Caribbean's Keeper by Brian; Boland Read Free Book Online Page B

a prisoner on such a remote stretch of islands.
    As the cat approached the dock, Cole hopped over first and tied her off to several rusting cleats on a weathered wooden dock. Helping passengers off, he smiled and directed them towards the beach. Some brought snorkels and masks, others walked through the abandoned fort or took guided tours with the park rangers. Others were already drunk from the ride over and flopped themselves down on the sandy beach, happy to be on terra firma. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.
    Cole had a few hours to burn before the cat would head back towards Key West. He walked the quiet side of the island by himself and stopped at an open field littered with half-a-dozen homemade rafts. They were leftovers from Cuban migrants hoping to make landfall in the United States. To buck the Gulf Stream and end up west of Key West was quite a feat. Most had a crude engine, many from an old lawnmower or other small power equipment. The rafts were made of wood, plastic, Styrofoam, and even worn tractor tires. Each showed unappreciated craftsmanship. The vessels had been born out of the desire to escape communist poverty at any cost, and Cole admired the clever way the migrants had fashioned them. Cole walked past each of them, baking under the sun, awed by the fierce determination required to cast off from Cuba in the middle of the night, pointing straight at the northern darkness. All odds were against a successful landing. All too often, they were swept up by the Gulf Stream and never heard from again. Cole knew from first-hand experience that dehydration drove many insane and they simply rolled off their rafts to the circling sharks rather than face another hour of agony at sea. Some would fight among themselves and many would simply let death take them by the hand.
    He’d picked hundreds off of rafts just like these. Some had fought Cole, the fire still burning in their cores to reach American shores. Most though were too weak to resist and many more were glad to be rescued at sea. Their impending return to Cuba was never a good thought, but those who still cherished life knew that beatings and prison sentences at the hands of Cuban authorities were better than a slow and painful death at sea.
    Kevin walked up as Cole stood silent next to the sturdiest of the rafts.
    “Gotta wonder what they’re thinking to try something like this.” Kevin obviously shared Cole’s respect.
    “I’ve interdicted hundreds of these and I’m always amazed at their effort,” Cole responded, grabbing the rail of a raft with both his hands as if to give it a once-over before taking it out for a spin.
    “No one knows what to do with the rafts that end up here, so the park rangers just drag them up into the grass and they sit here for years,” said Kevin, who walked around to the other side of the raft and peaked underneath at the hull.
    Cole asked, “You ever see these on the trips between Key West and here?”
    Kevin replied, “Nah, I always figured you guys picked ʼem up before they made it this far north.”
    Cole laughed a bit out loud and answered back, “You’d be surprised, man. Most never make it in these things. We’d catch maybe half of them. A quarter might make it and the rest end up cooking under the sun. The ones that make it have enough money to pay a smuggler to pick them up in something fast.”
    Kevin looked Cole in the eyes and replied, “You don’t say.” He grinned just a bit as he said it.
    They walked back to the dock together. There was nothing more to say about the rafts. Just as he had as a boarding officer, Cole felt an immense respect for any human who would set off with his family in search of something better. Always focused on the law enforcement mission before, Cole allowed himself to look subjectively at the choice so many Cubans made to flee their homeland. The rafts pulled up on the beach of Fort Jefferson were just a fraction of a much larger and endemic problem. It seemed