A week had passed before I arrived in New York and Moby Dick continued to sail across the Atlantic Ocean. Michael had set up an apartment for me in Manhattan for the duration of the job, while at another residency the latest models in radio technology were installed to communicate with the captain. It had been 10 days since the ship departed Colombia, at which time the high winds of fall made it perfect for sailing. According to plan, everything was running smoothly.
My temporary apartment was a beautiful open space overlooking Central Park. It was tastefully orchestrated, furnished with contemporary pieces that complimented each other and gave way to an amazing view. Situated in the middle of everything, Michael and I would frequent an authentic sushi restaurant known for its exquisite delicacies and service, just a few blocks down the street. We’d feast on Sakes with Sashimi, Temaki, Ebis, among other exotic varieties before heading to the house where Michael’s employees were in contact with the barge.
Erick arrived a few days later and asked if he could stay with me. His wife Tracy, a native New Yorker, had a father who worked as a coronel for the Pentagon and she was staying with their baby at her mother’s house in Brooklyn. Erick wasn’t too keen on the confines of family life so he would make up the excuse that he was working late hours and couldn’t make it back home, when in reality he was partying with us. This is common practice among drug-traffickers. The money earned was spent on countless of privileges and luxuries that included an abundance of women. Power and an air of arrogance that catapults ones ego beyond humility, becomes an attractive and enticing—although pretentious—quality, difficult to control. It is something, if not careful, capable of thrusting you into the throes of hell. And although we prided ourselves in being great providers, the truth is we were pieces of shit thinking only in ourselves—contemplating the next big conquest, whether it’d be a drug-deal or sex, whatever came first. It was all the same pleasure.
When Erick’s brother Jose, flew in from Barranquilla, he got arrested at the airport for using a fake Visa to enter the country. Non-the-less, we continued to talk to him on a daily basis—regardless of the restrictions imposed by the police—to let him know how things were going. He’d call us in the evenings and we’d provide updates.
I remember on one such occasion, Michael and I met up at the “communication house” to discuss the current situation but instead, we’re radioed by the captain telling us that it’d be the last time we’d hear from him because the American Coast Guard was boarding the ship at that precise moment. Immediately, Michael and I decided to head back to Miami for security measure. I explained the news to Erick thinking he would become hysterical but to our dismay, he took it quite well. However, when Jose called, he asked to put me on the phone and started mouthing off that I was a liar and a thief, accusing me of stealing the merchandise.
Two days later, the local paper printed the story exclaiming that the “bust” resulted in the biggest seize of marijuana ever to arrive along the coast of New York, showing my animals and the vessel with the sub-title: “Floating Zoo,” splattered across the front page. I sent Jose indictment copies of those arrested to no avail. By this time, the natives in Colombia who were kept in the “loop” by calls from Erick told him that they had consulted the spirits and were told that I did in fact receive the marijuana.
The truth was that as soon as Michael’s people became aware of the ensuing chaos, they retracted in their speedboats back to the Santa Marta coast empty handed.
The natives became relentless. They further accused me of conspiring with the newspaper to have the story published, and demanded that I pay them for the product confiscated by law enforcement valued in the hundreds of thousands.
I was in awe of their behavior and of their tactless ethics. Yet, I wasn’t going to be defeated. I wouldn’t take the natives audacious threats lying down, and I certainly wasn’t going to allow this setback ruin my reputation. Back in Miami, I called up some cartel friends in Colombia explaining my dilemma and they, without hesitation, assured me that everything would be taken care of. Before long, my life returned to normalcy. The problem with the natives was history and I resumed business as usual.
How they took care of it, I don’t know. I just know they finally believed me.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 