Chapter Ten All over Miami and up the Intercoastal Waterway
The following morning when we awoke I was eager to get going on the task of getting La Forza ready for our trip, or at least ready enough to navigate up the Intercoastal. I was not at all sure at this point that I wanted to take the vessel offshore. Before I started in on all the phone calls, I asked Birgit, “After you finish your coffee, do you want to head up to Publix and stock up? Why don’t you shop for a week or so. We’ll leave whatever is here for AJ. I’ll call her first to see if she wants to stay aboard while we’re away. Then I‘m going to begin calling the mechanics and nav reps to get everything checked out. Before you head out, why don‘t you pack your big duffle bag. We might as well begin sleeping on board tonight rather than making the drive back and forth to the Grove.”
She replied, “No problem, Jimmy. How do you want me to pay for it, and how much should I spend?”
“Just get whatever you want. Here’s the Visa card to pay for it all. You said there was a freezer on La Forza. If there was room in it, buy steaks and stuff to fill it up. If we don’t eat it, we can just leave it for the owner. He’s paying for all of it anyways. Meet me back here when you’re done and we’ll head over to the Beach, ok?”
While Birgit was packing I managed to get AJ on the phone. She was more than willing to look after Vamp while we were away. Clark would only be home for a few days next week before heading out to begin another project, and it got lonely for her in their isolated cottage when he was away. Next, I called the foreman at Merrill-Stevens yachts to arrange for a mechanic to come out and check over the engines on La Forza. I told him I was pretty sure one engine would need a valve job, and he assured me that their machine shop could begin work on it right away if necessary. A couple more calls to set up times for the tech people to service the electronics and I was done. I started packing my stuff while I was waiting for Birgit to return from Publix.
She returned from the shopping expedition at ten. I had of all our gear in two piles by the head of the pier waiting for her. With boxes of perishables sitting in the back of the old Bronco, we wasted on time loading up and heading for the marina on Alton Road. Birgit was at the wheel as we drove down the street in the shade under the overhanging banyan trees. I posed a question to her as we navigated our way to the causeway that would take us across to Miami Beach. “Hey, B. We’ve got a healthy bank balance with more to come. What would you think about taking ten grand out of the kitty and buying Ecstasy from Desmond with it? I know a guy in New York that does sound systems for raves and house music clubs. Can I see if Desmond will sell us that much? Are you willing to take the risk? I think we would triple our money.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound. Why not? We’re already taking the risks if you’re sure about this guy you know.”
When we arrived at the marina, we both grabbed boxes of groceries and commandeered an empty dock cart to wheel it all down the docks to La Forza. Three trips saw all of our stuff on board. I began helping Birgit stow away groceries and said, “I’d like to run over to Amazon, and pick up hoses to replace the rotted ones I found in the engine room. Do you want to come along or would you rather hang out here?”
She replied, “You go ahead. I’d like to explore a bit more here so I know where everything is, and if there’s anything we’re going to need.”
If you’re a boater who enjoys doing things for yourself, the area along Route 95 between Miami and Fort Lauderdale is a paradise. Years ago, when I first came to South Florida, we’d had a rough trip down from New England. The C&C 40 I’d owned at the time had needed a lot of repairs, both to sails and to other odds and ends of hardware. I’d met a young woman skipper named Yvette sitting in the bar at the Rustic Inn in Lauderdale. The restaurant alongside a canal had become one of my favorite hangouts. It featured open air waterside dining, and great prices on steamed crabs with buckets of Corona beer. When you tossed empty crab shells over the railing into the canal, hungry snappers would dart up from under the pilings to nibble at the shells.
I’d struck up a conversation with Yvette, and she’d offered to show me around. In a week of tagging along with her, I’d discovered that almost any item of marine gear you needed to buy, or have repaired, could be found somewhere close by. There were literally hundreds of manufacturers, repair facilities, and warehouses stocking whatever you needed. It did not matter if you were seeking a replacement part for an item on a mega-yacht or simply oarlocks for a dinghy. Someone nearby would be able to sell it to you if you knew where to find it. Amazon was one of the businesses I’d found on a foray with Yvette. All they sold was hoses. Whatever the type, specifications, or application, Amazon always had what I needed on the shelf. After a fifteen minute trip over to downtown Miami, I had the new hoses in hand, and was heading back to the Beach.
When I arrived, the radar tech support fellow from Raytheon was just finishing up, and Birgit told me the other electronics experts had also come and gone, pronouncing everything to be in good working order. The radar was not an absolute necessity, but it sure was nice to have, especially when operating in fog. Running either close offshore up the coastline, or along the Intercoastal waterway, we’d be encountering lots of traffic and the radar made it a breeze in limited visibility. The mechanic from Merrill-Stevens had also shown up and was busy removing the head from the bum engine. By three in the afternoon, he’d gotten all the bolts and various connections removed. I positioned a dock cart by the gangway and gave him a hand maneuvering the heavy cast iron head out of the engine room and up into the cart. He departed with the promise that the machine shop would start the overhaul the next morning.
I found Birgit up in the main salon watching a Discovery channel special on the television. “Hey, Jimmy. Everything ok? I’ve gotta tell you, the more I explore this yacht, the more I’m convinced that we need to stick to the waterway and forget about going offshore unless the forecast is for a flat calm. There’s tiles, mirrors and breakables everywhere on board. If this tub starts flexing in any kind of a sea there will be lots more stuff to repair.
I replied, “Yep, I’d already come to the same conclusion, but I’m glad you think so too. The Intercoastal will be slower, but we’re not under any rigid schedule. Besides, we’re collecting pay for each of us every day. We might as well enjoy it.”
That’s one thing has always puzzled me about most wealthy yacht owners. For the most part they seem only to really enjoy ownership of their vessels when docked in exotic ports of call and basking in the envy of lesser mortals who stand gazing at them from dockside. When it comes time to have the yacht moved on to the next port, unless it’s a really brief trip, many owners will leave that task to a paid crew and captain. Over the years, I’ve delivered many fancy yachts for their owners, and in many cases I’ve enjoyed use of the yacht for more days in a given year than the actual owner has. Plus, I’m getting paid for it!
“Now that everyone is gone for the day, I’m going down to the galley and fix us some appetizers and drinks. Want to join me on the upper deck and enjoy the sunset?”
“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” Birgit replied, adding, “I’ll meet you up there in a few minutes. This program is almost over.”
It was obvious that my idea was not a novel thought. When I joined Birgit on the sundeck with tumblers of Mount Gay rum on the rocks and a plate sporting a wedge of ripe Brie and crackers, similar tableaux were being repeated all over the marina on yachts large and small. As we settled into the navy blue canvas deck chairs, I said to Birgit, “I wonder what the poor people are doing. It doesn’t get any better than this in my book. What would you like for dinner? I thought I’d mosey on down the street and try to catch Desmond before Apex opens for business.”
“Why don’t you go ahead without me?” , Birgit replied. “I’m sort of in a nesting mood tonight. If you’re not going to be gone for hours and hours, can you pick us up a couple of media noches for supper? I’m just happy chilling out here.”
After we finished our cocktails, she headed back down below to watch television, and I took off to see if I could find Des. Club Apex was not yet open for business but persistent knocking on the door finally produced results. I recognized one of the usual bartenders and asked if Desmond was around yet. She looked at me closely, and said, “Oh, I know you. Come on in. Des is upstairs in the second room on the left, but we don‘t open until about ten.”
I headed up the stairs and found the Jamaican stretched out on a leather couch reading a book, “Hi Desmond, How’s it going?”
“Same old shit, different day, Mon! Whassup?”
“Hey, that was some awesome E the other night. I wondered if I might be able to buy some in quantity for cash. I’ve got a guy in New York that would love it. He does sound systems for raves and house music gigs, I’ve got about ten to spend.”
“Possibilities there, Mon. My source flies for one of the airlines, and never has her bags checked by Customs. How soon?”
“Probably not for at least twelve days or so if that’s ok? My girl and I are taking a big yacht up to New York for a client, but we‘re having some major work done on it before we can leave.”
Desmond gave me a big smile, and replied, “No worries, big guy. I’ll make some phone calls as soon as it’s morning over there. Just have the cash on hand early next week.”
I stopped on Lincoln road and picked up two of the cholesterol laden sandwiches called media noches for our supper. The name translates to midnight sandwich. They are made with butter, sliced ham, lechón asado (roast pork), and Swiss cheese pressed in a plancha (press) on Cuban sweet crusty bread. They are delicious, even though they are “heartstoppers”. Back aboard La Forza, Birgit and I finished them off in short order with a couple of Red Stripes and soon retired to christen the double bunk in the owner’s cabin with a hour of sweaty lovemaking before falling asleep.
The next week and a half passed by pretty much uneventfully. With the exception of the starboard engine, all systems on the yacht were in order. Merrill-Stevens was coming by in the morning to finish that job. Felipe had checked in by phone for a progress report the night before, and we were meeting up with Desmond at a trendy new eatery on Ocean Drive at noon to pick up the package from him. When he’d called us I’d offered to meet him at his apartment in Miami but his reaction to that had been emphatically negative. He’d said, “Jimmy, mon, I don’t flash da cash. I live in Overtown, and it’s not safe for folks like you to be wandering round down here any time of day or night.” I’d heartedly, and hurriedly, agreed with him to meet up here on the Beach later today.
I was up on the bridge emptying out an old briefcase and stuffing it with the cash we’d pass to Desmond when Birgit yelled up to me to come down to the galley. I headed down the companionway to find her with the freezer open, and lots of frozen packages wrapped in white butcher’s paper scattered around in the deck. One package marked as conch from Cat Cay, and dated the previous year, was partially unwrapped and sitting on the counter. Rubbing off the accumulated frost on the inner plastic covering revealed a solid white brick weighing about two pounds She said, “I thought I’d thaw out something to make for dinner tonight and that’s what I found among all the frozen stuff at the bottom of the freezer. I think all of these packages are where Felipe has hidden the coke, and boy is there a shitload of it!”
I thought for just a few seconds and replied, “Felipe is more clever than I gave him credit for. That’s somewhere no one would ever think to look, especially with all those on the bottom and our stuff on the top frozen solid. I don’t think DEA would ever find it unless someone tipped them off. Let’s put it all back the way it was. and head over to meet up with Des.”
We found a parking space on 15th. street off Ocean Drive and walked the short distance to the cafe where we were to meet up with Desmond. He was seated at one of the tables on the sidewalk chatting to one of the European models who’ve made the restaurant an unofficial hangout. The coffee shop offers current newspapers from around the world, fresh fruit with croissants, and excellent coffee. Lithe and leggy models congregate there each morning before heading off to photo shoots up and down the Beach.
As we approached, the young twenty-something woman stood up, saying goodbye to Desmond, and offered us chairs at the table with a dazzling smile. Ignoring me totally, my Rastafarian pal stood and pulled out a chair for Birgit, saying, “You brighten my day, pretty fraulein.” As I sat down and put the briefcase on the table in front of Des, he handed me a plastic drawstring bag with a logo from one of the Lincoln Road boutiques printed on the side. “There you go, Jimmy, direct from the old country. I’ll say goodbye to you young folks now. Time for this old Rasta to get to bed after a long night. Have a safe trip!”
We did not linger. I paid the bill on the table, leaving a generous tip, and we headed back to the marina. The mechanic from the machine shop was waiting for us on the dock. I gave him a hand with his stuff while Birgit took the bag full of capsules from Desmond down below to hide it away. By five o’clock the starboard engine was put back together, started up, and pronounced good to go. After a light supper on board, I called AJ and left a message on voicemail that we’d finally be leaving early the next morning.
At six am we started the engines to let them warm up, and got ready to depart. Getting underway when you are dealing with a large motor yacht is quite a bit more complicated than simply leaving the dock with a sailboat like Vamp. La Forza had telephone hookups, massive power cords to supply electricity, water supply, cable television, and more. All these had to be disconnected before we could leave, and the onboard diesel generator started up to keep all the electrical appliances operating. By seven we’d dropped all the dock lines and connections and were off headed North up the Intercoastal Waterway at six knots. With luck and not too much slowing down for traffic, we’d dock for the night by evening in a marina at Jupiter Inlet, some hundred miles away up the “ditch”.
The Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway extends for a thousand miles from Miami to Norfolk, Virginia. It offers a sheltered alternative to making a passage along the East coast offshore. For most of it’s length, it is a man made ditch maintained by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers There are a few places where it traverses natural bays and spots such as Albemarle Sound in North Carolina. It’s drawbacks are that your speed is carefully monitored by waterway law enforcement, and there are strict protocols that have to be followed such as “no wake” and bridge opening rules. I’d done the trip up the “ditch” many times before. The first time it was a novel adventure. On subsequent trips it was just like driving up interstate 95 on the highway, albeit with nicer scenery and far more interesting spots to stop for a night’s rest. The section from Miami to the Florida state line is heavily populated and there are lots of pleasure boat traffic and many fancy homes lining the shores. You have to take care that the wake from your vessel does not cause damage to docked boats or structures along the shore. Further up the waterway into Georgia, the Carolinas, and Virginia it gets far more rural in nature, wandering through vast marshlands and swamps. You can increase speed in those areas as long as you remain courteous when passing other pleasure craft and commercial traffic.
We’d gotten into Jupiter, Florida by sundown that first evening, tied up at a local marina, and had a pleasant dinner at a restaurant called the Lighthouse Inn on the inlet. La Forza had not given us any problems at all. Every system on board was functioning properly. The next eight days followed a familiar routine. We’d be underway by seven in the morning, either continuing up the Intercoastal, or ducking out into the Atlantic if the weather forecast was for a flat calm offshore. Mid afternoon on the ninth day found us navigating solely by radar in a thick fog in the approaches to New York harbor, carefully avoiding all the tankers and freighters heading in the same direction. I had my face buried in the rubber flanges of the radar screen viewer calling out course changes to Birgit, and she was at the wheel.
