Caribbean's Keeper Read Online Free PDF

weeks in the Florida Straits, working all hours of the day and night interdicting migrants in everything from homemade rafts to stolen power boats. Their near-daily interdictions were interspersed with the occasional search-and-rescue case that broke the monotony of law enforcement. The crew’s reward for their hard work was Key West for a night, maybe two at most, and only long enough to fill the ship’s tanks with diesel, replenish the food stores, and give the crew a night to blow off steam. The entire crew always worked at a furious pace to finish up the odds and ends of tying up, focused entirely on their first taste of alcohol, loud music, and debauchery that waited for them downtown.
    The truth was that Cole felt relieved to pass through the gate again, this time without the looming last call that always signaled his impending return to the ship. Once off the base, he made his way down Trumbo Road, right around a corner, and onto the wooden boardwalk that wrapped itself around Key West’s inner harbor. Most of the party catamarans were already gone for the day. So too were the dive boats, all making their way out to the reef overloaded with amateur divers and their rented gear. The charter flats boats floated quietly in smaller slips next to the boardwalk. Their captains, most devoid of expression, passed the time either sitting at the consoles with their tanned bare feet up on the wheel, or seated on benches along the boardwalk, watching and hoping silently for some business to materialize from the morning foot traffic.
    The boardwalk was slowly coming alive, but still quiet as most of Key West’s residents and visitors were asleep or at best slowly working their way to a state of low consciousness. The bartenders were busy cutting limes and lemons, and their bar staff carried cases of beer back and forth, filling up the ice chests before the start of another drinking day. Cole stopped briefly at Turtle Kraals to watch some tarpon swim under the dock and disappear into the depth of the basin before he continued on his way downtown.
    It was now approaching 11 o’clock and Cole’s seabag weighed heavy on his shoulder. His back wet with the onset of a good midday sweat, Cole realized he had nowhere to go. The sting of failure and the weight of the unknown once again grew heavy. Ahead was the open-air Schooner Wharf, an oasis of sorts, and Cole knew from experience that its rum drinks were always a good blend. Dropping his bag at the bar, Cole eased himself onto a heavy wooden stool and followed a seam of the wooden bar top with his fingers, his elbows pressed against the rail. Soon thereafter the bartender approached without a word, knowing from the expression on Cole’s face that he was there for business.
    “Rum and Coke please, with a lime.”
    The bartender, a slender older woman with a leathered face and unkempt hair, looked at him for a moment before replying with a coarse voice, “Honey, we call that a Cuba Libre around here.”
    Part biker chick and part hippie, she smiled as Cole acknowledged with a smirk, “I’ll have one of them as well then, please.”
    She brought his drink in a small white plastic cup and a wedge of lime rested atop the mountain of ice now stained dark with a bubbling blend of Coke and spiced rum. Cole squeezed the lime and drizzled its juice over the ice, stirring with his pointer finger. Taking a mouthful for his first sip, Cole held it for a moment, relishing the burn of rum and the fizzle of soda, before swallowing and setting the cup back down. Nearly a third of the drink was gone. He looked slowly over each of his shoulders, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of Key West. It had a certain charm to it, a mystery that never quite revealed itself until one was dizzy from drink and burned by the sun. All too often it came as a fleeting moment of clarity amidst a drunken haze, and was all but lost by the next sip. Key West’s allure was addictive and, with drink in hand,