The author wishes to assure the world that the characters portrayed herein are in no way connected with any other reality than my own.

Wm. Brunner Hardie

September 29, 1997

The full moon had made a trek more than halfway across the cloudless tropical night. Its brightness obscured all but the brightest stars. The moon had begun it's downward slide and in doing so burned a boulevard of light across the shallows of the Northern Bahamas Bank. The hotel on Walkers Cay afforded a breathtaking view at times like this. The view was not wasted on the four couples sharing the suite balcony.

They all are in their mid to upper thirties. All live in South Florida, and are all relatively well to do. They come from diverse backgrounds, but they share a common destiny. Unfortunately for me, I share in that destiny.

The four couples were each reclining in double chaise lounges, drinking in the picturesque view. They had also been drinking the local version of the Bahamas Smash. Each island has a variation on the same theme that consists of four or five different types of mega-proof liquor and coconut juice with a little citrus and mint. The alcohol taste was almost covered up in an explosion of flavor and sensation. A sensation that soon spread to encompass the entire being. If seen, the glow from the four couples would rival the moon's luminescence. Each couple was a picture of domestic comfort, each man and woman entwined in a full body embrace that was innocent enough in appearance, yet promising more in the way of intimacy.

Albert Wells learned how to make money by buying and selling garbage. He bought the franchise from a local 'family' and in return learned to use the business as a cover for illegal activity. Albert Wells didn't shrink from the concept of breaking laws, in fact he rose to the occasion. The 'family' soon found his talents to outreach his ability and offered to buy him out.

Albert and Beverly Wells moved to south Florida where he set up shop as a retired business man. He took flying lessons, found he had a knack for flying, and bought an airplane. He seemed, to anyone watching, to be the fairly typical retired rich guy.

Al's real business interests lay in the import/export arena. Primarily, he imported cocaine to the United States and exported money to the Bahamas.

Cocaine shipments into the United States are of two sizes, generally, large and small. The large shipments are an attempt at success in a one time gambit. This minimizes the chances of being caught by eliminating patterns of activity that may become suspect. The small shipments are an effort to feed a constant market in an orderly manner. Al liked things to be businesslike. If things didn't go his way, he was used to resorting to very non-businesslike methods to assure compliance to his point of view.

Al had also decided that the risk of large shipments of cocaine, though minimized to a single occurrence, unfortunately required a large amount of activity generated from a single point. This tended to enlarge the chance of word getting out about the delivery. Al had lost some large chunks of change due to such leaks, and although he personally dealt with the individuals responsible, he sought a way to guarantee a scheduled, prompt delivery system for his product.

He didn't think of the death he dealt as cocaine, he viewed it as a commodity to be bought and sold in the marketplace. It didn't bother him that he dealt with a black market. All he cared about was the money and power it brought him. Dealing in the black market also, from time to time, allowed him to release his sadistic side. He enjoyed dealing personally in 'wet work', when it was called for. Albert Wells was the kind of person that took joy from extinguishing life. He got a peak of sexual excitement from being the last thing in the eyes of his victim.

Beverly, Al's young and attractive wife, was unaware of Albert's business side. All she knew was from growing up on the lower East side of New York City, and she felt lucky to have a man that provided for her and kept a roof over her head. His sexual needs didn't seem to be unreasonable, and she put up with his advances and desires. As long as he was satisfied, she was happy. She never realized, over the years they were married, that she never, really, satisfied Al in the way he needed satisfaction. To Al, she was merely a warm, moist tunnel into which he masturbated from time to time.

The longer Al stayed in south Florida, the more he recognized the need to explain his growth of income. His 'family' connections, when buying him out of the garbage franchise had set him up with an account in a Florida bank, Gold Coast National. There he met David Clark.

In fact, David Clark saw to it personally that he met Albert Wells. David owned the bank, and when he was told of the size of deposit made by Albert Wells' 'family' he promptly decided that he needed to meet such a wealthy depositor. David didn't know much about banking, but he recognized when someone entrusted him with an amount of money in seven figures. He was so excited by the idea, he couldn't wait to tell his wife Denise.

David and Denise Clark lived in Miami. He was a transplant Floridian whose family came to Florida on vacation while he was still a child and decided to stay. His father purchased a small bank and parlayed it into an empire of banks spread across all of the coastal southern states; GoldCoast National Bank, NA. It managed to give him the income he wanted and a relatively early grave. David inherited the bank and discovered how sweet life could be.

His father had been very efficient. In both his private and business lives. He had set up the bank so that it didn't really need his attention. Following his death, the profit statement didn't show a sign of wavering from forecast performance.

As a result, David found that the bank operated quite well without his direction or advice. The few times he made suggestions, the response reminded him of the chastisement of a child. The suggestion was discreetly made that perhaps David would be better suited to accepting pay vouchers and pursuit of the leisure time activities of the extremely rich.

That suited him fine. He was provided with an income that allowed him the freedom he had never known growing up. He met Denise in high school and married her shortly after graduation from Florida State, in Tallahassee. She had gone to school in Gainesville but they had managed to stay in love in spite of their respective alma maters.

He had never paid attention to Denise's friends, since they all disagreed with him when it came to football. All of them were ignored, that is, except for Rodney Wyndham. It seemed to David that Rod was always ready with a buoying comment, supportive attitude, or advice. David appreciated that. Few knew how little grasp of business David really had. Rod knew. David didn't realize it, but Rod took advantage of David's business ignorance on a daily basis.

Albert Wells didn't know all of this when he first met David, but it didn't take long before he did. He realized that David's bank was relatively safe, but it couldn't provide the cover he needed for the cash influx. Investigations by Al turned up Rodney Wyndham in a couple of dozen shady deals that ended up costing the bank money, while netting Mr. Wyndham a tidy sum for each occurrence. Albert Wells decided that while David might be a useful puppet, there could be a definite asset hidden in Rodney Wyndham.

Rodney and Carol Wyndham lived in Fort Lauderdale. He was an investment counselor and she, a leisure-time woman. He worked short hours for a large amount of money, and she spent her time trying to spend money faster than he can make it. She was outmatched and that suited her fine. The more the merrier, and the knack he showed for gleaning future trends and opportunities allowed him to work for a chosen few clients that paid dearly for the privilege of letting Rod play with their money.

He did done well enough to allow him to pay off his house, cars, and gives Carol more than enough spending money. She spent her slow days lounging by the pool in their spacious back yard and her fast days were spent in shopping sprees and coffee klatches with her small group of friends, almost as exclusively chosen as her husbands clients. Her closest friend was Denise Clark. Most of Carol's time was spent by the pool, and while there, she was accompanied by Denise.

To look at the two of them, they would appear as sisters. Both, in their early forties, were surprisingly fit for their apparent lack of activity. They both retained the figures that made them so desirable starting in high school, which was where they first met, on a double date. Their friendship had become sealed that evening as the two couples made love in a single motel room with two twin double beds. The friendship became intimate the next night. Denise was spending the night with Carol and after everyone else had gone to bed, they began discussing the sexual adventure of the previous night.

Their talk excited them again, and before they knew it, they were exploring each others body. They learned that night that making love with someone of the same sex could be exciting, and rewarding. Neither of them wanted to make a steady diet of lesbian love, but an adventure from time to time was fun.

After dating through graduation, both Rod and Carol attended the University of Miami. She majored in general subjects, he in business administration. It was where he discovered his knack for recognizing a good financial opportunity when he saw it. He took a job with GoldCoast National Bank, NA, and worked there investing the bank's money. It didn't take him long to figure out that the millions of dollars he made for the bank showed up in his bosses pockets as six and seven figure bonuses every year, while it showed up in his pocket as a fifty dollar bonus. Soon, he was investing his money along side of the banks and it wasn't long before he had enough money to set himself up in business.

With a perverse sense of humor, Rod made it a point to get close to David Clark. Since leaving the bank, he had seduced several large bank clients away to his personal tutelage. He knew that David had no idea of Rod's business background, nor any idea of what went on inside his own bank. He found it ironic that he had to work so hard for money and David had it handed to him.

With the attraction that a moth has to flame, Rod was drawn into a relationship with David. Rod had a basic dislike for David, but had no other reason for spending time with him other than to see David fuck something up.

Albert Wells knew there would be a value in someone with little sense of honor, and a large amount of greed. He arranged a meeting with Rodney Wyndham, independent of David Clark, and dangled the bait of large commissions in front of Rod. With more enthusiasm than a bonefish off of Great Sale Cay, Rod snapped at the bait and ran.

Rod came up with the idea of vacationing in the islands, in part, as a method of securing business from Albert Wells. Even though Wells looked a little rough around the edges, Rod knew, there was money there. He convinced David to talk with Wells about the trip to the islands.

It hadn't taken much to convince Al to make the first trip to the Bahamas. He had other reasons for wanting to go. A "cousin" of his had been expected to protect Al's interests and Al discovered him undertaking a little business on the side. Al had to clean up after him, as usual. His business schedule fit neatly into the island vacation, so he agreed. David and Rodney had originally been just planning on Richard's boat, but readily took Al up on the offer to make the plane available. In their journey around the islands, Al found all the loose pieces he needed to finish his business. The next three or four weeks of exploring the islands were intended to be pure vacation for him.

Beverly lay next to him thinking back on the memories's still fresh from her exposure to the islands. Al very rarely mentioned his work to her, and never took her on a business trip, rare as they were. She was just happy to be here, even if he did go off in his plane surveying.

She looked at the trips in the boat as a free addition to the fact that she was in the islands. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to view this place from the air. It appeared to her that the full impact would only be enjoyed by traveling on the surface, so you could experience the clear water and vivid coloration of the native flora.

She also wondered about experiencing some of the things that she and Cynthia had talked about. Cynthia had told her of sometimes that she and Richard had "partied" with some of their closer friends. Beverly almost wished Al were feeling romantic, to take advantage of the tingling of desire she felt.

Richard and Cynthia Crutchmore were the newcomers in the group. They recently moved from southern California to south Florida. They leased a penthouse condo in Palm Beach. Richard had a relative that had purchased some beach-front property in Malibu, in the thirties, for a song. When the relative died, the property and the home thereon, were bequeathed to Richard. He, in turn, sold the property and, even with the tax laws the way they are, netted over seven million dollars. Upon reaching south Florida he purchased a boat dealership that specialized in all kinds of boats, sail and power but was known for large, luxury power yachts and blue water sailing vessels.

In the course of running his business, Richard met Rod and had convinced him to begin investing Richard's money. Both became wealthier from the agreement and developed a friendship. Richard talked about cruising the Bahamas and Rod suggested that they make a group of it.

It was Richard's boat tied up in the marina, down the hill. He had been following the plane, taking those that didn't wish to fly. During most of the trip Rod and Dave flew with Al, leaving Richard with the four women. It wasn't the cruise that Richard had imagined, but in looking at the crew of attractive young women, he didn't care.

Richard and Cynthia, enjoying the southern California lifestyle to its fullest, learned to enjoy the extensive pleasures available through various approaches to lifestyle. Both had 'dabbled' in homosexual acts separately, and then later, in group efforts. They were fervently in love with each other, and felt that sexual release is just another physical need to be met, much like lunch removing hunger.

The two lovers also learned of the pleasures of visual sex. Voyeuristic exploration had resulted in the installation of mirrors on the walls and ceiling of their bedroom. Later, they had mirrors installed on the ceiling of the screened in deck surrounding the pool. The mirrors were a great hit at the next neighborhood orgy.

Richard and Cynthia missed living in souther California. They had hopes for the same approach to lifestyle in moving to Florida, but upon arrival, found the state far more conservative than they had expected. Finding themselves an island of sexual permissiveness in an ocean of puritan attitudes, they almost despaired of enjoying the freedom of sexual exploration, until they noticed the lack of clothing being worn by many of those cruising up and down the concrete ditch between Palm Beach and Fort Lauderdale, known as the Intracoastal Waterway. There was hope after all.

While the exotic tropical night was lost on Al, the other three couples took full advantage of the situation. It wasn't long before Rod and Carol and David and Denise were hot and heavy, much like their earlier dates in college.

Richard and Cynthia noticed the action heating up. They rolled over to watch, grinning at each other. At this time, Al turned to Beverly, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding sexual encounter, and told her he was ready for bed. As he got up and went into their room, Beverly turned and looked at the other three couples, each involved in their own sexual trip, and hurried after Al. Richard watched them go, thinking about how much fun Beverly would be in bed, and then ran a trail of kisses down Cynthia's body to her pubic hair.

Beverly got to the bedroom a few moments behind Al. She found him standing by the bed, naked, his excitement obvious, erect between his legs. His foreplay was minimal. As soon as she dropped her light, transparent robe, he threw her on the bed, wedged himself between her legs, found her opening and rammed himself into her.

Beverly noticed that it didn't hurt anywhere near as much this time and was beginning to feel the tingling that signaled the start of an orgasm when Al groaned, his body tensed, and she felt him spurting into her. He stopped his thrusting and rolled off of her, spent, and went to sleep. Beverly would have shot him if she knew where he kept the gun. She looked at him for a few seconds, sighed, and rose from the bed. She made her way across the moon speckled floor and peeked through the window at the scene on the balcony.

Carol and Rodney were acting like newly-weds, making love with a fury unmatched. David was on his back with Denise astride him, the two of them locked in a fevered duet of oral sex. Cynthia was on her hands and knees, Richard on his knees behind her, thrusting slowly into her. The two of them were watching David, Denise, Rodney and Carol.

None of them knew that Beverly was inside, watching them. She looked back toward Al, already snoring, and turned back to the scene on the balcony. She leaned her head against the window frame and began rubbing herself with both hands, reaching for the orgasm she needed so badly. When it came she started mewing and her knees shook so much she thought she would fall, but she kept rubbing furiously until the orgasm subsided.

The six on the balcony heard her, among the sounds they were all making, and recognized the sound for what it was but each assumed that Al was just too conventional to make it in public. They continued with their orgy until they all obtained satisfaction, and fell asleep. By this time, Beverly had recovered and gotten back into bed next to Al. 'He wasn't so bad', she thought, but she wished he knew a little more about what it took to satisfy a woman. She went to sleep to the sound of the lovemaking on the balcony still ringing in her ears.

The party on the balcony continued until each couple collapsed against themselves, satisfied, exhausted. They slept in the gathering darkness of the tropical moon approaching the glistening horizon. The breeze swept softly across the balcony, keeping the temperature cool enough to sleep comfortably, nude, in the waning moonlight.

Roughly fifteen miles toward the southeast, just off Double Breasted Cay, it appeared that the moon had already touched the horizon and continued rapidly to disappear. Anchored there were two sailboats. Both contained couples. Both had arrived ten days before with a larger group of sailboats making a whirlwind tour of as many islands as possible. These two boats had split from the main group earlier and had made their way to this anchorage

They had arrived in the early afternoon. Upon arrival and successful anchoring, they had met, by dinghy, on the beach and relaxed with picnic baskets and coolers to swim, dine, watch the sunset. That was followed by a short walk across the island to watch the moon rise over the Atlantic. Their evenings activities progressed much the same as the group up on Walkers including the erotic adventures, although these were much more expanded in scope. The only exception to the Walkers group's approach was the addition of marijuana and cocaine. The two sailing couples smoked to heighten their erotic sensation and snorted to extend their staying power.

Their boats were small by comparison to most boats visiting the islands. They didn't need to be large, since they only crewed two people each, but that meant that their carrying capability was limited. This was important to the two skippers as the next evening they were to add another five hundred pounds each to the payload they already carried. They had discussed at length how much further in the water that would make their boats float. Each had wanted to try for a thousand pounds each but that was half the total weight of the boats, and would have been made more dangerous by the way that kind of load would have affected the handling and sailing abilities of the boats. It was bad enough to have to avoid customs and law enforcement upon reentry into the states. If they got caught, they'd spend time in jail. By overloading their boats, if anything went wrong, they'd be dead.

This was to be the last trip for each couple. They had made this trip every year, on annual vacation, for the last five years. The first time back, they didn't run any drugs, they figured out how to pull it off. They didn't intend to smuggle until they got caught, just until they had squirreled away enough money to buy a true live-aboard vessel capable of making long distance voyages. They all dreamed of moving aboard a sailboat and taking off into the world. They realized that by working at their jobs it would take almost two decades to get the cash needed to do what they wished. They were young, in their early twenties, and were impatient. They had figured out a way to hit the fast track, cash in early, and get out clean. It was risky, but the payoff, they figured, was worth it.

The plan was to cruise over with a larger group, split early toward other islands, pick up the stuff in complete solitude, meet up with the group and sail back with them. Anyone unaware of the plan wouldn't notice what was going on. If anyone was aware without knowing who was involved would be unable to pick out the participants. The way they intended to reenter the States almost totally precluded their apprehension. They had done this four times and each time it worked perfectly. The first time had been a dry run, but each successive time had gone like clockwork. By the time they had to deal with customs, the boat was clean and they had no problems clearing in.

The second and third trips had been with marijuana, and the last trip Lonnie had convinced them their investment would pay more dividend if they invested in Cocaine. Each time had provided them with a large sum of money. This time would prove to be as lucrative since the street price of good blow had started to skyrocket due in large to the diligence of the authorities at the main entry points. They would clear enough on this trip, along with the proceeds of the earlier trips, to purchase the boats they wished, fill them with provisions, and keep them going for the next ten years. These two couples figured that at the end of the money they could come up with something else to do for their finances.

The moon continued westward. After it had disappeared from view of both islands, the stars burst through the black night sky in the thousands. Between the small groups on each island, one by one, each came out of their respective stupors to notice the brilliant display of nature and then pass out again until after the sun had risen over the Atlantic.

At Double-Breasted Cay, the birds were the first to stir. Their early morning cries began a symphony of bird calls. This was joined soon by the buzz of insects seeking warm blood. The couples on the beach gathered their items into their dinghies and escaped to their boats at anchor, thousands of feet away from the hoard of bloodthirsty bugs, protected by the distance and the ever present breeze. The couples on the balcony escaped into their respective rooms, protected by hermetic seals and air conditioning set at sixty five degrees.

As the sun rose higher, each of the four couples slept in their relative comfort. Each of them would rise around noon, hung over to varying degrees and each with their own particular remedy. Except that Beverly slept alone. Al had risen early and taken the plane further south. He would return before anyone had missed him, and he took advantage of that to work on some business. He met with one of his local business associates and arranged to be included in the meeting that night. His cousin was the one meeting with the two couples from the sailboat. He had been skimming pounds of cocaine off the top of shipments he managed for Al's business. Al had discovered this and was here to make amends. It was his job. It was his business.

For the four couples at Walkers, it was another in a seemingly endless series of perfect days in Paradise. They had been here four weeks and had another three to go. The two couples at Double-Breasted were looking at their final two days in the islands. They had heard the day before, on the VHF radio, several of their group. They hadn't contacted their traveling companions as they themselves were supposed to be further south than they actually were. The plan wouldn't accept anyone knowing they were this far north in the islands. Not yet.

The couples on the sailboats spent the day swimming, snorkeling, and rearranging the interiors of their boats contents. As the sun began it's downward slide to the west, the two sailboats raised anchor and made their way closer to Walkers, by way of Grand Cay. The anchorage at Grand would be where they would take on their illicit cargo. They would spend the better part of the evening stowing the stuff, and then covering it up. The cover would only pass a casual inspection, but that was all it was expected to do, they didn't intend to let anyone close enough to actually see what they were carrying. By mid afternoon they had anchored in the agreed meeting place and waited for another postcard sunset to occur.

On Walkers, as the sun began to set, the four couples were scrubbed fresh dressed in clothing direct from the hotel laundry. They were also feeling no pain. Their hangover cures mostly stemmed from the 'hair of the dog' school, and had spent the day in a light, but definite, alcoholic haze. They gathered at the floating dock in the marina and waited for the courtesy boat from Tia Maria's, over on Grand Cay.

It is almost a requirement, when visiting Walkers Cay, to dine at least once at Tia Maria's. No one knows where she came up with the name for the restaurant. It was an odd name to find in the predominantly British influenced islands. The owner, a chubby woman black as can be, going by the name of Libby, adamantly refused to discuss the origin of the name. All anyone knew was that the bar served potent drinks and the kitchen served seafood delights of culinary ecstasy in an environment of rustic localism. All this was for a price, but if you can travel in the Bahamas, staying at places like Walkers Cay, you can, theoretically, afford such things. Libby made a good living from the place, but it wasn't her prime source of income.

Due to its high level of poverty, and remoteness from the mainstream of officialdom in the islands, Grand Cay was ripe for under the table operations. Most of the activity went overlooked, again for a price, and life proceeded undisturbed. The money that came into the island from the various criminal activities made the poverty less oppressive so the local residents were happy. The officials were happy to overlook any indiscretions, for their fees, as long as no one got hurt. The controlling factions for the activities were happy to pay any fees or prices if the amounts didn't become too excessive. Since the dollars involved remained constant everyone was happy. No one wished to disturb a good thing.

Some activities, like the cocaine smuggling, were controlled from places like Miami, New York, or Newark. Other activities, like turtle or lobster harvesting, were handled on a local level since the dollars weren't as numerous. Libby made use of the local harvesters for her restaurant. The turtle and lobster were fresh and the tourists bought them by the bushel. Her son drove the courtesy boat back and forth from Walkers and knew the local waters like the back of his hand. This was useful to the other half Libby's enterprises. He would, when shipments of drugs were to be distributed to runners, often make runs from the freighter to the individual boats. The courtesy boat was mostly fiberglass and was quiet for the two large outboard engines pushing it. At night, it was hard to hear and harder to detect. When Libby's son, Peter, was driving, there was never a hitch, never an accident.

The four couples watched as Peter pulled the courtesy boat up to the floating dock. They boarded, along with another six people and Peter drove out of the marina. He fairly coasted around the end of the breakwater and when he was clear, fire walled the throttles. The boat stood up on her propellers, shot forward and landed level on a plane, going about forty five miles an hour. Peter stood at the wheel, face into the wind, piloting the boat effortlessly across the shallows of this part of the northern Bahamas Banks. It was easy for him since he had been driving the route almost daily since he was big enough to see over the windshield and grab the wheel.

He drove the boat across the direct route to Grand Cay, in disdain of the longer route that guaranteed deeper waters. He knew where every shoal and coral head was between the two Cays. He knew Burying Places Rocks like no one else. He always included a few thrills for the unsuspecting guests. Racing through the area of the rocks, he would pass close by several exposed, ugly-looking rocks at the continued, break-neck speed. He would leave the rocks within feet of the sides of his boat, knowing that he and the boat, and consequently the passengers, were safe and that usually most of them had no idea how safe they truly were. Besides, it was good practice for his other runs.

His finale for the trip into Grand Cay was to pass between two low and exposed rocks that gave him two feet of clearance on either side of his vessel. At forty five miles an hour, with an obvious side drift in the current, he always hit the gap between the two rocks in dead center. On one of his other runs, it came in handy as he was being pursued by a DEA interceptor boat. In the darkness the DEA vessel either didn't see the rocks, or misjudged the distance between them. Anyhow it exploded less than fifty yards behind Peter's boat. Peter had used other shoals with equal but less spectacular results. He had caused pursuers to loose props, rudders and even an occasional dry grounding, but he had never had one explode. That event, and previous failures in the area had caused the DEA to move their operation of interception to other, less costly facets of the routes.

Upon arrival at the dock at Tia Maria's, Peter tied up the boat and assisted the ladies, and some of the men, off the boat. As the four couples were the first to board, they were the last to disembark. Peter assisted each woman, each as attractive as the other, he assessed his odds with each of them. Beverly was last onto the dock, followed by Al. Peter assisted her by holding her hand with one of his own and, while hiding it from Al with his body, placing his other hand on her butt and pushing lightly. When he touched her, she responded slightly by slowing, causing him to exert more pressure than he intended. He could tell she wasn't wearing panties beneath the short mini-skirt.

As she left the boat Peter turned to Al. The two men locked eyes briefly and an almost imperceptible nod was exchanged, then Al left the boat. He was almost abrupt in his exit and Peter watched him and the rest of his party as they walked up the dock and entered the restaurant. He wondered if he could figure out a way to lift the skirt of the last lady. Then he went on up to the bar where he availed himself of the facilities and available concoctions.

He had until this group had been served before he had to make the run back to Walkers to pick up the next shift of diners. By arriving with another boat load of customers before the previous group had completed had the effect of making those eating subconsciously hurry through the rest of their meal. It assisted Libby in her operation by turning it into a factory. She required reservations via marine radio-telephone no between three and five in the afternoon. Peter would begin his nightly runs by arriving in Walkers at precisely seven and would make three or fours runs a night, depending upon the number of reservations. The controlling of eating times for the first and subsequent shifts of diners was easy by the method used. The last shift required a change in technique.

Shortly after his arrival back at the dock from delivering the previous group at Walkers, Peter would amble down the dock, drink in hand, singing off key and loose in his movement. The diners inside had a perfect view of him through the picture windows that made up the outer walls of the dining room. On a signal from Libby, Peter would chug the remains of his drink and holler for a waitress. One would bounce down the dock with a refill, followed by every eye in the dining room. Peter rarely had to holler twice before he had a boat load, ready for the trip.

His drinks contained no alcohol, but the diners didn't know that. He was good at acting drunk because these nightly runs gave him good exposure to how drunks act. The drinks served to the diners were as strong as any in the islands and always had an effect. Peter never drove the boat when drunk. He couldn't afford to. Doing so could cause accidents to happen and the overall existence of the operations depended on a clear history. All the diners knew was that Peter made the return trip the same way as the first one, except the two rocks were passed shortly after leaving the harbor. The surprise of the two rocks passing so close by made the rest of the trip anti-climatic so that upon arrival at the dock on Walkers, most of the passengers were calm again.

The four couples had arrived with the last group and were leaving the dining room when Al feigned interest in a video game in the bar. He hadn't been drinking like the rest of the group, unknown to them. Libby had been serving him the same drinks she had been Peter. Beverly tried to pry him away from the machine, but he refused. He told her that he had tipped Peter to drive him back later and urged her to accompany the others back to the hotel. She was torn, but seeing Peter seemingly trip on the dock, decided that it might be safer if she went ahead, but she continued to worry about Al. She worried needlessly.

The four couples, minus the burly New Yorker, arrived back at Walkers safely. The trip had been one of Peters usual, perfect deliveries. After tying up the boat, he assisted the passengers ashore. Usually those returning from Tia Maria's needed more help getting out of the boat then those arriving, due to the bartender at the restaurant. As he helped the four women out of the boat, he repeated his earlier action of steadying them with a discreet, subtle massage to the rump.

Beverly didn't notice the other women getting the same treatment or she wouldn't have lingered again, this time longer, enjoying the feel of the firm hand pressed against her behind. As she moved off the boat, Peter squeezed her cheek a little harder. She turned to face him but he had already begun to untie the boat. Beverly felt flushed. She knew her cheeks must be red from receiving attention like that in public. She watched as Peter drove the boat out of the marina, then listened as he fire walled the boat for the return trip.

She stood there, listening until the sound of the powerful outboards disappeared into the night. Carol, Denise, and Cynthia had waited for her and the four of them made their way up the hill to the hotel. As they passed the outside bar next to the pool, they saw Rodney, Richard and David, working over more smashes and joined them. It was to be another typical night in paradise for the group.

By the time Beverly had been served her drink, Peter had returned to Grand Cay. He and Al boarded the boat and sped away into the darkness. After Peter had blasted out of the bay onto the flats, he slowly ran the throttles back to just above idle, turning the boat away from Walkers, instead of toward the resort island. The moon had risen enough to provide ample light for seeing. He reached down into the console and removed a package that he handed to Al, who received it wordlessly. The package contained a Baretta nine millimeter semi-automatic with a fully loaded clip. Al checked the load, then pulled the slide back and released it, charging the chamber. He made sure the safety was on then shoved the gun into his waistband, covering it with his shirttail.

A few miles ahead of them, the two sailboats were rafted together. The boats and the crews were as ready as they could get. All they needed now was the signal from the shore, then they would take in the dinghies, and begin the ferry work of loading the cargo of illicit powder. Jake Bronson, the skipper of the twenty seven footer, felt a little nervous. He had a right. They were about to transfer an entire shoe box full of cash for a pile of cocaine. There were people who frowned on such activities. The people involved in such transactions often were skittish and always carried weapons. He and his partner, Frank Hyde on board the twenty five footer, were stateside liberals and didn't believe in guns. All they had between them was a Swiss army knife, but they had dealt with their contact four times already and he had proved to be easy enough to deal with. The lagoon they were in was isolated and unpopular to the cruising clans as the entrance was shallow, unmarked, and uncharted. They would have no unwelcome company this evening.

Jake was watching the mangrove tangles when he saw the faint green glow of the signal. He and Frank stepped into their dinghies and began to row in. They had agreed to avoid using the outboard kickers to keep the noise level down. Their crews, two sisters of remarkable stature and similarity, waited patiently aboard the twenty seven footer. The women didn't care about the business being conducted. All they knew was that these two guys had money to spend on them, sailboats, and access to exotic places, not to mention exotic drugs. The sex was pretty spectacular as well. The girls, Kim and Kam Scheaffer, also knew of their skippers plans and saw no problem in tagging along for the duration. Both had become decent sailors in the past few years, and neither had to stand long watches, so they were happy. Jake and Frank were happy as well. They got strikingly attractive to women to hang around and put up with the inanity of their repetitive rhetoric and contradictory philosophies.

The two men ignored any harm that would be caused by their importation of cocaine. All they thought about was the result of a successful campaign. They saw drug usage as a personal decision. If someone wished to use substances for perception alteration it was their own, personal business. Jake and Frank saw it as no skin off their respective noses. Besides, they used coke and pot from time to time and it caused them no problems. Buyer Beware.

The two inflatable dinghies approached the small beach clearing in the mangrove tangles. The insects buzzed incessantly in their ears, kept away only by the liberal usage of industrial strength insect repellent. The nose of Jake's dinghy rubbed into the firm, fine sand of the beach. There was no sign of man ever having visited this place, a lonely paradise on earth. Jake and Frank pulled the inflatable boats beyond the high water line and waited. Soon they heard a light rustling in the underbrush, then the figure of their contact, Lonnie, came into view. They shook hands without speaking. Jake picked up the box of cash and opening the lid, showed the contents to Lonnie. They could see the flash of light reflecting from his teeth in the darkness when he smiled.

Lonnie turned and walked back into the brush, motioning for the two men to follow. They followed a faint path for about fifteen yards when they came upon a clearing in the underbrush. Stacked in the middle of the clearing, visible in the rising moonlight, were five hundred packages each about twice the size of a VHS video tape. Jake handed the shoe box to Lonnie, they shook hands again and Lonnie left the clearing by fading into the underbrush with the box tucked under his arm. In seconds he was gone and out of mind. Jake picked up a package and checked it.

The cocaine was packaged and then wrapped in plastic, sealed to avoid damage from too much humidity. Jake didn't check the contents. He knew it would be good. He and Frank started carrying the packages, ten each at a time, back to the dinghies. It took twenty five trips back to the clearing before their cargo was stacked on the beach. It would take five trips each in the little boats to move the cargo out to the sailboats. They made so much noise while performing their labors that they failed to hear what went on less than twenty feet from the clearing.

Al and Peter faded through the underbrush silently. Peter had beached the boat on a little spit of sand about five hundred yards from the exchange clearing about two hours before the meeting took place. He watched his "cousin", Lonnie, stack the cocaine in the clearing, then watched him bring his clients up and make the exchange. As Lonnie faded into the underbrush, Al waited until Lonnie was close enough then stepped out from behind the palm tree directly in Lonnie's face. Lonnie was so startled he dropped the box. Out of it spilled a large amount of cash, and a jar of cocaine.

Al grabbed Lonnie around the throat with one hand and shoved the barrel of the Baretta into Lonnie's gaping mouth with the other. Al spoke in a whisper. His tone was even, betraying no emotion. "Lonnie, the auditors finally caught up with you. This is stupid, do you realize this?"

Lonnie wanted to shake his head up and down vigorously but was restrained to a slight bobbing due to the gun in his mouth. Al went on. "I was told to come down here and clean up the mess. Lonnie, you and I have always been friends and I hate to have to do anything ugly, understand?" Another bob of the head. "Good. Now, I'm gonna take the gun out of your mouth. Don't try anything funny or I'll kill you and you know that, don't you?" Lonnie nodded as Al removed the gun from his mouth. He started to breathe again as Al released his throat.

"How long you been skimming?" Al asked, his voice still a whisper. Lonnie started to blurt an answer, but Al clamped his hand over his mouth, "Quiet, we don't want to disturb your customers." Lonnie nodded and Al removed the hand. Al could detect the odor rising up from where Lonnie had lost control of his bladder.

"I didn't mean no harm. I didn't think . . . " Lonnie whispered hoarsely.

"That's right, you didn't think." Al interrupted. "How long."

"For about two years, maybe three. I just wanted a little spending cash. I wasn't taking much. Just a little action on the side. I didn't mean no harm . . . "

"I understand. You think you want more money. Are these guys your only customers?" Lonnie nodded. "How much you been getting for a haul from them?"

"Twenty grand. I told you it wasn't much." Twenty grand for five hundred keys of prime Columbian blow. It was a rip-off. Al's business was losing a half a million dollars from Lonnie's indiscretion. "Okay, don't worry about it, I'll talk to the home office and see what I can do to get you more money. Meantime, you cut this out, or I'll have to do something I don't want to do." Lonnie looked relieved.

Al told Lonnie to pick up the box and give it to Peter. He gathered up the loose bills and the container of coke, placing them back in the box and handing it to the younger man. Peter left with the box, casting a longing look at the large pile of cocaine bricks, headed for the boat. Lonnie watched him leave and when Peter was out of sight, he turned to Al to speak. When he saw the swinging machete, he tried to scream, but was too late. The blade severed Lonnie's head cleanly from his body. Al stepped back quickly as the head bounced to the jungle floor. Lonnie's headless torso stood there for a couple of seconds, pumping blood from cleanly severed arteries, waiting for commands from a brain that was now disconnected and finally slumped to the ground. Al listened for a second. All he could hear was the sound of the two sailors grunting and panting over their loads. He pulled a plastic trash bag out of his pocket and placed the head in the bag, holding it by the hair, to avoid the blood that still dripped from the abbreviated neck. Al followed Peter's path back to the boat, the grisly package back over his shoulder.

When Peter dropped Al off at Walkers, he returned to Grand Cay. This guy had paid him off with the contents of the box. Peter spent the ten minute trip back trying to figure out how to avoid giving all the money to Libby. He failed, losing the money to her even though he managed to keep the cocaine. She gave him a real drink when he dropped off the box. That was his reward. Libby was pleased as it was twice as much as she would have gotten from Lonnie for helping him. She understood about the trouble Lonnie had gotten in and figured he probably wasn't going to be back. No big loss. She sat in the deserted dining room and counted and stacked the money. Over the table she where she sat was a poster. The poster depicted an expensive Italian sports car. It was parked in a mountain scene, snow covering everything but the car. The rear bumper of the car sported a sticker that said "Things are better with Coke". The license was a vanity tag that read "DEALER". Another night in paradise.

After Al left the courtesy boat, he walked up the dock to Richard's Bertram. He swung over the rail into the cockpit where he opened the large, refrigerated bait locker. He deposited a shapeless bundle into the locker and then sealed it with a lock. He walked back up to the hotel and joined the group at the outdoor bar. Beverly was relieved to see him, then she passed out. He carried her back to their room and laid her on the bed. He looked down at her, the excitement of having killed translating into sexual energy. He couldn't resist. It was too bad Beverly was unconscious. If she had been awake, she might have enjoyed several orgasms. As it was, she lay passively, while Al performed oral sex on her until her body responded at a subconscious level. He knelt between her legs and forced himself into her. The lubrication she produced made it easy. He pumped until he felt her vaginal muscles contract in orgasm around his engorged penis. The tightness and pulsing of her contractions squeezed the orgasm out of him. He thrust into her deeply one final time and strained at the outpouring of relief. Then he rolled off her inert form and fell into a deep sleep. As Beverly slept, a smile crept onto her face.

While the two New Yorkers slept, the other three couples had closed the hotel bar and moved out to the swimming pool. As the hotel wasn't large, there weren't many guests in residence. Most of the business took place in the marina and this late at night the pool area was deserted. Soon the three couples were cavorting naked in the moonlit pool. The action turned sexual before long, and as usual, while voyeurism played a big part, the couples remained monogamous. Soon after the moon set, the three couples made their way to their rooms, carrying their clothing, not caring if anyone saw them nude. They all slept until noon.

The sun had been up for about three hours when Al got up. He looked at his sleeping wife. It looked as if she hadn't moved since he finished with her the previous night. Her legs were still parted, semen had drained out of her opening down to a large wet spot on the sheet below her ass. He looked at her that way for a couple of minutes then dressed and went to the hotel dining room. There he ordered his usual breakfast of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, coffee and juice. He had another cup of coffee while he smoked a cigarette. When he finished the cigarette, he signed the check and walked out to the sun deck. From there he had a perfect view of the approach to Walkers from Grand Cay. It wasn't long before he saw the two sailboats laden with their cargo coming across the flats. He walked down to the Bertram and waited in the cockpit.

Jake and Frank entered the harbor and took slips. The dockmaster wouldn't have been happy about it if they had told him. The dockmaster didn't even know that they had arrived. Al walked over and watched the four people busy setting dock lines and squaring away their boats. He waited until they had come ashore before he approached them. He feigned interest in the small sailing vessels. Jake and Frank talked with him until Kim and Kam decided to avail themselves of the shower facilities. When he was alone with Jake and Frank, Al got directly to the point. He told them he was aware of the arrangements Lonnie had made with them and was anxious to continue the agreement. He explained that Lonnie had been called away and wouldn't return. He told them Lonnie had filled him in on the entire arrangement and that he, Al, would be taking over Lonnie's action. He went on to say that he knew the schedule they had been following and would call them at the appropriate time to carry out the next shipment.

During his monologue, Jake and Frank just stared at him. This stranger just crashed himself into their world abruptly. They felt intimidated and surrounded. When he wrapped up his speech with a request, they were taken aback. All they had to do for five hundred dollars was to take a small, irregular shaped package out about fifty miles and dump it. They accepted the money and the package. They managed to mutter in agreement to his statement of their business arrangement. They weren't sure they wanted to deal with this guy. As he turned to go, he asked that they partially unwrap the package to insure that it sank, then he turned and left. On his way past the marina office, he asked the dockmaster to insure that Richard's boat was topped of fuel, water and ice.

Jake and Frank watched as he walked back up the hill toward the hotel. Jake took the package and laid it in the cabin of his boat. Then the four of them, Jake and Kim, Frank and Kam, walked up the hill to use the pool. After which, when they returned to the boats, they found the dockmaster waiting for them, angry. He said that one of them was alright, but the other had to move as he had already rented that slip to a fishing boat and the fishing boat was now tied up to the fuel dock waiting for his slip and there were two boats queued up to fuel and he couldn't sell the fuel because he had a boat waiting for its slip and . . . .

Jake calmed him down with a twenty and a promise to vacate both slips within minutes. But first, could he please fill the external tanks for the two boats outboards?

Al watched from the upper sun deck at the hotel as the two sailboats made their way toward the northern entrance to Walkers Cay. He could see Jake and Frank as they made ready to raise sails. He wished he could be there to see their faces when they opened the package and found where Lonnie had gone. He imagined that he would have no problem dealing with them in the future. He couldn't wait to meet them in Fernandina Beach, Florida, when they arrived. He would be there to see the looks on their faces when he explained the new pricing arrangements. Where they had been quadrupling their investment, they would now only double it. They had maintained the growth of their 'cash stash', as they called it, by using just the original amount of money each time. At this rate it would take them another five trips to get the money they needed. He would enjoy explaining this to them.

Al watched as the boats continued around the reef and then set course to the northwest. Soon they disappeared over the horizon. That was about the time that David and Denise came down to the dining room. They were soon followed by the others. Beverly was last to arrive and her sour look lightened up as soon as she saw Al. She had been worried as he wasn't there when she went to sleep and was gone when she woke up. She didn't mention it, but she felt strangely satisfied through the hangover.

It wasn't long before the group began to approach human behavior and they were soon embroiled in an animated conversation about some people they knew in common. Al drew David into a conversation about flying down to Spanish Cay that afternoon. Rodney joined in and drew in Richard. Richard was to carry the women while Al, David and Rodney would fly in the plane. Al explained to Richard what he needed to know to get into the marina at Spanish Cay and they talked about transit times. Al and Richard figured that it would take between three and four hours for Richard to make the hop while it would take Al about forty minutes. Richard didn't know that it would take Al about twice that since he planned a short hop out to the northwest first. They would leave about three and meet by seven that evening. That would give Richard about an hour and a half hours of daylight worth of leeway. He figured he could make it with light to spare.

The four couples split themselves into groups. Al and David went to the airstrip to check out the plane. Richard and Rodney went to the boat to make sure it was ready. They left the four women to pack up and check out of the hotel. It wasn't hard, no one had brought much clothing. Bathing suits, shorts and tee-shirts were about it. Soon the ladies had gathered themselves at the boat. Rodney said goodbye to the others and walked up the short hill to the airstrip. Cynthia assisted Richard in casting off and the five of them began to work their way across the northern Bahamas bank. They were clearing the southern entrance to Walkers Cay and setting course for the north end of Great Sale Cay when the Gulfstar Airstream left the ground. Al flew over the cruiser and wiggled his wings. He got waves from the deck in return and then turned his plane to the north.

On board the boat, Richard wondered where Al was headed. He shook his head and set up the boat for the first leg. He had checked the charts and had programmed the auto-pilot into the loran receiver. The boat would proceed through a series of way points until it arrived at its destination, about a mile west of Spanish Cay, where it would announce the fact with a series of loud, electronic beeps. All Richard had to do was make sure they didn't bump into anyone. With Walkers fading into the horizon the five travelers fell in their accustomed shipboard routines. All the women were wearing thong bikini bottoms and no tops. With the increase of group sex they had been undergoing, they didn't see the point in hiding tits from Richard. He had seen them all before anyway. Except Beverly's. Like the others, her breasts were perfect.

Denise and Carol went out to the wide foredeck and lay down. Where they were, Richard could not see them from the wheel. Thanks to the loran and auto-pilot, Richard did not need to be at the wheel. Denise and Carol discovered quickly that Richard couldn't see a portion of the foredeck from the wheel and began to sunbathe there, in the nude. This was before the open sexual activities began, at least at the group level. Denise and Carol had been lovers before, and the exotic setting of the foredeck of the powerful boat throbbing across the clear waters under the tropical sky caused them to become lovers again. Richard discovered this by accident one day and made a point to Cynthia not to tell the others about the navigational capabilities of the boat.

It wasn't long before Denise and Carol were locked in an embrace of mutual oral sex. Richard had positioned himself behind a curtain in the main cabin. The port he was looking out faced the foredeck and was deeply tinted. With the bright sun, those on deck couldn't see into the cabin and he had a totally unobstructed view of the events unfolding a few feet in front of him. Cynthia sat on the afterdeck with Beverly until she was sure that Beverly had fallen asleep in her lounge chair. Then she joined Richard by the window. She slid her bikini bottom off then slid Richard's down his legs. She took his turgid member in one hand and began to stroke. With the other hand she began to play with herself. They both watched the beautiful women on the foredeck make love to each other.

It was about five minutes after Cynthia had left her that Beverly opened her eyes. She had spoken to Cynthia, and no one had answered. She looked toward the wheel house and saw no one at the helm. She understood about the navigation system and didn't get alarmed. Instead she got up and walked into the cabin. What she saw was the backs of her two friends, naked, staring out a window. She approached behind them, unknown to the occupied couple and looked out to see what they were watching. She didn't make a noise when she saw that it was Denise and Carol. She did gasp when she saw Richard's member. Richard and Cynthia had no choice but to take her into their confidence when she dropped to her knees and drew him into her mouth.

Al spotted the two boats when they first climbed out of the turn. They were about twenty five miles out. He turned again to the west and maintained his altitude. David and Rodney were in the cabin breaking into the bar. He flew a gradual circle course that would bring him in toward the two sailing vessels from their northwest. As he completed the circle and lined up on the two boats he called to David to check out the boats as they passed. They were rewarded with a pleasant sight. Jake and Kim were sunbathing in the nude in the cockpit. Kim had an impressive body. The other boat showed Frank and Kam screwing their brains out on the cabin roof. All three men hooted and hollered at the sight. Al wiggled the wings in greeting and flew on toward Spanish Cay.

Jake sat up as the plane passed low and slow. He recognized Al through the cockpit window, the plane was that close. As the plane completed its pass and pulled up and away, Jake remembered the package. He stepped into the cabin and retrieved it. He was just about to toss it overboard when Kim reminded him that he was to open it before he tossed it. Jake removed the tape and unfolded the top, looking in. He visibly lost his tan at the sight of Lonnie, staring up at him from inside the bag. With shaking hands he tossed the repulsive package over the side. He sat in the cockpit and lit a joint. While smoking he stared at the place where the cocaine was stored. He wondered what he gotten into.

The Airstream passed over the Bertram at three thousand feet. Al wasn't sure if that was Richards boat, but he figured it was in the right place, if it was. They were too high to see anything on the boat in detail. They were high enough to see the thirty mile long squall line approaching from the southeast. Al figured it would be close between the squall hitting the banks and Richard arriving at Spanish Cay. At worst they might have to anchor for a few hours. Al flew on to Spanish Cay. The Bertram continued to plow across the light chop on the Banks.

As the Airstream passed over head, Richard never noticed it. He was in the process of enjoying a long awaited orgasm. Beverly tried but she couldn't swallow it fast enough and some started dripping down her chin. Cynthia knelt beside her and licked it up and kissed her as Beverly continued to work on Richard. When his orgasm subsided, Richard stumbled back and then went to the wheel house. Before he flopped, naked and still dripping, into the pilot's seat, he grabbed a beer from the ice box and opened it. That was some blow-job, he thought. Given a couple of minutes, he'd have half a mind to go back down there and do it again. He leaned over and looked into the cabin. Beverly and Cynthia, on their knees, were facing each other, nipples to nipples, each exploring the others throat with their tongues. Their hands were busy floating up and down each other's body. Richard leaned back into the seat and scanned the sea around him. He saw the thunderheads building up and wondered how long they had been there. More importantly, how fast were they moving?

The Airstream landed on Spanish Cay minutes before the rain started and Al was met by a crew that worked for him. There was a golf cart waiting for them and he drove David and Rodney to his personal beach house, arriving just before the rain. It sat facing the east, on the cay, looking out over the reefs and toward the broad Atlantic Ocean. Today it looked fairly calm, with the wind blowing across the island, although Al had seen it a lot worse. There were times he was concerned that the surf would overrun the island and take everything with it. He never feared for his life, it never occurred to him that amid all the destructive force in this tropical paradise his life might end.

Richard changed course and anchored the boat off Allens-Pensecola Cay. He got the anchors set just before the squall began. He joined the women in the cabin to watch the fury of nature unleashed. Soon they were caught in their erotic revery again. Some miles away Al watched the storm unfold. The waves came up the beach but stopped some fifty yards from his haven. This time the ocean would not get him.

The squall turned out to be a tropical wave that stalled over the area for two days. Richard got in touch with the dockmaster at Spanish Cay to let them know where the boat was, and that all aboard were safe. They didn't need food, as Richard had stocked the boat for the cruise, and they had ended up eating mostly from restaurants. Richard and the covey of erotic, unfulfilled women waited out the storm.

Al was beside himself. The tropical wave with its associated localized disturbances had prevented him from flying north to check on the progress of the two sailboats. As soon as the weather cleared, he left for Fernandina Beach. During the storm he got to thinking about what Lonnie had been doing. He began to realize that there were possibilities to pull down some real cash. The biggest problem he faced was actually crossing the coastline of the United States with a payload.

Lonnie had been doing it for years with some penny-ante smugglers. Al realized that the smaller boats would rarely be searched as their payload capabilities were so small. He also realized that if there were enough of them, the results would provide as much profit as a freighter load of goods. He decided to explore the possibilities.

Al sent David off to the airport to check the plane. He explained that he had a little side trip to make, for business, and wished to discuss some investments with Rod before he left. David toddled off to check the plane and Al took Rod into the bar for a drink.

Once their drinks arrived, Al watched as the waiter placed the napkins and then the drinks, then go. Al turned to Rod.

"It's time we talk turkey. I have knowledge of certain investments that you have made with liberal use of insider information."

Rod just stared at him, his jaw moving but no sound coming from his mouth. Al went on. "Don't try to deny it. The Osway/NTT merger? You knew about that months in advance and profited extremely in the process."

"You've got to be kidding." Rod was shaken. He felt that all the blood had rushed from his face. "I didn't . . . , no one . . . , but, how did you . . . ?"

Al just grinned and went on. His grin reminded Rod of a gargoyle, leering out over the masses. "Don't worry, I won't say anything to anyone. All I ask of you is to set up a way for me to move a large volume of cash offshore, legally."

Rod shut his mouth. He looked at Al for a few seconds, took a deep breath and said "Okay, you got my attention. What's the scam?"

"No scam. Just a funneling of cash to, shall we say, less taxing societies?"

"That's no problem, depending upon volume. How much are we talking?" Rod sat back, waiting for the answer. Al picked up his drink, swished it around, tested the bouquet, and shot it down. He raised his eyes to Rod. "At least ten figures."

Rod was taken aback. At least a billion dollars, possibly more. "It will take a while to work it out. What's the time frame?"

Al's gaze didn't falter. "Figure on it annually."

Rod knees would have given way, if he hadn't been seated already. "I don't know if I'll be able to pull this off myself. I'm going to need some help." He looked at Al, almost pleading with his eyes.

Al looked toward the door to the bar in time to see David walk in the room. "He owns a bank that deals in figures that large. Work it out." Al stood, met David, shook his hand and left the bar. David sat in the booth with Rod.

"What's the matter, fellah, you look like you could use a drink." Rod just looked blankly across the bar, out the window to the ocean. David ordered drinks and started droning on about how stupid it was for him to go check the plane, he didn't know anything about planes. Rod just sat there listening, his brain going a million miles an hour, trying to figure out how to funnel a billion dollars a year out of the United States. He didn't even notice Al's plane as it flew across his vision, heading to the north. He was thinking hard, and it paid off. Before Al returned, Rod had figured out a way.

About three that afternoon, Al was approaching the Florida coast. He spotted the two boats entering St. Mary's inlet. If he had been a little later, he never would have spotted them in the number of sailboats inside the river entrance. He flew a couple of lazy circles over the inlet to make sure of their course, then he cleared and landed at the small airport just south of town.

At the airport, he grabbed a cab and went into the heart of Fernandina. The cab dropped him off at the city marina where he took up a position on the balcony overlooking the marina docks. He picked the two boats out of the forest of masts and was pleased to note that they were still tying up after arriving. He watched as Jake and Frank finished securing their boats and walked to the pay phone just under the rail where Al stood.

Al could overhear the phone conversations. He listened as he watched Kim and Kam make their way up the dock. As he listened, he felt a stirring in his groin watching the women walk to the marina shower facilities.

Jake and Frank first used the phone to call Customs. Al noted how easy it was. They answered a few questions and were cleared back into the country over the phone. No personal interrogations, no searches. It was that easy. Once they had finished with Customs, Jake made a second call. This one was evidently to someone that was expecting it. The conversation couldn't have lasted more than half a dozen words on Jake's part. When he hung up the phone, Jake slapped Frank on the back and they left the marina, walking up the street.

Al followed at discreet distance. Jake and Frank entered the Red Dog Saloon, long a fixture on the waterfront in Fernindina. It had the dubious distinction of being known as the oldest bar in the United States. It had gone through many iterations of ownership, but remained open. It had long been the favored hangout of the sailboat crowd in the area. Several sailing clubs in northeast Florida held offshore races that ended up in Fernindina simply to take advantage of the Red Dog.

Al entered the saloon, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. He didn't need much light to find Jake and Frank. They were already into their second pitcher of beer when he took a seat at a table next to theirs. He didn't expect that Jake or Frank would recognize him since their last meeting was in the marina, and Al was on them and off them before they knew what hit them. Al ordered a sandwich and a beer to explain his taking up a table. There weren't that many people in the bar, but the waitress would have remembered him if he just sat there. He decided that the food wasn't the reason for the bar's popularity.

After about an hour, a young man with long hair entered the bar and joined Jake and Frank. A few muffled remarks passed between the three men, and the young man left. Jake and Frank watched him leave and then rose. Jake dropped a couple of twenties on the table before he and Frank left the bar. Al estimated that what Jake had left was about four times what his tab would have been. He dropped a five on the table and followed them.

Approaching the marina, Jake and Frank were joined by Kim and Kam. If it were possible to wear any less, the girls didn't know it. They walked back into the marina and the girls boarded Frank's boat while Jake and Frank went aboard Jake's boat. Al waited a couple of minutes before he followed the two men aboard. Before he slid the hatch open, he could hear sounds of merriment from the cabin below.

To say that Jake and Frank were surprised would be an understatement. They were caught with a pile of money out in the open. The young man they had seen in the bar evidently had off loaded the cocaine and left their payment. Al respected trust, but he despised stupidity. Jake began to protest as Al entered the cabin without asking. By the time Al had closed the hatch and turned around, the gun that had sprouted in his hand silenced Jake. Al could tell that there was a glimmer of recognition in Frank's eyes.

"Before you go too far, I thought it was wise to check on my new business partners." Al said, waving the gun under Jake's nose and gesturing for Jake to take a seat.

"What do you mean, partners." Jake protested. Frank remained mute.

Al replied "You guys think too small. What we have here is a business opportunity that can make all of us very rich."

"We didn't intend for this to be a way of life." Jake said. "We just wanted to make a pile of money to last us a while." He spoke, but his eyes never left the barrel of the nine-millimeter automatic. His nostrils flared with every breath, and the smell of gun oil was beginning to get to him.

"Well, " Al said, "you guys didn't think large enough. There is enough money to be made here to make all of us a pile on which to retire."

Jake started to protest again, but Frank interjected "We're listening."

Al looked from Jake to Frank, and back. "That's better." he said, putting away the gun. He didn't need to gun to take care of these two guys, but it was better for them to feel he trusted them enough to holster the weapon. His discussion with the two men went on for some minutes. In the end, over Jake's protests, they agreed to the plan. Not that it made much difference to Al whether they agreed or not, he had ways of making people cooperate against their will.

Al concluded his discussion and left the yacht. Jake and Frank argued for a little while, but eventually decided that for the time being, they would go along with the program. It was still more money than they could earn legally. They had finished talking and were sharing a joint with Kim and Kam when Al's plane flew over the marina before turning to the south.

It was almost six months before they heard from Al again. He told them to take another sailing vacation. He would get word to them where to meet him.

Jake and Frank were discussing their planned cruise in the marina one day and a couple of other skippers overheard them. Before anyone knew it, there was an entire fleet going on the trip with them. Frank explained to Jake that with the larger number of boats, it was less likely that they would be searched. Jake agreed and their planning continued.

Meanwhile, Al returned to Spanish Cay. When he returned, he had a plan for moving the cocaine from Columbia to the street, and Rod had plan devised for laundering the money to the point that it could safely be moved out of the country. It involved a series of levels of bank accounts. The lowest level would be fed by cash, in amounts of less than $10,000 per day per account. This would avoid detection through limits set by the IRS for reporting of cash transactions. Each of these accounts would be set up as an individual outlet under some corporate name. The depositors, his dealers, would make night drops, just as a retail business would. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special.

Each of these accounts would be swept automatically as an electronic service by the bank, into a second level of accounts. This second tier of accounts would be sustained at a higher level of deposit, still under the same corporate umbrella name. Another service offered by the bank was automatic payment of invoices and bills. These corporate accounts would be used to pay 'creditors' of the dummy corporation with large cash payments.

The 'creditors' would, in fact, be another dummy corporation set up in the import/export arena. All of the expected, normal operations expenses of the original corporation would be billed as out servicing to the second corporation. The second corporation would have accounts spread over several different banks, and provide contractual fees to Rod, Al, David, and Richard, as well as occasional cash disbursements into investment portfolios handled by Rod. The bulk of cash accrued by the second corporation would be wire transmitted to offshore banks into the accounts of origin vendors to the second, importing/exporting, corporation.

The primary import and distribution product for these corporations would be cocaine. The primary export commodity would be cash. On the books, every thing was strictly legal. The flow of cash was of immense proportions. The volume was not noticeable on the surface, due to the diversity of accounts. Everything was above board and in order, down to and including the phony invoices, receipts and hand written ledger entries.

Moving the cocaine from Columbia to the streets was, relatively, much more simple. Albert Wells would fuel up the Airstream on Spanish Cay, remove the passenger seating and fly to Columbia. There, he would have the plane loaded with several thousand bricks of pure cocaine, wrapped in butcher paper and Saran Wrap. Once the plane was loaded, Al would fly back to the Bahamas.

He had several routes for the return trip. All of them at altitudes of fifty feet or less. His favorite was to the northeast, flying through Mona Passage, often directly over the small island that gave the passage its name. It was a fairly safe trip, since the United States Air Force had closed the large SAC base on the northwest corner of Puerto Rico.

When the base was open, it was the home of a Strategic Air Command B-52 wing. With over thirty two nuclear warheads in sixteen B-52's on the base, it was covered with and covered the surrounding area with radar. Nothing moved in the air around the base without registering on the radar. With those radar, Al never would have gotten through with his cargo. Since the base was closed, he had no problem slipping through the net into the Bahamas.

Once he cleared Mona Passage, Al simply set a course of west north west, and flew straight into the runway on Spanish Cay. Back on the ground, the plane was unloaded by a small army of Bahamian locals headed up by Peter, Libby's son. These locals split the shipment up into hundreds of caches of hundreds of bricks each. Each of these caches was eventually loaded into the cabin of a small cruising boat bound for the northern most coast of Florida, Georgia and the Carolinas.

Al was involved in the unloading only as far as hand picking the dealers that would move the coke on the street. He ended up with a fairly regular schedule of small boats moving between the islands and the mainland. Each boat carried about one thousand pounds of cocaine. On any given day, he would have between two and six boats moving towards the states, loaded with cocaine. Each would get though customs on their own volition, although that far north, customs could be cleared over telephone. Al didn't really care how the cocaine cleared the coast, as long as it did. He did know that some of the mules running the drugs into the states had developed their own methods of insuring safety in the delivery of their cargos.

Rod had even done a decent job of covering a substantial amount of money provided directly for discretionary disposal. Al's contractual fees were explainable as primary stock holder in the dummy corporations and rental of the plane. Rod's fees were from his investment acumen. They included payments to David to provide leverage within the bank, should it become necessary. By dirtying David, he had to go along with their plan.

Richard's fees came from referrals. Al asked Richard to let him know whenever a boat was sold. When the boat was a large luxury power cruiser, Al merely sent a bottle of champagne. If it was a smaller sailboat, less than thirty five feet, Al paid a visit in person. Through his years accumulation of street smarts, Al was able, in the course of conversation, to tell whether the new boat owner would be accessible in terms of small amounts of cargo. Within three years, Richard had sold many boats in that size range, and of those Al had recruited most.

Rod, in that same time, had managed to build personal fortunes for the four of them into embarrassingly large proportions. David continued in his blind approach to life, and Jake and Frank disappeared on a cruise to the Bahamas.

So did Kim and Kam. No sign was ever seen, other than a life jacket washing up on St. Simon's Island. It was presumed that the two boats encountered an unseasonable northeast gale while sailing across the Gulf Stream and sank, taking down all hands.

In truth, Jake and Frank's remains did descend to the bottom of the stream. Kim and Kam, however, were alive, on Spanish Cay. They became personal attendants for three of the business partners. Kim and Kam were at their beck and call. Whatever the whim, or desire, the two girls acquiesced, due in large part to a permanent haze from cocaine and marijuana. As time passed, the group sexual encounters grew beyond monogamous coupling into full fledged orgies. The possibilities for two women and three men were fully explored, although Al rarely did more than watch, and he never let Beverly know about those parties.

None of the women, except for Kam and Kim, had any idea that their wealth grew from the drug trade. Kim and Kam knew, but were too brain-fried to understand or care. The other four women enjoyed their lives, relaxing in exotic, erotic tropic splendor. The world situation, in general, never entered their private universe in paradise. They celebrated their life-style with money derived from the drug trade and didn't question a thing.

Except for eight years working for Uncle Sam as a Navy SEAL, I had lived most of my life in the rolling hills of Tennessee. My name is Desmond Porter Rockwell. My friends call me either 'Rock' or 'Rockwell'. Somewhere along the line I got the fever for the ocean, so naturally I had to join the Navy. I had always enjoyed being in or on the water and being a SEAL seemed to offer the perfect opportunity. Besides, they let me blow stuff up. Even the good Lord has a need of plastic explosives, from time to time.

During my tenure in our government's service, I sent all of my paychecks back home. I didn't need them as Uncle Sugar provided everything I needed. While I was gone, the money really piled up. Actually, I didn't pay attention to how much the "extra duty" pay had amounted to and to my surprise, when I returned home I could easily afford to buy a ridge that I had always loved. I built a cabin at one end of the ridge with a picture window to enjoy the view. Part of that view took in a lake nearby. I would sit on Sundays and watch the little sailboats darting back and forth in the puffs of wind.

It was during one of those Sunday afternoons that I was catching up on some mail and came across an offer on the mineral rights of the ridge I owned. The offer came complete with numbers, percentages, guarantees and promises. Among those promises and guarantees were commitments to preserve the wildness of the ridge, not disturbing flora or fauna, and especially the cabin.

That was when I started building the boat. I finished about five years ago and launched her in the lake, one of many lakes created in a chain by the Tennessee Valley Authority. After completing the rigging and some tuning adjustments, I proceeded down the Tennessee River to the Tombigbee Waterway to Mobile, enjoying the hospitality there and laying in a serious amount of stores and parts. Not to mention parties. The checks from the mineral operation were coming in like clockwork. I owned a sea-going vessel free and clear loaded down for a long distance haul, I had a steady, substantial income, and no schedule I had to hurry to keep. After a while, I found my way into Fort Lauderdale.

I had tied up in Bahia Mar Marina about for about six weeks when I met the group that was going to the Bahamas for vacation. The first two showed up in the slips next to mine and told me of their plans. They had asked me to look after their boats until they could get back down to begin their cruise. Being easy, I agreed. They were nice folks, although a bit tired from their trip.

They had come down from the Jacksonville area non-stop. When I met them they had been going for almost ninety hours. I couldn't bear to think of them worrying so I agreed. After they left, life at the docks quieted down again. A few days later, another couple of boats showed up. I introduced myself and learned that these two boats were part of the same group I had met earlier.

The folks on these boats stayed in the marina and I had company for a few days. I woke up one morning and found the first two skippers walking down the dock. They had come back with their families and were going to start their voyage the next day. During the day, two more boats arrived and their group was complete. I spent some time talking with them that night and they before they left the next day. I wished them luck on their trip. I was bound for Europe, and would get the Bahamas on my way back. The group leaving wished me luck and went out to dinner. That is, most of them. The two skippers that had showed up that day stayed in the marina and poked about their boats with their crews getting gear stowed for the trip. I enjoyed myself watching the two young blond girls aboard one of those boats.

I swear they had to be twins. I'm not sure that there was a millimeter difference between the two. I cannot remember the last time I saw, if ever, two such strikingly attractive women. That they chose not to wear much in the way of clothing was pretty striking as well. I spent most of the evening watching the two young ladies as their skippers prepared their boats. It was fun.

The next morning, the entire group gathered upon one boat and invited me to join them. I sat and drank beer, watching the two young ladies on the dock, while the group discussed their strategy in crossing the Gulf Stream. They were cautious and over-planned the endeavor, but I admired that. It was the same approach I was using in preparing for my Atlantic crossing. As they got more detailed in their discussion, I regretfully tore my eyes away from the twin blond bombshells and paid strict attention to the discussion.

During the get-together, they laid out the plans for the entire journey. Most of the group was going for the better part of two weeks, one boat was going to stay about three times that long. They were planning, after cruising the Little Bahamas Bank, to sail from Walker's Cay straight back to Mayport, Florida. I had been thinking about starting my way up the east coast pretty soon, so I made a mental note to stop in Jacksonville and look them up. See how they enjoyed themselves.

I watched the group as they left Bahai Mar and go around the bend to the south. I got back aboard BILL OF RIGHTS, my boat, and flipped on the Marine VHF scanning radio. It wasn't long before I found the channel the group was using and listened until they faded out of range. The jabber of the group, spotting marks and hailing bridges, brought visions of the people speaking. I could picture each face behind the voices coming out of the radio. Each of the group was distinctive in their eagerness of their cruise. Two of the skippers bothered me. I can't say what it was, but they didn't "feel" right to me. It seemed to me that there was something behind their facade.

The two skippers were up to something that the rest of the group wasn't aware of. I didn't know what it was, but I had a feeling it was not totally above board. I hoped whatever it was wasn't stupid enough to get the whole group in trouble. I listened to the armada until they faded out of range. Then I turned in and dreamed about the two young women. I've got to get out more.

I stalled around south Florida for another week or so before deciding that I should get under way before I attached myself, like a barnacle, to the marina. Once my mind was made up, it took about an hour to clear out of Bahia Mar, and another to make it to the sea buoy, where I set my course following the coast north. With the push from the Gulf Stream, it didn't take long before I was well on my way. That night, as the moon rose, I was sitting in the cockpit, enjoying the view and the auto-pilot's ability to steer.

About 0400, I went below to fix another thermos of coffee and flipped the scanner on. I figured I might be able to hear anyone coming my way. I had just sat back down in the cockpit when I started hearing transmissions. It took me a couple of minutes, but it wasn't long before I figured out that I was hearing the group that I had met before. They were making their way toward Mayport, on a convergent course with BILL OF RIGHTS. I was set to clear Hetzel Shoals light before I set course more to the west, going up the coast. They were just on my fringe area of reception, but the longer I listened the better I was receiving them. They were swapping position coordinates over the radio and keeping track of each other. Out of curiosity and boredom, I decided to start plotting them on my charts.

As I had suspected, they were about twenty miles east of me, making the same speed I was. While I plotted them, I grew a little suspicious. The two sailors I had been leery of were up to something. This time they had to be reporting phony positions. My fix on them had to put them at least fifty miles east and a little south of BILL OF RIGHTS. But I was picking them up cleanly on my scanner. I knew that they had to be less than thirty miles away.

We continued north through the coming day and night. I was able to pace them as they were traveling in convoy, matching speed with the slowest boat. The two skippers playing games kept reporting positions that had to be phoney, as they didn't even jibe with my dead reckoning positions for them. One fix they would have averaged three knots, the next five. Their speed and courses must have been erratic as hell to have kept the line of positions I plotted from their fixes.

Just before sundown, that last night, I heard the group decide to set course for St. Augustine inlet instead of Mayport. One of them had developed engine troubles and they were hoping to make landfall before the engine died. I checked my current position and found that I was less than twenty miles, due East, of the inlet. Out of morbid curiosity, I wanted to find out what the game was that the two skippers were so intent upon. After changing course to follow the setting sun, I got out the Intracoastal waterway charts and began to examine the inlet.

St. Augustine inlet is an east-west slash cut in the coast of Florida. There is a river running south, just inside the inlet. The river bends to the west, then continues south. This is the course the ICW takes. Just inside the inlet there is a slough running south for about a mile. Directly across from the inlet, there is an ancient Spanish fort, Castillo de San Marcos. Just off the castle wall, there is a public anchorage. I decided to anchor there where I could keep a clear view of the inlet. There are drawbridges to contend with going both directions on the river and I could see them whatever their intent.

I was anchored, with a perfect view of the inlet, by 2400 hours that night. With my rush to the inlet, I ran out of radio range from the group I was following. I left the scanner on while I cleared up the boat, prepared and ate dinner, and got the boat ready for the night at anchor. It must have still been on when I dozed off.

It was around 0400 when the voices woke me up. I heard them over the scanner. The two skippers that had been reporting false positions to the rest of their group were talking. The signal I was receiving from their transmissions was very strong, so I knew they were close. I went on deck with my binoculars, and had no problem finding the St. Augustine Sea Buoy, but I couldn't see their lights. I could still hear them over the scanner, but I couldn't see them.

I had just about given up when I heard one of them say on the radio "Here we are, follow me in." I scanned the entire entrance again and made out faint shadows in the pre-dawn night, of two sailboats, headed into Salt Run, the slough just south of the inlet. I went below and poured a cup of coffee.

On the one hand, I was pleased that given the information I had, I figured out what was going on. On the other hand, it was depressing to know that my suspicions were confirmed, and the group of people I had met, with all their apparent zeal for the sailing life, were willing to do anything to support the life style.

About 0530 I started picking up the rest of the group. 'Group' wouldn't be a good way to describe them, they were straggling in, one at a time.

I recognized the first boat as it entered the waterway. It turned north, and sounded a horn to request the Vilano bridge to open. I heard the skipper call the marina just north of the bridge and inquire about customs. An hour later, the next boat entered and followed suite. A half hour after that, the third entered, the diesel exhaust belching black smoke. As I was on deck, preparing to raise the anchor, I saw the other two boats, coming out of the slough, heading for the Vilano bridge.

I followed the two boats under the bridge. Either they didn't recognize me or BILL OF RIGHTS, or they were too tired to notice. Either way I continued up the waterway, behind the two. One of the two boats continued north, along the waterway, the other pulled into the marina just north and west of the bridge. While I followed the single boat north, still flying his Bahamas courtesy flag, the scanner picked up his conversation with his cohort. He claimed engine trouble, but managed six knots through the water. As we were riding a rising tide, our progress over the bottom was astounding.

As we came up toward the south end of Pine Island, he pulled out of the channel and entered a small anchorage. I continued north. Just as I was going around the bend from him, I could see a couple of powerboats pull out from the back end of the slough he where he was anchored. I didn't see anything more as I headed north, until just after I crossed through the Palm Valley span. I didn't see anything, but I continued to listen, on a separate channel, to the lone skipper, reporting his position as he made his way north. I knew he had anchored, but he never changed his reported progress. Just as he said he was entering the bridge, I turned and saw him pass the spans.

Somehow, he had anchored for some time and then made up his lost time by speeding to his reported position. Knowing he was reporting three knots and capable of six, I figured he had plenty of time to unload his boat of some unsavory cargo.

Don't get me wrong. I'm from the hills of east Tennessee. I've got kin that have been known to dabble in unlicensed products. I've got uncles that run moonshine and cousins that raise ganja. I've sampled both products from time to time and am pleased that the family still takes pride in quality. So I can appreciate the occasional disregard for laws that don't consider the small, local business.

The problem is, the time I spent in south Florida made me realize the quantity and quality of cocaine coming in from the Bahamas. Cocaine is different. Alcohol, used in excess, has a quality in that you live through the following day, despite a wish for sudden death to relieve you from the hangover. Used in moderation, alcohol enhances pleasure. In excess, it can kill you. Pot, used in excess, can turn the most intelligent, outspoken, vibrant person in the world into a pile of human protoplasm quivering on a couch watching reruns of LaVerne and Shirley. The thought of that alone should keep one from over indulging.

Cocaine is different. Cocaine can grab hold of your mind and body so fast, you never knew what hit you. All you know is you'll happily burn from one to two hundred dollars a day just to get more of the white powder, or worse; rocks. Once you get the drug you spend a few hours enjoying the intense high. Coming down from the high, you immediately begin thinking of where to get more money, so you can get more snow.

That's a short spiral ending in death. I'm not interested in it. I have pity for those hooked by it. I have no love for those that traffic in it. But then again, where I come from, if someone is up to something, it's not your business until they involve you.

I thought about this, and other things, while my boat continued north. I entered the St. Johns River early that afternoon. Checking the charts, I found what looked like a reasonable anchorage, out of the channel, on a shelf of hard sand under thirteen feet of water. Just the type of holding the plow anchor on BILL OF RIGHTS enjoyed. The anchor was made of a real plow that my cousin Henry gave me right after BILL OF RIGHTS was launched on a TVA lake outside Knoxville. He saw a picture of a CQR anchor in one of my books and got the idea. He had an old horse drawn plow that his daddy had used. Henry had long since converted to the modern conveniences, enclosed tractor with air conditioning and stereo sound system with a CD player.

Henry had taken a welding torch to the antique plow and turned it into a respectable piece of ground tackle. I was happy to use it. I was also glad for an anchor winch, even if it was manual. That anchor weighed in at a hundred and twenty pounds. I also ran a little over two hundred feet of chain, so the winch is a necessity. My momma may have raised strong sons, but they weren't stupid.

Shortly after getting the hook set, I spotted one of the original group of cruisers entering the area I had anchored. They were getting ready to anchor so I began to launch my dingy. By the time I had the motor set with gas lines attached, they had anchored and were settling in.

I putted over and said hello. At first, he didn't recognize me. When I mentioned meeting him in Ft. Lauderdale, he brightened immediately. They invited me aboard for a late lunch and drinks. I looked over at BILL OF RIGHTS, steady as a rock in the current, rudder set against the anchor line. Lunch was good. So were the drinks. The talk was interesting as well.

Tim and Jill Hanson had met and married in their mid twenties, moved to Jacksonville and begun to raise a family. They had developed a love of sailing from some friends, worked hard and bought their own boat. It was a twenty-eight foot sloop, and capable of making ocean hops. With their two children, space became very close and, thus, the trips they made were of short duration. Tim was an accountant and Jill worked as a clerk in a bank. They made reasonable money, and worked hard toward their goal of a live-aboard cruising boat.

They recently made a decision, with a group of their friends, to spend a two week vacation, cruising the Bahamas, in their own boat. It was a decision that would cause them grief and regret.

Included in that decision was to smuggle illegal substances into the United States. They rationalized at as a justifiable means to the end of obtaining a live-aboard sailboat. It was a familiar trap that had consumed several of their friends.

They had been told, by some friends, about a boat dealer in south Florida that was offering a way to get exceptional interest rates on loans for well built, offshore cruising sailboats. Both had been excited on the drive down to Ft. Lauderdale. They rolled into the dealership's parking lot in a rented car in the morning, and cruised out the dealership's marina that afternoon. The salesman had even driven the two of them to a local grocery store to purchase the stores necessary to make the three day trip back to Jacksonville.

That had been the extent of the deal, as far as Tim and Jill had been concerned. The association with Albert Wells didn't begin until the next summer when, during their vacation cruise to the Bahamas, he met them at Tia Maria's, a well-known restaurant in the northern cays, and offered them the lowered interest rates, along with a pile of cash for transporting "a few packages to some friends stateside", as he put it. When pressed, he assured them it was locally produced rum, pre-packaged for transport.

Tim and Jill jumped at the chance. They were surprised when they arrived back in Jacksonville, and were met at the appointed location by Albert Wells himself. They traded the two packages for a large manila envelope full of cash. They had been given twenty thousand dollars for their cruise home. Their plans for the next years cruise were begun that night, surrounded by a pile of cash, and a new contract with their lending company for their boat's loan.

It seemed too good to be true. It was, as Tim found out when curiosity got the better of him on the homeward leg of their next cruise to the islands. He opened one of the packages and found the white powder. He and Jill discussed it for the better part of twenty four hours, ending in a screaming fight. He wanted to sever their relationship with the drug runners, and she wanted to hit Wells up for more money. She didn't see a problem with their involvement, as long as they didn't get caught.

Or, as Tim pointed out, they didn't piss off Albert Wells. Tim eventually came to his senses, and convinced Jill that they needed to get out of the relationship with Wells. It was too late. Once Tim stood on the rail of his boat, in over three hundred fathoms of water, and tossed the cocaine packages overboard, it was too late.

Tim and Jill Hanson told me of their trip. The places they had gone. The weather they had experienced, their trip back. They didn't tell me about their arrangements with Albert Wells. Nor, at the time, did they tell me of dumping the cocaine overboard.

Some of their comments related to the other two boats I had noticed. I don't recall anything specifically being mentioned by any of us, but the tone was a circumstantial confirmation of my suspicions of running drugs. We also talked of other things. They were going home after two weeks in cruisers paradise. I was at the beginning of their life long dream. I was about to cross the Atlantic.

We talked for at least eight hours. The tide had changed and BILL OF RIGHTS had swung along with it. She was riding a little closer to the shore, but she was still rock steady and with plenty of room. I bid my goodnight and made my way back aboard my boat. They were nice folks, and as far as I could tell, uninvolved in the scheme I had detected. That was just as well for them, since I had detected it, I figured someone else could as well. I didn't mention anything to the couple. It seemed that if they didn't know anything, they would be better off. We agreed to meet for a breakfast the following morning.

The night was cool, yet comfortable. I made sure that everything was shipshape and settled in the cockpit, drink in hand, and Buffett on the tape deck. It was a pleasant evening, watching the stars rotate above my head. The next thing I knew, my mouth was watering and the smell of smoked bacon frying had invaded my senses.

I looked up and found I was being hailed by my new friends. They were directly up wind from me, carrying the mouth-watering scent my way. I cleaned up and shortly joined them for breakfast. Even my aunt Alice couldn't have matched that spread. Bacon, eggs, fresh biscuits, jelly, hot coffee, juice, and fresh fruit. Shoot. It tasted great. We talked for a few hours after breakfast and I ended up promising to return to Jacksonville and look them up upon my return to the country.

It was a promise I kept.

After raising my anchor and securing it to the deck, I turned BILL OF RIGHTS down current and made my way toward the mouth of the river. As I passed the intersection with the Intracoastal waterway, I noticed the rest of the little cruising fleet entering the river. At the time, I didn't notice the big power cruiser following a discreet distance behind, its engines idling to maintain interval behind the small fleet.

I departed the St. Johns river and set course for Bermuda. It took me about a week to get there, and after a short twenty four hours in port, I was underway again. It took another fifteen days for BILL OF RIGHTS to make landfall. I spent the next six months tracking down some ancient family ties in Ireland and England, and spent another couple of months trying to find some polite waiters in coastal France. Giving that up, I set course for Portugal, but for some reason, I altered course toward the Azores. Upon approaching the Azores, I decided I had enough stores and water on board, I slacked sheets and set sail for the Lesser Antilles.

I reentered American territory in Puerto Rico, some ten months after leaving Jacksonville. I replenished my stores and left San Juan, sailing slightly above west, intending to enter the Bahamas through Green Turtle Cay.

Not trying to sound egotistical, I nailed the ocean passage to Green Turtle exactly. I set the anchor, gathered my papers and took the dinghy in to find Customs and officially enter the Bahamas. After giving the appropriate answers to all the right questions, I was a legitimate tourist, with a fishing license to boot, and set out to find some solitude. I anchored just west of the north end of Powell and enjoyed my first sunset in the Bahamas. I spent a few days there, resting, and cleaning up the boat. I still had plenty of stores on board, and the afternoon rain squalls had allowed me to keep my tanks full of fresh water, so I didn't need to put in anywhere in particular. So I don't know why I decided to check out Cooperstown.

I had run BILL OF RIGHTS across the straits between Powell and Cooperstown, on Great Abaco Island, and anchored, two hundred feet from the beach, such as it was, in eighteen feet of water. After assuring myself that I had anchored the boat properly, I rowed ashore and sampled some of the local rum product. That was were I met Dean, the writer.

I was sitting under a palm tree, at the end of the Texaco dock in Cooperstown, enjoying a rum and coke when Dean introduced himself. He explained that he was in Cooperstown to attend an AA meeting, and had missed his ride home, on Green Turtle Cay. Sensing the request before it was made and since I had made the run and knew that it was only about twelve miles away, I offered to give him a ride home.

He turned out to be a pretty nice guy, and an interesting character as well. I spent a couple of days on Green Turtle, in Deans' company, and through him, got to know the island, and the people pretty well. I mean know them, as a people. I could understand their directions, wants and goals. I felt comfortable with the people I met there. I'll go back sometime. And I'll try to remember to find some more of Dean's books. They sounded interesting, and the one that he gave me proved to be very good.

As much as I wanted to stay, I knew that if I got too comfortable, eating at the Sea View restaurant, and drinking at the Red Rooster bar every night, I'd become a permanent fixture. It was too perfect, too close to paradise. Besides, sitting at the Red Rooster, I started seeing the seamier side of life in the islands. It reminded me that the problems of a modern world tend to spread across the globe. It reminded me of home. I told Dean I'd be back someday, and set out heading north.

I made my way up to Walker's Cay. It took me a couple of weeks, as I had wanted to enjoy the solitude of some islands. A few matched my expectations, but most were like Times Square on New Year's eve. On my way to Walker's, I found a few little islands that showed little sign of people. On one, I found signs that people used it, but were not slobs and left nothing behind. I marked it on the chart so I could remember the bay and entrance, figuring on a good hurricane hole, should I need one in this part of the world.

Upon approaching Walker's, I raised the harbor master on the VHF and reserved a slip. It turned out to be a good one for BILL OF RIGHTS, as all I had to do was swap ends and back into the slip after coming straight in the marina. It was a short distance to the marina office, and my bow was pointing out to the harbor entrance. For some reason, that comforted me. I like being in a position of being able to cut my lines and straight-line out of a place.

After setting my dock lines, I gathered up some jerry cans and topped off my diesel tanks. Then I went to the marina cafe and enjoyed the "cheeseburger in paradise". I spent a few days in harbor, just nursing bruises and rum smashes. It was hard not to notice the courtesy boat from the restaurant every night.

That driver would make several runs, all according to some schedule that the restaurant had. Finally curiosity got the better of me and I took the ride for dinner, myself. I shared the ride with some couples that looked like they had been partying in the islands for a while. They were all deeply tanned, and wore the lightest of clothing. The men looked muscular and fit, the women looked ripe for the picking. I'd wager that if their husbands hadn't been there, I could of . . .

Well, never mind. I didn't. I did, however, enjoy a terrific dinner. The ride back to the marina was as hair raising as the ride over, but the dinner was worth it. I'd remember that place. I'd remember the driver as well.

After sleeping off the dinner, and the drinks at the hotel, I paid my bill and pulled out. I left by the north channel and set my course for Daytona, figuring the Gulf Stream would push me up to St. Augustine. I didn't get a good look at the city the last time I was there and intended to do some exploring, with the rest of the tourists. During the two days it took to get back to the States, I reflected upon what I had seen in the islands. Most of it I liked and determined that I would return. That I didn't like, I would skip.

I had noticed some places that looked like there was a high level of money and goods trading hands. That included my evening at Tia Maria's. I figured that driver did more than run tourists over to the restaurant, but he didn't bother me and I didn't intend on messing with him. I had quit messing with people when I checked out of the Navy. I had learned a lot during my tenure with Uncle Sam, but I didn't think that civilian life would offer much for someone who could dive, set demolitions, and kill someone ninety seven ways, all silent, all with bare hands. Like most others, I brought home my share of souvenirs but they were all tucked away, safe, at my kinfolks house.

I brooded over these, and other thoughts, until I made the St. Augustine light house, then I concentrated on bringing BILL OF RIGHTS into the inlet. I turned north, in the waterway and entered Camanchee Cove. It was there I called Customs and cleared back into the country. It took a little while, but I finally convinced the man on the phone that I was a good guy and not breaking any import laws. Once that was completed I move BILL OF RIGHTS over to the St. Augustine City Docks and began to explore the ancient city.

I spent a few days soaking up the culture, then got the itch to move again. I dug the paper out that I had written the Hanson's address and phone number on. They had also given me directions to their marina, so I proceeded north, up to the St. Johns, and found where they docked, just off the St. Johns, in Julington Creek. It was a well protected dockage.

While signing in at the marina office, I noticed the board on the wall containing slip assignments. The Hansons kept their boat half way down the dog-legged dock from where I was docked, but the name on the board wasn't their's. After paying the office, I went back to BILL OF RIGHTS. As I passed their boat, it looked to me as if they hadn't touched it since I saw it last. The dock lines were old, and in need of replacement. The decks looked like there was an inch of road dirt off the adjacent bridge. The sail cover was beginning to let the mainsail poke through in places. And, there was a FOR SALE sign strung into the lifelines.

That struck me as odd. I got the impression from the Hansons that their boat was high on their list of priorities. That was one of the things that attracted me to them. I tried to phone them from the marina, but their line was disconnected. When I asked the girl in the office about their boat, she didn't know anything, but their slip fee was paid on the first of every month, in cash. The fellow she described as paying the money didn't sound like Tim.

I called a cab, and got dropped at the airport where I rented a car. I thought I'd drive over to their house and surprise them. I wasn't sure what I would find, and I didn't think I'd like it.

I don't know why I get involved like this. I just took a liking to those folks and hated to see anything bad come to them. They had such clear dreams and goals, and were apparently making good headway toward achieving them.

It took me a little while, but I finally found their house. It was back up a little side road, with footage on a small creek. It was a nice house, with a well kept yard. The house was about ten years old, but the lot had several old growth trees, giving it a much more settled appearance. I parked the rent-a-car in the driveway and rang the door bell. Jill answered the door, and I could tell that she didn't place me for a moment. Then her eyes lit with recognition. That look was replaced almost immediately with fear. As quickly as her expression had changed to fear, it changed to a neutral unreadable cast.

Jill welcomed me in, showing me into the living room. She asked me to be seated and she would fetch Tim. While she was out of the room, I found a comfortable easy chair and took in the view. The room had picture windows facing the creek in back of the house. The woods between the house and creek had been manicured enough to look tidy, and not enough to look cared for. It was a pretty view. There was a deck on the back of the house that had an attached boardwalk leading out across the back yard and into the woods. Through the trees, I could see that the boardwalk ended in a dock on the creek. There was a runabout tied up at the dock.

Tim entered the room, taking my hand and shaking it until I thought he would pull my arm off. He seated himself across from me and asked me why I was there. I told him that I had completed the voyage I had planned and was back to visit, like I promised. I asked him how his plans were going for their cruising boat.

Tim's eyes clouded with a look of frustration. He looked down at the floor, and gave me a song and dance of changing priorities and lifestyles. I think he knew I was aware of the bullshit factor, and it was running high. When Tim and I had talked before, I could tell as much from the look in his eyes as I could now. He was so in love with the dream of cruising, he would have done anything to accomplish that act. Something had gone wrong with the dream. I pressed until he told me.

I was right. He would have done anything, and did. It had all started about five years before. Tim and Jill were members of an informal group of close knit sailors in Jacksonville. They had taken up sailing in the early Eighties, and the group grew from all having bought the same make of boats. As the years passed, and the group grew more proficient in the art of sailing, their cruises extended until they found themselves making a yearly voyage to the Bahamas.

Tim told me that a few years before, a couple of the other couples showed up at the departure point in new boats. They were all in similar careers with good salaries, so a new boat wasn't out of the question. But these were small, heavy, blue water cruisers, that cost at least sixty thousand dollars. Tim said that following that year's cruise, one of those couples had approached him with a proposition.

It seemed that they had bought the boats in a dealership in Ft. Lauderdale. The salesman they had talked with had set up a sweetheart of a deal on the boat. All they had to do was bring back some cargo from the Bahamas each year that they went. Tim said it had sounded innocent enough at first. I was dubious, but said nothing. He went on.

It turned out that eventually everyone in the group had visited the boat dealership and each had come away with the same deal. It wasn't until the last leg of the last cruise, returning to the states, that Tim's curiosity got the better of him. He opened one of the packages and found Cocaine. He said he had easily had over a hundred pounds on board. I asked what he had done with it. He had thrown it overboard. I asked him what he was supposed to have done with it.

He said th