The Mysterious Box

“C’mon Chaki, let’s get outta here,” my brother said with a shudder from the front of the canoe. I had never seen him that anxious. I was still standing in the seaweed, looking with disbelief at the box, knife in hand, unsure of what I should do. I was twelve years old.

I lived in Miami, Florida from when I was four to when I was fourteen, before moving to Connecticut for high school. My fondest memories from that time were when I would load up my 15 foot skanoe (canoe with a flat back) with all my fishing stuff, mount the 5 horsepower Nissan engine, grab my brother, and walk the canoe on its little set of wheels across the street to the marina. Most of the time my two best friends, also brothers, would join us in their jonboat.

Usually we’d go fishing and exploring, often leaving the marina before sunrise. The only time I didn’t have any trouble getting up early was when I was going fishing, and the same holds true today.

Even sixteen years later, when I close my eyes and think back to the times we would cruise down Snapper Creek, I can relive the experience in vivid detail. The hum and vibration of the motor, the smooth sound of the water on the hull, the salty Miami air on my face and through my hair, the sound of the boat’s wake easing into the mangrove roots, that unique feeling of adolescent freedom, the utter excitement from the anticipation of the experiences ahead. It was a beautifully simple time in my life.

On this particular day, our mission was to gather driftwood and continue working on the two-story fort we had started building in the mangroves. Even though it was more than four years after Hurricane Andrew, the undeveloped shorelines were still littered with tons of wood from demolished houses and docks. Our boats were full of hammers, nails, drills, and every other tool we needed to build our fort.

After a thirty minute cruise, we reached our intended shoreline and started loading the boats up with wood. Most of it was at least partially buried by brown, dried seaweed that crunched under our feet as we walked. The boats almost loaded to capacity, I peeked behind a mangrove for one last piece, looked down, and saw a duct-taped box almost completely covered in the brown seaweed. I immediately knew it was something bad. Drugs? A bomb? A dismembered body? Cash? Well cash wouldn’t have been a bad thing, but my twelve year-old imagination ran wild with the possibilities. I was legitimately worried it was a bomb and would explode if I messed with it. My second concern was that it was a dismembered body, or a human head. Sometimes I wish I could re-acquire my youthful imagination.

My friend and I decided to bring it out into the sunlight to inspect it. Neither of us could lift it alone, and even with the two of us it was heavy and bulky. I remember the sun reflecting off of the glossy duct tape, and the number “25” written clearly on top in green marker.

I fetched my filet knife from the canoe, removed the sheath, and slowly slid it into the side of the box with trembling hands. I wasn’t sure whether to expect an explosion, or to pull the knife out to find it bloodied. As I retracted the knife from the box, it shone a brilliant white. There was white powder everywhere. Drugs.

We freaked out a bit, and I remember immediately feeling as if someone were watching us. Had we spoiled a drug deal? Were the drug dealers gonna kill us? Was there a sniper about to shoot us dead? My brother’s panicked pleading us to get out of there made the whole experience even more nerve-wracking.

We replaced the box where we had found it and got the f*ck outta there, deciding to do nothing and tell no one. It turns out my friends told their parents later that day, who in turn called the Coast Guard. They went back to the spot to retrieve the coke, and their subsequent analysis determined that the box was 25 kilos of 100% pure cocaine with an estimated street value of over $1.875 million. We had held almost $2M of cocaine in our hands.

The Coast Guard assumed the box was dumped from a trans-Atlantic freighter as a Coast Guard patrol approached it, and this box had washed up on shore. Makes sense.

My friends didn’t want any kind of publicity due to a fear of retaliation from the drug runners, so only my brother and I received the Do the Right Thing award from the Miami PD. I remember the chief of police jokingly offering us a job in narcotics. And I remember the $100 savings bond awarded to each of us. $100 for $1.875M.

Without fail, the first reaction I get when I tell this story is, “You should have sold it!” Without fail, my response is, “I’d probably be dead if I tried.” And I mean it. I would have either been killed in an attempted drug deal, or I would have developed a severe cocaine addiction and OD’d. That would have been a cute headline, “12 year-old dies of cocaine overdose”.

I cashed the savings bond in a few years ago and wondered if I should buy some cocaine with it, for irony’s sake.