Pappy and the Smugglers: The Grand Finale

When Pappy and the boys went to a Ft Myers Beach boatyard, and Pappy traded a cardboard box of twenty-dollar bills that smelled a lot like stale beer for a worn-out shrimp boat, Ronald Regan was president. Because South Florida and the rest of the nation were coming out of a recession and a big slump in the economy, and because dredging and filling mangroves was now illegal, Pappy decided to do something else that was illegal and make some smuggler money just like his daddy taught him in the old rum-running days from Cuba.

After plowing steadily through the Gulf, the Florida Straits, and then into the Caribbean Sea, Pappy and the boys from Marco, Goodland, and the Isles of Capri shut down the diesel aboard the battered shrimp boat that ironically wore the name: The Sheriff. When the rumble of the diesel was silent for the first time in many days, The Sheriff was rubbing against a dock next to a Reggae nightclub on a hot and steamy Caribbean island.

With Pappy and the boys nervous about their upcoming smuggling operation in the biggest city on the friendly island nation, Pappy jumped into a taxi and went to see the Chief of Police. Because Pappy had connections in Miami, the Police Chief was ready and waiting, and with the help of his deputies—in uniform—the Ft Myers Beach shrimp boat was soon loaded with enough bales of marijuana to fill a small warehouse. After a handshake on the dock and Bob Marley and the Wailers sounding out an anthem for the era, The Sheriff and the Southwest Florida boys headed back out to sea.

The weather was hot and still on the way down into the Caribbean, and on the way back, the forecast from the marine radio was calling for more of the same. Without the heat, the boys felt better at night. The stars had never been brighter. This was because The Sheriff was showing no running lights. The water was so flat and calm, Pappy started calling the open sea Star Soup because every glimmer from the stars was a visible reflection on the still surface of the water.

On the morning of day two—with a shrimp boat full of weed—the sunrise was no longer astern but coming up on the right side of The Sheriff. This was when the worrying about everything began to overwhelm the morale of the smuggling crew. The Caribbean Chief of Police had forecast this eventuality and called it “A lot of pressure on the mind.”

When the sun peaked over the mountains in Cuba, and the orange light began to spill over the chugging boat and the still water that was parting like a liquid mirror, there was no doubt the old diesel was rattling louder than ever. A steady plume of rising smoke was confirming trouble with the engine and the boys could not decide which was worse: the smoke signal that was showing engine problems or the smoke on the water that would be easy to see for miles. With the new stresses of the day screaming trouble, the three grown men in the wheelhouse who were beginning to feel like little boys saw the Cuban patrol boat at the same time.

There could be no mistake that the patrol boat was Cuban or military. The Communist vessel was a little bigger than The Sheriff and was easily over a hundred feet of well-guarded menace. The beaten hull on the little ship was a drab olive green, and where the Ft Myers Shrimper was offering The Sheriff, the communist vessel was showing a dull red star that was screaming the end of freedom for three smugglers from Marco, Goodland, and the Isles of Capri.

At first, the Cubans seemed to keep their distance. When they obviously changed course and began to come closer, Buddy from Goodland, who was the navigator, began swearing The Sheriff was in international waters and well offshore from the mountains in the sunrise.

With the dread onboard terrible, it was apparent the Cuban soldiers were only minutes away from boarding and taking prisoners when the third bilge pump—the one that had not been needed before—flickered into life as a red light in the wheelhouse. Now, there were three streams of water pumping to keep The Sheriff afloat.

The Cubans came on with a persistence that was painful, and when the little ship was very near, it was clear the patrol boat was far older and more battered than The Sheriff. When the Cubans were alongside, the rough-looking men aboard were sporting dark beards, green fatigues and Russian machine guns. Everyone in sight looked like Fidel Castro.

No one spoke until Pappy stepped out of the wheelhouse and began to motion the communists closer. When the two vessels were almost touching, Pappy launched into a stream of seemingly fluent Spanish that neither of the two other smugglers seemed to know anything about. After a few moments of apparently friendly banter, Pappy tossed four cartons of Marlboro cigarettes across to the Castro look-alike, who was the obvious ringleader. The man responded with a Cigar box that crossed between the two hulls before the Cubans throttled up and disappeared in a cloud of smoke that was even darker than the exhaust rising out of The Sheriff.

With the Cubans in the distance, the boys began to breathe again until they finally came alongside Key West and began to head toward Marco and Goodland. With a sliver of a crescent moon setting in the west, Pappy called on the marine radio and asked if there were any sharks out. When the reply came back quickly that “No sharks were in sight,” the boys nudged the shrimper as close as they could get to Coon Key and waited for the flotilla of small boats to come out and unload The Sheriff.

Pappy and the boys made the pot hauling runs many times, until they were no longer able to enjoy the southwest Florida lifestyle for an undisclosed amount of jail time. Apparently, buying houses with cash was not a good idea.