George Warner handled a three quarter inch drill motor as if it were a .38 revolver. He was auguring one inch holes through the sternposts of the catamaran hulls to mount gudgeons for his rudders. I would use two hands for a job like that. Then you see the size of George’s muscular forearms and hands and quit worrying about him spraining a wrist.
I had moored my old cabin cruiser, long ago converted for commercial fishing, at the Point Laura Marina’s live-aboard dock. The “Zeke” was tethered to their electricity and water while I waited for their hoist to be repaired. She was long overdue to be hauled so I could scrape and paint her bottom. I suspected the marine borer worms had riddled her stem, stern post and keel, so I planned to live aboard her while she was in the yard.
Meanwhile, I was building an eight foot pram dinghy to replace my tender that someone stole. My work space was adjacent to George’s. We shared the same electrical service. The flood light on the top of our power pole lit both spaces and we often worked on our boats at night, when it was cooler.
Neither George nor I were sociable types, but after a few weeks of working beside each other, we’d started talking. We shared a few beers at the end of a night’s work, and gradually came to realize how much we had in common.
George was formerly a Navy diver and explosive ordinance disposal man; I’d been a Marine scout swimmer and demolition man. Neither of us likes to hear anything go bang if we haven’t personally lit the fuze. It was the prolonged celebration of Independence Day, with all the crazy fireworks that brought George and I closer together.
I put a case of beer and a quart of Jack Daniels aboard the Zeke; before casting off her lines, I invited George to take a short cruise with me. Kids in the adjacent campground were already shooting off bottle rockets, so he grabbed a windbreaker and hopped aboard.
We went out through Biscayne Bay, rather than chance grounding in the pass; the Zeke draws close to five feet of water. George was amused by my taking the long way round.
He began to educate me about catamarans. The gist of his lecture was that multihull vessels are designed to bob over the waves like corks, instead of plowing through them the way the Zeke did.
“When she’s finished, I’ll be able to take my cat across the barrier reef down in Roatán at low tide and beach her,” George said.
“Roatán,” I said, “Isn’t that down off the coast of Belize?”
“It’s between Belize and Honduras. Honduras claims it. That’s part of my problem right now.”
“What’s the problem, George?” I said, scanning the horizon. The sea was calm. A container ship was bucking the Gulf Stream heading south a mile or two away.
“You’ve heard about the Contras?” George asked.
I nodded, as I poured shots of Jack into Dixie cups from my seat on the pilot’s chair. George sat in the other chair on the opposite side of the hatchway. He took the cup, made a toasting gesture and slugged it down. I sipped mine; I wanted to keep a clear head. The Coast Guard patrolled the area regularly, and I wanted to be sober if they boarded the Zeke.
“I don’t use much of the hard stuff anymore. I’m better off sticking to beer or pot. They tell me I have a tendency to get aggressive when I drink.” He said. George let out a short, derisive snort and picked up the can of Bud to chase the bourbon.
“That’s funny as hell, George. An asshole in G-3 wrote the same damn thing on my final fitness report when I resigned from the Corps. . . .Welcome aboard,” I said. We clanked our beer cans together.
“So, what’s the problem with the Contras, other than the fact that they are trying to overthrow the Sandinistas in Nicaragua? Personally, I think we should keep our fucking noses out of other peoples’ business, but we never have. Have we?”
“There’s some weird shit going on down there. I’m not talking about mining harbors, or the covert stuff in El Salvador. I mean that in spite of the Bolin Amendment, we’re still running guns into Nicaragua. Guys I know who flew for Air America in Nam and Laos are refueling on Roatán. Those C-54s are not loaded with black beans and rice. The merks and Contras are also using Roatán for R & R. One of the Samosan Colonels running the Contras has been trying to get the Honduran government to expropriate my property down there.”
“Where’s your property, George?”
“I’ve got ten acres of hillside at the head of First Bight. I built a small house on it. . .okay, so it’s only a shack. . .and a dock for the shrimp boat I used to have. My girlfriend, Juanita, is living in the house and keeping an eye on my gear while I’m up here.”
“Juanita is Honduran?
“Honduran and Mexican. Dual citizenship. She came up to the States a few years ago, but she got caught working without a green card and deported. She chose Honduras. It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got plenty of time, George. I plan to stay out here until the 7th, or whenever they stop playing with the fireworks.”
“Juanita signed on to cook for my crew on my boat. the boat was registered in the States, so that’s also part of my problem, Mack. We put in at Fort Myers to offload our catch. Juanita and I went to town to do some shopping. Someone ratted her out to INS and she was deported. You sure you want to hear this?”
“If you’d rather not talk about it, George. . . .”
“I sold my boat to a guy at the Mid-Island Marine on Estero Island. Apparently he used it to smuggle dope from Columbia or Panama. Then, it turns out that the guy who bought it was not a U.S. citizen. I suppose I should have sold it through a broker; he’d have known that you can’t sell a U.S. registered vessel to a foreigner.
“So the DEA impounded the boat and they suspect me of having something to do with the smuggling. My fucking passport has been lifted and I’ve had feds tailing me everywhere I go. They haven’t charged me with anything—they call me a person of interest,. That’s what galls my ass. I don’t know what the fuck to do about it.”
“George, it sounds to me like they’re trying to make a conspiracy case but can’t find hard evidence to make the connection.” I said. “Do you have an attorney?”
“Sort of. I hired an attorney in Naples to draw up the sales contract. . .aw shit! What a dumb assed thing that was. The guy I sold the boat to recommended the fucking attorney. They were probably in cahoots for Christ’s sake.”
“Take it easy, George. I’ve got an old buddy in Miami who used to be a VIP at the State Department. He might know what to do.” I said, scratching my head for ideas.
“Why don’t we use my tape recorder? I don’t trust my memory for much these days. You tell the whole story, all the pertinent names, dates and such that you can think of. When we get back to the hill, I’ll run it over to my friend and get his advice. If nothing else, he knows plenty of good lawyers. If you’d like, you can come with me to visit Herb. Herb was once my boss, when I was detached to State. He ran their security operations.”
George tipped up his can of beer and drained it. “I’m glad I came out here with you, Mack. This sounds like the way to go. So far, all I’ve been doing is chasing my tail. I couldn’t think straight. Where’s that recorder you mentioned?”
“It’s in a rack on the back of the chart table. It is one of those pocket sized micro-cassette jobs. There’s a bunch of fresh tapes in the rack beside the recorder. Help yourself.
“I’m going to wet a line. . . see if I can catch a Grouper for our supper.” I said, shifting my bony ass off the chair.
I unlatched one of the overhead racks and took down a rod with a Penn 600 reel. I tested the 90# twine; it was still good. I sat on the transom and rigged it. George’s husky voice came from the cabin; he was really getting into the story telling mood. Some people have trouble telling their story if they know I’m a writer. The tape recorder lets them pace, while pacing their tale.
End Part 1. To be continued.
