Sneak Attack

We were positioned right about at the boundary between the deeper, darker blue water and the shallower, turquoise water closer to shore. It was one of those picture-perfect afternoons. There was nothing but blue sky above us, which brought out the brilliant colors of the placid, shallow Gulf water. We talked awhile longer, taking note of the women sunbathing on the beach. The sun was starting to bear down on us, since the boat was no longer providing any relative wind, so I suggested that we sit in the cabin and cool off.

Kevin asked, "What’s the range of this thing?"

"Range? Oh, I don’t know. With a full tank of gas, at normal cruising speed, probably about two hundred and fifty miles, maybe a little more, depending on how much weight was in the boat. Why, where do you want me to take you?"

"How about Key West?" Kevin said, laughing. "Then we can gas up and go to Cuba."

"Cuba?! Why on earth would you want to go there? Isn’t it illegal to dock there anyway?" I inquired.

"I don’t think so, as long as you don’t buy anything," Kevin said.

"Yeah, like gas for the return trip," I retorted.

"It’s only ninety miles from Key West, so we could make it round trip on one tank. Maybe we just stay at the dock and have a couple of Cuban cuties take care of us," Kevin suggested. "Yeah, that sounds good," he said, as if talking to himself. "They could wait on us hand and foot. Then we could have them bring us some cigars. We wouldn’t have to buy them. We could just smoke them and then give back the unused portion."

I inquired, "And why would the girls be so willing to do all this for us if we couldn’t pay them?"

"Because of our charm and good looks, my friend," Kevin replied with a grin.

As odd as this conversation was, even for Kevin, in the back of my mind I wondered why he would even think to go to Cuba for any reason.

I looked at my watch and said, "I think we’d better head to the restaurant. I know it’s early, but if we come back from dinner too late, it’ll make for a chilly ride."

It wasn’t just that, although what I’d said was true. What I had neglected to say, however, was that navigating the boat after dark was when one could get into trouble. As the air cooled over the warm Gulf water, fog would often form, making the trip home tricky, slower, and, potentially, dangerous.

"I could eat," Kevin said, patting his stomach.

We went back up on deck and got underway. I kept the boat in the Gulf until we got to Longboat Key. Then we went back into the Intracoastal Waterway and docked at the restaurant on the lee side of the island. We walked in and ordered a couple large piles of stone crabs.

"Man, this is some good living down here," Kevin said. "Maybe I should get a real estate license for this area. There’s great food, great weather—"

"—except during hurricane season," I said.

Subconsciously, I was hoping Kevin wasn’t serious about relocating here. Although I was enjoying my time with him, I wasn’t planning on becoming "good buddies" again as we had been in high school. I’d moved on from juvenile behavior, but I was not quite sure that he had.

"Well, I guess even paradise has its ups and downs," he said.

"So," I said, "you’re still into real estate. I remember that’s what you told me the last time I saw you, at the reunion."

"Yeah," Kevin said, his mind seeming to drift. Then, changing the subject abruptly, he asked, "Are you still into flying?"

"Yep," I replied.

"I’ll bet you’ve got your own plane now that you’re swimming in dough."

"How’d you guess?" I said, stuffing a couple of fingers full of crabmeat into my mouth.

"Just a hunch," Kevin said. "Where do you keep it?"

"Down I-75, at the airport in Venice," I said. "My parents live near there."

"Oh yeah, that’s right. How’re they doing?" Kevin asked, seemingly out of obligation.

"Pretty good," I replied. "I think they’re generally enjoying retirement."

"Maybe you could do me a favor," Kevin said. Then he paused for a few seconds. I looked up from my plate, fully expecting that he was going to ask me to fly him somewhere. Instead, to my surprise he said, "I’m looking for some information."

I kept looking at him, somewhat taken aback, and then said, "What…you mean about real estate?"

"No, no," Kevin said, shaking his head apologetically as if for inadvertently confusing me. "This is about something else."

There was another pause.

I went back to work, digging through the huge claws for some more meat. Finally, Kevin broke the silence, saying, "I need a person with some familiarity with flying, and procedures, and stuff, you know, things that go on at a flight school."

I kept digging, thinking to myself, This is damned peculiar…not like the jocular old Caveman.

"What kind of information are you interested in?" I asked—sort of off the cuff as if Kevin hadn’t just made the conversation weird.

He got right to the point. "I need to know if there are any foreign students—flight students—particularly of Middle-Eastern origin."

I let that statement hang in the air like a giant, helium-filled matzo ball.