeze that carried with it the ever-present salt air. Cole finally rolled himself around and stepped out, his bare feet touching the deck for the first time in almost nine hours. The weather-worn wood was wet with dew and slippery. He took a leak off the stern and walked forward to the cabin, poking his head down below long enough to catch a whiff of coffee.

  “Cafe?” Cole smiled and looked at one of the deckhands below, who nodded yes, poured Cole a cup in a dirty mug, and passed it up to him. Cole wrapped both hands around the cup to fight off the chill and leaned his waist against the rail, looking out over the water. Diego called out to him in Spanish and Cole looked back to him with a smile, lifted the mug, and said, “Vamanos!”

  Both Diego and Hector laughed. Morale was high. Off the starboard bow, there was indeed some land. It wasn’t enough to make out anything distinguishable, but Cole was certain it was land. He saw the cumulus clouds building as the ground warmed in the sun and figured that he was no more than five or ten miles from shore. Cole finished off his coffee, filled it again from down below, and took a seat on an empty crate near the stern. He felt the vibrations of the motor against the transom and could sense the engines’ strain as the old boat chugged along. He hadn’t been in the wheelhouse yet, nor had he met the captain. He knew there was no need, no formalities to speak of, and no nonsensical madness as the boat approached land. It was the complete opposite of Delaney.

  Cole went forward to the wheelhouse and saw the captain at the helm, but said nothing. He was an older man, his skin tanned like leather and his hands were rough from a life of hard work. Whoever he was, this was a familiar route, one which needed no charts, navigator, lookout, or radar. The captain could find the channel with his eyes closed, guided only by the changing wind and waves. With nothing but his fingertips on the wheel and throttle, the old man felt the sea and steered his course by instinct alone. Cole held immense respect for this captain and did not want to disturb him. He walked back aft and sat, pressing the back of his head against the transom and slowly worked through his second cup of coffee, enjoying the sounds and tranquility.

  He thought briefly about the old man’s words back in Nicaragua.

  Las drogas. The drugs.

  Cole was part of it now. He’d seen the war on drugs from both ends. It was a nasty business, but so too was life. Cole shook the thoughts from his head and stared out at the rolling blue sea in front of him.

  g

  Hours passed before they rounded the same jetty Cole had driven through nearly two days before. The engines slowed and the boat settled on the calmer waters inside the sea wall. The heat from the sun grew with each passing minute. Without a breeze on the open sea, it was uncomfortably hot once again. The old boat motored u
p to the small bay from where Cole had left and a panga approached with a few men speaking back and forth with Cole’s two crew. They spoke quickly and excitedly before hopping over to the panga. Cole stuck his head inside the cabin once more and called out his thanks to the unseen Captain. He hopped over to the panga and they motored in to the beach, where David was waiting with another van. Shaking hands with Cole, David hurried them over to the van and Cole climbed in. It was the first time he’d felt air conditioning in two days, and it felt great.

  From there, the drive back to Panama City was uneventful. Traffic built along the way as Panamanians went about their midday business, but Cole enjoyed the ride. At one point, he pulled the Glock from the small of his back and dropped the magazine out before racking the slide and clearing the chamber. He did it quickly without looking and put the magazine and gun back in the small duffel bag with the rest of his gear. The grittiness of it still bothered him, as did its general lack of cleanliness.

  Cole asked David, “Can you get me some motor oil and some rags so I can clean this damn thing?”

  David looked down at the gun then back at Cole. “What’s wrong with it? You didn’t shoot it, did you?”

  Cole shook his head, “No, but it’s filthy. I could use a good holster as well.”

  David nodded, answering, “Yeah, sure. I’ll get you some stuff tonight.”

  Cole knew it was his military upbringing that wouldn’t let the gun’s condition slide. He wondered if that discipline would be with him for the rest of his life. It had been over six months now since he’d left Delaney, but ever since he’d first fired a gun, it had been drilled into him to keep his weapon clean. He let it go for the time being as the van meandered its way back into downtown Panama City.

  As the van pulled up to the hotel, David patted Cole on the shoulder as they stepped out. “Nice job my friend. Now you enjoy yourself for a few days and get your strength back.”