1979 was when I officially began flying drugs into the U.S. I was hired by a tight cartel organization in Colombia, whose operations were so massive and so diligent, that they became the only source big enough—monopolizing and claiming exclusivity—to handle the transportation and importation of large quantities of narcotics into American soil.
Even though I was making a lot of money, I wasn’t very happy. Having to watch my back all the time and living under suspicion of everyone, created a sense of neurosis and restlessness in me. Delivery was the most dangerous job of trafficking and I had to responsibly ensure my end of the bargain no matter what. The business of flying low, under radar detection and dumping the merchandise in the Atlantic Ocean along Bahamian waters where Cubans like my-self would retrieve them onto boats and take them into Miami, was a risky and often times, wreck-less one.
A year later in the summer of 1980, there was a huge change in the city of Miami with the “Mariel Boat Lift” move. More than 100,000 Cuban’s were given clemency by Castro and allowed to abandon the island on exodus boats headed for the city just 120 miles off the Mariel Harbor of Cuba. The beginning of an era of violence in South Florida took flight, when among families, were a wave of criminals released from Cuban jails.
By that time I had bought a small 32 footer boat from my uncle and was living with my wife on the outskirts of the city. At the crack of dawn one day my cousins and their step-father arrived at my doorstep to ask if I could help his daughter and her husband defect Cuba since Castro was allowing boats to pick-up family members from the harbor. He offered me $10,000 and the next thing I knew—because the challenge of the voyage was more exciting to me than the money, I didn’t need it, I was banking on my own—we were stocked to the gills with all kinds of provisions and left Key West towards the island. 12 hours later we were at the port of Mariel, west of Havana. It took us forever to get there because the engine broke down and we started to drift. Luckily, we managed to fix it and resumed our mission.
After 2 weeks in the port of Mariel along with hundreds of other exodus boats, I started to get anxious. We thought that as long as families in Cuba knew that we were there to pick them-up, everything would proceed quickly. A lot of us came to the conclusion that this was some kind of a set-up by Castro who had trapped us for ransom money. A tornado even came through the port and sank many boats forcing men to get into other vessels and head back to Miami. It was a real nightmare, a frustrating ordeal. The events of nature as well as the chaotic and unorganized dealings with the regime, made it hellish for many people to follow through.
A few days from the time I arrived, at around 3 a.m., I was fishing from my boat while drinking a beer. I guess I could not sleep because of my cocaine high. All of the sudden, from out of the dark, I heard a pounding noise that seemed to come from a powerful engine hitting the water. Before I could blink, I caught glimpse of this beautiful sleek Cigarette boat heading in my direction. I could tell that the long blond-haired American hippie-type behind the wheel, was trying to find a spot to “anchor.” In my perfectly half-dazed state I hollered at him to roll up next to me. He was so thankful that out of gratitude, invited me on-board and also to the best marijuana I had had in months, ending my involuntary sabbatical. He explained that he had just made it in from Key West less than 3 hours to fool around with some Cuban friends on the island. I knew I had to show off with something so I produced the ounce of cocaine I took for my personal use and shared it with him. As soon as he took a “hit,” he was enthralled. He asked to buy a kilo (from me) once we got back home and from that point on, we became the best of friends. His name was John.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 