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Buying coke Coral Bay

Good goddamn, the way Julian told that story. It was the sort of story that imbued the mind with possibility. That lingered like campfire smoke in a sweater. And the picture of the storyteller, too. Friday nights, about eight or ten of the men who lived out there on the edge of Archer, Florida, not far from Gainesville, got together for happy hour at the fire pit by Watermelon Pond. Even to the beer drinkers, Julian had a way of making wine look good. Turns out Julian had been telling the same damn story for years. Especially when someone new, like Rodney, came around. And with good reason, Julian always started with the turtles. Julian Howell and his wife moved to Culebra, an island off Puerto Rico, in to work for the sea-turtle-preservation project. So for several hours each day for a decade, Julian walked the beaches of Culebra, looking for signs of turtles. Often the beaches were empty—no sign of anything, turtle or human. But one day, amidst a profound ordinariness, Julian spotted a plastic-wrapped bale, about the shape and weight of a large piece of luggage, just plopped there in the froth of the tide. He approached it tentatively, as though it were an animal that might wake. As he got closer, he peered over both shoulders to see if anyone else was around, if anyone had dibs. It was almost funny. And here it was, perhaps: forty, fifty, sixty pounds. Think of how long it would last him! Weed, he hoped. But it could be coke, or something else. In an effort to buy more time, he dragged the package up the beach, dug a depression near the rocks, and covered it with leaves and debris. Less mythic was this mug shot, taken at the Alachua County jail. He mulled it over for weeks, until curiosity overwhelmed him. After putting in his hours at the bar one night, he built up enough courage to head back to the beach. It was one in the morning, but there was enough moonlight to find the bale and ease it up into the bed of his pickup. He hauled it home, then hid it in his toolshed for a couple more weeks. Finally, after waiting for his wife to leave for work one day, he took a kitchen knife to one of the wrapped segments, just to get a better look. What flaked off was white, pink-white. He strapped the bale to his back and stood on the bathroom scale, did some quick math: The coke weighed seventy pounds. Thirty-two kilos, wrapped thoughtfully in sixteen double-kilo bundles. Julian was no drug dealer. But he cut some into a jelly jar he kept in the kitchen, the way you keep nutmeg around for the rare party that requires eggnog. Then he buried the rest. Dug a hole out by the cistern at his house, and into the ground it went. That was more than fifteen years ago. Julian and his wife kept looking for the sea turtles, but not for much longer. Archer was a thirty-minute straight shot from Gainesville, followed by a murderously bumpy four-mile dirt road the men blamed for at least four divorces. In he started his own construction company. Rodney got married to a local girl, had a daughter with her they each had a kid from previous relationships , built a house for his family in Gainesville, and purchased another one down in Crystal River. When the real estate market collapsed in , northern Florida was sucked into the fiercest whirlpool. Rodney had already been forced to cut his payroll to six. The bank claimed his river house and his office. Those Friday-night fireside happy hours became a beloved ritual, and after enough wine, Julian would tell the cocaine story. Which is why Rodney was taken aback one morning when a guy he barely knew approached him and said: Hey, man, I can help with that coke down in Puerto Rico. This was Danny Jimenez. And because Andy liked talking loose and dreaming big when he got high, Danny knew about it, too. Rodney had never thought seriously about it. The construction business in Florida has yet to recover. Prospects for new work are grim. But Danny keeps coming by the office, stoking the notion. El Neg gives us cash for coke, and we split. That did sound pretty straightforward to Rodney. In March, Danny drops by again. Something has changed in Rodney. After tiptoeing, for months, out to the edge of the diving board, he finally seems ready to leap. He relishes the challenge of transporting the haul from Puerto Rico to Gainesville. He suggests an airdrop into his soft and sandy yard. No sweat. Three months later, he fucking does it. Casa Maria has a life-size cardboard cutout of The Most Interesting Man in the World, an electric broken countdown clock to Cinco de Mayo, and margaritas available by the pitcher. When Rodney sits down with Danny and the drug dealers, he orders one unsalted on the rocks. In previous meetings with Danny, Rodney had been firm about wanting to work with a pilot he knew personally, but Danny has persuaded him to meet with some experienced drug-running pros. Carlos is Puerto Rican and does most of the talking. Grant is a pilot. Carlos has set up the meeting to vet Rodney and his information. He peppers him with questions about the old guy who used to live in Puerto Rico, the story that Julian tells. He interrogates Rodney about his drug-running bona fides lacking and the referral from El Neg. Rodney tells Carlos and Grant the whole story, emphasizing the supposed quality of the product. No side effects, no drip and all that stuff. About thirty grand per kilo, Carlos says. Rodney will pay Carlos and Grant in kilos rather than dollars. Say, four bricks to start, maybe more, depending on what they find. Just take it off the top when you transport the cargo, Rodney says. Rodney articulates his desire to travel to Puerto Rico to unearth the bale himself—he feels he owes that to Julian—and Rodney and Grant hash out the logistics of getting the coke off the island. That makes it very easy for us. Rodney says he wants to get down there within the next couple of months. My k. But this opportunity, man—for some reason, I was made aware of this opportunity. Believe what you want. It could be sent here from God, for all I know. In late June of , Rodney books a last-minute trip to Puerto Rico. The two men catch a flight to San Juan, then a puddle jumper to Culebra. Before they go, Julian gives Rodney his old coordinates; Rodney keys them into Google and generates a printout. Rodney nearly shits his pants as they approach Culebra. The wind is blowing hard and sideways, forcing the plane to skirt the mountains. They make it and head to Club Seabourne—a resort Rodney gets at a cut rate, a hundred and fifty bucks a night—and Rodney settles in with the map. Andy heads to a bar, talks to a kid on a skateboard, finds some weed. But in the morning, Andy is too sick to leave the room. Turns out the home was carted off just a few months ago. Everything is as Julian described it. Except that over the years, it seems, water and sand and coral have calcified into a top layer as hard as concrete. Rodney had been expecting to dig right in with his hands, in complete privacy. Rodney is prepared to walk away from the whole scheme, but Andy persuades him not to give up entirely. They head straight to the spot. After a couple of hours, they throw the shovel into the bushes and give up. On the way home, when they land in San Juan, customs pulls every bag off the plane and brings out a couple of German pointers. After returning, Rodney ghosts. Nobody hears from him for about a week. Carlos and Andy look for him independently. Carlos does not like the sound of this. What if, Carlos suggests, we change the terms? What if we go get it and you pay us eight bricks instead of four? But you kept insisting. Rodney takes some serious convincing but eases into a reversal, now that Carlos is offering to do the heavy lifting. They make plans for how Carlos will make his trip. No, I go on a sixty-foot yacht. I go there tranquilo. Couple of girls. We have a good time, you know? I send my people to look, and I sit back sipping tequila. Rodney finishes his drink and, basking in the stresslessness of the new plan, expresses both relief and gratitude. Where you would go. Where you would land. Where you would take off from. There is a God. In Puerto Rico, Carlos is in touch with Rodney via text. Little questions about the location, confirmation of details—the look of the cistern, for example. As the afternoon of the hunt wears on, Rodney gets anxious. Just a bunch of yellowed wrapping and a little white. Still, the nest appears to have been found. Carlos seems ecstatic. A couple of days later, Carlos calls Rodney to let him know he and Grant got the coke back without incident. Carlos wants to make the handoff that very same afternoon. But Carlos is firm. I wish I had some more business to do with you. He feels it in his wrists and throat. He steps through the sliding doors and out into the August heat, a pregnant three-dimensional heat. Rodney gets in his truck and starts driving in slow circles, thinking hard about the strange journey that has led him here. He presses out wide to the edge of the parking lot, avoiding a direct line to the Cavalier. He sees nothing but the adjacent highway and empty asphalt—the stillness of the whole scene seems safe. He pulls up beside the Cavalier, unlocks the trunk, and picks up the duffel. Less the fat cut taken off the top, it feels about right in weight. Eighteen kilos, about forty pounds. He slides the duffel onto the bench seat in the back. After the countless meetings and phone calls, the pair of trips to Culebra, it ends up being that easy—even more straightforward than Rodney had ever dreamed it. He sees St. Johns County sheriff jackets, Homeland Security lettering. Who are all these guys? But slowly and then quickly, like thumbing the pages of a flip-book into full speed, the movie plays backward in his mind. And on the first page, standing there nearly a year ago at the side of his truck—a face in the window filled with divinely intervened helpfulness—is Danny Jimenez. In the winter of , Danny Jimenez was pulled over by cops in Alachua County. He had oxycodone pills in the car. He fled on foot at first and ultimately faced a fifteen-year mandatory minimum sentence. Danny delivered a few small-beans drug tips, and then one day he mentioned this story his friend Andy had told him. What landed on the tape was enough to get the Homeland Security Investigations unit involved. Rawley started working with an agent named Ryan McEnany. Rawley is a young sheriff who sometimes works in an office Rodney helped build. McEnany is more experienced and seems to have called most of the shots in the operation. He analyzed the map Rodney handed over and directed the operation in Puerto Rico. Carlos never went to Culebra; local agents dug up the coke. McEnany and Rawley deliberately kept Danny away from Rodney that day. He would literally be by himself. Rodney, therefore, is charged for intent to distribute not what federal agents actually found but what he was expecting them to find—a crime of anticipation. After six months of surveillance, the coordinated role-playing efforts of a half-dozen undercover federal agents, a Puerto Rican excavation, and an expense report that included several margarita tabs at Casa Maria, one might argue that it was a Pyrrhic victory for law enforcement. But McEnany and Rawley insist there was a principle at stake—a principle worth defending. No one else did what he did. Rodney is ultimately charged with attempted possession, five-plus kilograms of cocaine—a ten-year mandatory minimum. The coke he was arrested with was not the coke they dug up in Culebra but rather a blend of sham and real cocaine packed by McEnany and Rawley. Not even close. Of that bundle, what actually tested positive for cocaine was merely 2. A calcified blend of seawater, sand, and coke-ish rock. The salient legal issue, Rosenblum argues, is whether Rodney Hyden was entrapped. Rodney is not a drug dealer. And he had no other drug-dealer connections besides Danny and the undercover cops he met. Despite living with Danny, Andy never caught on to the sting, nor was he charged with abetting Rodney. By contrast, Rodney is staid, suited, dignified. This is a national problem, of course—the Rodneys of America plugging up jails. The judge struggles to arrive at what he deems to be a just sentence, ultimately handing down sixty days behind bars followed by five years of community service. And when you look at terms of the community service—twenty hours a week for five years? Rodney clocks his two months at Jesup federal prison in southern Georgia. Almost anything you do can be construed as a crime. Rodney and I had been in touch for eight months before we met in person. But I think, as the judge pointed out in the sentencing, they had some culpability, too. I decide to head down the next morning anyway. That afternoon, I tool around campus and, expecting nothing, drop Rodney a note about maybe checking out his office. My phone lights up at once. How would you like to meet Julian? He has a garden out back, a brown dog named Brown Dog, and a featherless cockatoo, all black skin like a plastic bag. He says you can sometimes see the elephants from the porch as they stroll to Watermelon Pond for a drink. We drive in deeper. Rodney cuts the engine and the live oaks fizz with insects, the static of dropped radio contact. Julian pops out of his Airstream and meets us near his Volvo—white T-shirt, shorts, neat ponytail, trim scruff. Law enforcement never charged Julian, but they never officially cleared him of wrongdoing, either. But from the go, Rodney kept Julian in the dark about the dirty work—he limited his involvement to telling the story and helping with the map. Rodney mentions, kind of incredulously, that during their investigation, Rawley and McEnany found their way back here to pay Julian a surprise visit. And my beard was down to here, and my hair was out to here. Blame it on the Airstream. Blame the elephants. Blame the fantastic remoteness of this place. Back here is such a pure place for good talk, but also a greenhouse for bad ideas. Which is no big deal if those ideas stay back here. So blame the perfect conditions of just the right story told just the right way in just the right environment. Blame the sounds of the story—the slithering South Carolina accent, the whistly snicker—and the charismatic look of the storyteller. Blame the snap of the fire and the warmth of the wine. A little later in the afternoon, at what people who are not Rodney and Julian might call the magic hour, the biting bugs swarm and the rain steams right back up off the ground and into the clouds. But first, one final thing:. I know this may seem unnecessary at this point, I say, but will you tell me the story? Rodney laughs hard and steers Julian into some favorite details. Little twists, extra texture, and then this new chapter, the third act, starring Rodney Hyden. You can put anybody in that situation and go everywhere with it. Weight: 75 to pounds a week; traffickers routinely forced to dump product to elude capture. Fun fact: Cocaine reportedly available at the grocery store! COM Instagram. Save this story Save. Most Popular. By Rosecrans Baldwin. By Jack King. By Adam Hurly. Within hours of closing arguments, the jury issues a guilty verdict. Do you have any idea how much blow gets dumped in the ocean every year? Neither do we, but as this global sampling shows, even Charlie Sheen would be impressed. Galveston, Texas August Daniel Riley is a longtime GQ features editor and writer. He is currently the Global Director of Content Development. Since joining the magazine in , he has written countless stories about film, television, sports, crime, politics, books, art, weddings, and Chili's. He is the author of two novels, Fly Me and Barcelona Days Read more. Global Director of Content Development X.

The Great Cocaine Treasure Hunt

Buying coke Coral Bay

I was aware of the reputation. How could I not be? But after five years in recovery it no longer felt like a concern. First stop Bogota. A vibrant mishmash of red-tiled colonial buildings with painted balcony balustrades. Narrow streets swoop up green mountains decapitated by clouds. A few people smoking crack in the street. That always grabs my attention. Then, curious red brick neighbourhoods that could have been transplanted from Oxford. They sprouted in rebellion against Spanish influence, after the 19th century wars for independence. He told me of a park with lots of parties and drugs and great opportunities to be robbed. I worried this was too ambiguous, and then wondered whether this was strategic ambiguity, that sneaky part of me leaving the door ajar without overtly leading him on. I felt a thrill of excitement, my skin tingling. What new experiences awaited in that light-flooded valley? He paused for a moment then reached into the glove compartment and handed me a box of injectable oxycodone ampoules. At this point my body became a travelling circus. My stomach launched into all sorts of acrobatics, somersaults, soaring trapeze stunts, fireworks going off down my spine, my breath hot and heavy like a fire breather, elephants stomping a foreboding death march across my brain, and my mind teetering on a tightrope above it all, its little arms outstretched, flailing to stay balanced and not tumble into the chaos below. I handed them back like a hot potato. Words that could have been said? Eventually, my urge to maintain polite conversation — the least consequential of all the urges and competing priorities clashing inside me — overrode everything. Just a few hours of fun, then leave it all behind and see the city, do what I came here for. The pharmaceutical protagonist of these fantasies, inches from my knees, was easy to cast. Then the rational voice kicked in: half a day? Yeah right. But… things are different now; after five years, you know enough about this beast to keep it in check. A one off would be fine. Just one more time. You can take it or leave it, which means you can definitely take it then leave it. Finally I hauled myself out of that debate and marvelled at how two voices, so distinct and persuasive, can co-exist in the same mind. We arrived at the hostel and the fantasies remained, for now, unconsummated. But the deviant part of my mind saw it as an investment. Now the sensible thing would have been to delete his number and forget all about it. And that idea certainly occurred to me. Yes, just in case. Upstairs in my room, two very wise courses of action occurred to me: delete his number, call someone. Neither were followed. Instead I chose a moderately wise course of action that kept the fantasies at bay until my eyes closed for the night — distract the shit out of myself. Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. Plump Botero statues bulged from plinths. But despite this visual feast, my attention was quickly consumed by people smoking crack around the perimeter. He theatrically brandished a colossal crack pipe, leaning back at 45 degrees, Matrix style. He went to light it, but performed yet another improbable feat; he paused, and brandished the pipe some more like a traffic conductor, before finally taking a hit. Beside him stood a woman, tranquil, calmly lighting her pipe over and over, without changing her posture or expression. My mind slipped into theirs and I wondered what they were feeling. My stomach lurched. Back on the bus I summoned the most vivid, euphoric snippets of speedball memories, like a butcher selecting the finest cuts of meat, savouring them until that circus started up again. Then I realised what was happening and how dangerous that was, and conjured the most miserable moments of those days, like a horror film connoisseur on a YouTube binge, seeing my old self sick and lonely, in a wonderful city surrounded by friends, yet unable to experience anything except cravings and misery. That shut the circus down. Funny that the best thing I could do for myself was tap into my worst memories. Imagining things induces similar neurological and physiological responses to actually experiencing them, which is why imaginal exposure can be such a valuable intervention for phobias, and safe-place imagery so helpful for PTSD. We can wreak havoc with our imagination, but we can also harness it to cultivate more helpful states. Sitting on that bus, I did both, over and over. A dizzying cycle of self-sabotage and self-preservation. He was reassuringly unconcerned. They come from nowhere, and if you let them, they disappear back where they came from; fucking nowhere. Research suggests a new thought arises every 4. What the hell should we do with them? Metacognitive perspectives suggest that our relationship with our thoughts matters more than their contents. The way we think about our thoughts determines the impact they have. Problematic metacognitive patterns in addiction include believing that you must control your thoughts and that thoughts are dangerous, which are significant predictors of relapse. I recalled my work with OCD, and the thought-action-fusion fallacy, which leads people to believe that thinking about something makes it more likely to occur. But you can think really hard about sitting down, whilst remaining standing. Having these thoughts after five years of recovery did not mean I was destined to enact them, or that something was going fundamentally wrong. The thoughts meant nothing at all, as long as I let them. The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. There is nothing new there. And sadly, in a way that is true. Nothing can feel as good as that intense flash of euphoria. One of the challenges of recovery is to accept slow burning pleasures instead. When you forgo the sublime intensity of narcotics, you need to find excitement elsewhere. And by God, Colombia was the right place to do that. Communa 13, with its brick buildings stacked precariously on a steep hillside, was one of the most violent parts. In , police raided Communa 13, killing nine people and wounding scores more. But since then, local projects and community centres have brought it back to life. The installation of nearly m of escalators has plugged it into the city. Buildings bloom with murals. Street dancers and rappers get crowds bouncing. The anthill alleys are cramped but not oppressive. It feels more vivid for the compression, human friction sparking festivity. But it also got me pondering my own complicity with the violence they were recovering from. Are western drug users responsible in part for the trail of destruction from Colombian coca fields to western mirrors and crack pipes? Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said :. The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. The jungle is not responsible. Society educated towards endless consumption, stupid confusion between consumption and happiness is what makes it possible for the pockets of the rich to be filled. Those responsible for drug addiction are not the forest. It is the lack of rationality of world power. Decreasing drug consumption does not need wars. It needs for all of us to build a better society with more solidarity, with more affection, where the intensity of life will save people from addiction. Art by Rhys James artbyrhysjames. I walked into the Botero Museum and started laughing like a delighted child. One painting shows a plump little conical nubbin of a Catholic bishop walking through a forest in a flamboyant pink frock, with a pink umbrella no rain and his pink cape trailing far behind. He is ludicrously, determinedly extravagant and inelegant against the effortless elegance of the towering trees behind. He is ridiculous. In a way that combination of levity and love is a guide to our relationship with ourselves. Laugh at the sincerity of our weird little pursuits, but love ourselves for the persistence of our pursuit, even in the face of this absurdity. Another painting, El Estudio, shows a colossal nude model, a vast expanse of buttocks dominating the foreground at eye level. The miniscule head of the painter peers at her from behind the canvas. His gaze is solemn and diligent, but the scaling mismatch renders his task and his solemnity absurd. How could he have enough paint? Standing in front of those inflated buttocks, I experienced an awe-inspiring sense of deflation like de Botton in the Sinai Mountains. I felt small and insignificant, like the pea-headed painter, and that downsizing left me floating free like a peanut shell dropped from a cliff top. I was drunk without drinking, and that is a good place to be in recovery. Forgoing those pleasures was a pleasure in itself. After an easy ride in recovery of late, the temptation to say yes reminded me of the thrill of saying no. Bobbing on a boat out at sea, I rolled backwards into another world. Instantly unplugged are the parts of your mind that process the past and the future and self and others. You are nobody. Just a floating awareness of coral brains covered in winding labyrinths and wrinkled purple pancake stacks. Architecturally adventurous alien cities. Flailing claws hint at crustaceans. A moray eel protrudes like a leathery hand puppet. Accusatory eyes. Accusing who? Not me. There is no me. Social anxiety does not exist here. Back on the surface the heavens had opened. I squeezed onto a bus into town. He looked up and smiled at me watching him watching. I felt alive. This is how I want to use this soggy bundle of neurons to pleasure myself, I thought. Keep mainlining reality. View all posts by Joel Lewin. The artwork by Rhys James adds a nice touch to the piece. Like Like. Enjoyed reading about your journey in the physical and mind. Skip to content. When I said I was going to Colombia some eyebrows were raised. Do you like drugs? Lots of heroin. When bad memories are medicine Arriving at Botero Plaza, my eyes shimmied across the curving chessboard facade of the Palacio Cultural. It was time to call my sponsor. Intensity of experience The campaign waged by that craving voice boils down to a single message: it feels so good. But… nothing feels so good. Speaking to the UN in September shortly after his election victory, Petro said : The sickness of society will not be cured by spilling glyphosate in the jungle. Share this: Twitter Facebook. Like Loading Next Dancing sober: the final frontier. Published by Joel Lewin. Leave a comment Cancel reply. Comment Reblog Subscribe Subscribed. Sign me up. Already have a WordPress. Log in now. Loading Comments Email Required Name Required Website.

Buying coke Coral Bay