It was on a sunny afternoon in South Florida in late June of 1975 that day in Homestead when I first flirted with the idea of becoming a drug smuggler. It was one of those summer days in the Sunshine state when there wasn’t much point to a morning shower unless you worked in an air conditioned office. The heat and humidity has you dripping with sweat again just minutes after you towel off.
I’d driven down South Dixie highway in my old salt rotted red Bronco to visit friends who lived in a overgrown cottage off SE 8th, street. Clark and AJ’s home was a riot of bougainvillea blossoms, spiky wait-a-bit thorns, and two big banyan trees that threatened to topple over onto the rust colored slate roof during each hurricane season.
Clark was a slightly nerdy looking twenty four year old who was working out the terms of a contract to install solar powered generators for poor families all over the hundreds of little out-islands in the Bahamas. He was paid by the Bahamian government fifteen hundred dollars for each finished installation. His girlfriend, AJ, was a tall busty redhead who worked as a stripper at a gentlemen’s club in Perrine.
That was the year I turned twenty-seven. I was living on my sailboat in the Dinner Key marina in Coconut Grove with my girlfriend Birgit, eking out a livelihood taking tourists for day sails around Biscayne Bay. Birgit was a dark haired beauty from Munich just two years younger than I. We’d hooked up the year before when I was doing much the same thing in Saint Thomas in the USVI’s. She’d hopped a flight from Germany to go down to the sea looking for adventure. I’d needed a crew to help sail my boat, and to keep the paying customers happy, well fed, and lubricated with rum drinks. We’d hit it off right away. When the winter season in Charlotte Amalie drew to a close in the spring, I wanted to get back to the States for a while and Birgit came along for the ride.
I was in Homestead that day because we all were planning to take time off from our jobs to sail over to the Bahamas for Regatta Time in the Abacos, a yearly bacchanal of sailboat racing each day and partying every night. Neither one of them was ever great about answering the telephone, so I usually just gritted my teeth and made the drive when I had to make contact. The kickoff party was scheduled for Monday night at Green Turtle Cay. I found Clark and AJ kicking back by the swimming pool behind the house.
“Hi guys, how ya doin?, I called out as I rounded the corner of their house dodging a thicket of needle sharp thorns.
“Hey, pull up a chair and have a beer.”, replied Clark. “What’s the word from the Grove?”
“I saw all of the gang either at Monty’s or around the docks in the last day or so. It looks like we’ll take off Friday night. Our rendezvous point will be the marine park out by Stiltsville at sundown.” There were six boats planning to make the crossing to the Bahamas for the two week regatta. They were all small J-24 racing sloops owned by Miami locals. Birgit and I were sailing my fifty-foot trimaran over to serve as the “mothership”. We’d shepherd the small fleet across the Gulf Stream as far as Bimini to make sure all made the crossing from Miami safely to the more sheltered waters of the Bahamas.
AJ said, “Yo Jimmy, wanna roll us a joint? We’ve got some primo stuff stashed in the laundry room. There’s some Zig-Zag papers in the desk drawer in the den.
I replied, “Sure, sounds good to me”, but returned to the poolside almost immediately when I couldn’t find anything in the laundry room. “OK. I give up AJ. Where’s the weed?”
“Just look a little bit harder", she chuckled with a smile.
I went back to the small room off the kitchen. There was a blanket draped over the drier next to the washing machine. I pulled off the old olive drab army blanket and discovered that it wasn’t a clothes drier at all, but what looked like at least one hundred and twenty kilos of plastic wrapped bricks of marijuana. One of the topmost packages had been slit open to reveal densely packed resinous leaves. I broke off a chunk and used my fingers to separate the leaves on the desktop in the den. My hands were smelling strongly of the cannabis resin by the time I finished rolling a fat spliff and rejoined Clark and AJ outside.
“It’s not ours.” said Clark. “I met these people down in the Turks and Caicos a couple of months ago when I was out there installing a system. They are two brothers in the Cuban army who have connections down south. My brother Billy and I got twelve thousand for bringing that load in from one of the Berry islands to Miami using his Cigarette boat. We landed it at four in the morning up one of the deserted channels south of the city in the bay. Someone’s coming by today to take it away. Dude, it was too easy! DEA and Customs just can‘t check the hundreds of vessels that come thru Miami every day. It‘s impossible. Unless someone snitches on you, there‘s almost no chance of getting intercepted. These guys told me that they‘re no longer using planes to do drops in the Glades since they send up those radar balloons off the Keys. It‘s gotten way too easy for them to track the flights. You saw that story in the Herald where they busted those guys in the airboat off Alligator Alley a few weeks ago, right? There was a thousand pounds of weed in bales bobbing around in the swamp when they got picked up.”
“Yeah, I read it.”, I replied. “Just how did you meet these guys?”
“Through a Rastaman I know on the cay where I was putting in a generator. We share a spliff once in a while. The Cubans asked me if I knew of anyone with a bigger boat who needed cash. Are you interested?”
“I might be, Clark. Try and get me a name and phone number so I can check them out. Sorry, but I gotta run. I told Birgit I’d be back by five.”
Clark handed me the joint and said, “Check this out on your way back to the Grove. It’s primo weed. We’ll see you on Friday night out by Stiltsville.”
I fired up that fat doobie on the drive back to Miami with the windows rolled down. There was no question it was some potent ganja, but did I want to risk jail and having my boat confiscated by the DEA? As usually happened, smoking weed, especially stuff as good as this was, made me get all introspective. I mused as I drove about things like the current state of my bank balance and the events of the last year or so. My boat was owned free and clear. We had a little money saved, but yachts kept in tropical waters demanded a never ending infusion of money to keep them in shape.
Birgit had been one of those girls somewhat derisively referred to as the “crew and screw gang”. Each year, lots of young women flock to yachting Mecca's like the Virgin Islands looking for employment on one of the many charter yachts as deckhands, cooks, or hostesses. Many come from Europe with lots of naiveté and little experience. They get hired, but work long hours for little pay. Most of of those jobs come with strings attached. I’d met her in a bar called the Avery’s Boathouse in Frenchtown. She’d just been canned from a gig on a mega-yacht for refusing to sleep with the mate. She had no place to sleep and little money. I’d bought her a drink and offered her a bunk. We hit it off, and she and I became a couple. She’d been more of an asset than I ever imagined. Rather than paying an agent to send us tourists looking for a day sail and printing expensive brochures, we’d troll the upscale hotel bars looking for clients. Birgit was fluent in four different languages. Her charm and striking good looks brought us all the business we wanted.
I pulled into the lot by Miami city hall and Monty Trainor’s restaurant, and found a parking spot under the shade of a palm tree. I was berthed on F dock in slip 112. I walked down the pier and found Birgit in the cockpit servicing one of the primary winches with all the tiny little springs and pawls laid out on a towel next to her. “Hey, sweetie. Why don’t you finish that up and we’ll head over to the Beach for dinner? I’m in the mood for a blow the budget dinner at the Forge.”
Birgit responded with, “That sounds great to me, but can we make it Joe’s instead of the Forge? The damn waiters at the Forge always make me feel as if they are doing me a huge favor by allowing us to take up space at one of their tables. Just let me put this winch back together, take a quick shower and I’ll be ready. Bye the way, the Dutch couple we met from Amsterdam at the Clevelander called, and they want to do the six hour special tomorrow at ten in the morning. I quoted them at $125.00 for the package, and told them we’d have them back at their hotel in time for happy hour.
“No problem. Joe’s it is.”, I replied. “I’d love some crabs.” Miami is a city that constantly spawns new and trendy restaurants, but there are several that have survived for decades.
The Forge on 41st street is an institution on Miami Beach. It’s known for superlative steaks, timeless dark paneled decor, and a wine list the size of a long novel. My favorite feature of the restaurant has always been the aviary filled with tropical birds in the ladies’ bathroom. Birgit’s point was well made however. The wait staff there was very professional, but also slightly snooty. You really had to project an aura of entitlement and refuse to be intimidated by them. You also had to be prepared to pay dearly for your meal.
The other two bastions on the beach that we favored were Wolfie’s Deli, the quintessential Jewish delicatessen, and Joe’s Stone Crab on the south end of the island. Joe’s is a landmark in south Florida, primarily known for serving pricey and delicious stone crab dinners. Lines to get seated can stretch down the block at dinnertime. An automobile dealer from Boston had shown me years ago how to circumvent this obstacle. The doormen at Joe’s all knew us by sight, and realized that I’d slip them a twenty when we were seated at our table.
