Cay Lobos…or The Day Cutter GRAND ISLE invaded the
Bahamas…for real
What’s that you say?
An invasion? Impossible!! Never
happened!! Couldn’t happen!!
Well, it did. And
like any good sailor spinning a sea story…this has a grain of truth to it.
Mighty GRAND ISLE was nearing the end of a two-month trip
deployed out of Coast Guard Base Miami Beach (the astute reader of this blog
will recall the night that never happened…or maybe you don’t). Other than successfully evading Hurricane
Mitch it was an overall boring trip—a few boardings here and there; chasing
surefire leads based on hot intel (if you are in the Coast Guard or were, you
may insert laughter at that sentence).
Regardless it had been a trip of not much account…until…
We were only a few days until we OUTCHOPPED and made our way
back home; just in time for Christmas.
The crew tried to fill days with whatever work they could; days grew to
tremendous lengths at the end of a patrol.
There is a combination of dread and longing—no one wants the big case at
the end; diverted to some unknown mission imperiling the last day and the trip
home. Everyone wants to go home—50 plus days so far on a 110, even with
portcalls, is a long time. Its
gets…close.
GI and its crew were minding our own business…patrolling the
Tongue of the Ocean…again. We were
planning on departing the OPAREA in a day or so, sail to Miami, top off on gas
and food and head home. Plans are so
cute…
“SHARK Three Eight this is Miami.” The 7th Coast Guard District is
busy and has a ton of law enforcement cases each year and over on open
frequency they did not use out name but the ubiquitous Shark along with the
last two hull numbers. Truly, I never
knew what advantage we gained as an organization…but come on…SHARK 3 8 sounds
pretty cool.
“Miami, SHARK 3 8 go.”
“Come up on secure.”
The bridge watch about got seasick in unison…never a good
sign and the impending, dreaded, final mission loomed…
I’m not much of a writer; if I were I could describe how difficult
it is to talk on a secure frequency back in the late 90s (it may be easier now
but I suspect there are obstacles still).
So imagine if you will, someone talking on a cell phone, outside, in the
wind, by a highway, with marbles in their mouth, skipping every third word…you
might be close to how it was.
“GRAND ISLE, Miami. You need to proceed at best speed to Cay
Lobos.”
I have to say, I really wanted to ask “What’s a Cay
Lobos?” I did not…
“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLE, say again. Cay Lobos?
Do you have a position?”
The command center relayed a latitude and longitude; it was
a small island north of Cuba that has a lighthouse. And that is it. The island is maybe 40 or so miles from
Cuba. Look it up on Google Maps…its
nauseatingly close to Cuba. And we were
going there; an American Coast Guard cutter…well this was going to be fun.
After finding out we were sailing to just an inch from the
lion’s den I radioed back with, what I would think, was a very compelling
request.
“Miami, Cutter GRAND ISLA; what is our tasking once we get
there?”
“A helo spotted a boat and what they believe are migrants on
the island. You are to go there, verify
that intel, and if possible extricate the migrants off Bahamian territory.”
Extricate…what…so I have to send a team ashore to get these
people off the island. As a gentle
reminder…I did not join the Marines…we were in the Coast Guard and we were not
one to send an armed landing party on foreign soil. [Technical note: We had a Bahamian Defense Forces sergeant
aboard that gave legal permission to pursue this course of action…but, hey, we
still invaded!!]
This was our mission, nothing more to discuss.
“Roger, Miami. Will
advise of ETA and provide SITREP once on scene.
GRAND ISLA, out.”
Heavy sigh…I have no need to make an announcement to the
crew…everyone knows. The XO and Chief
are on the bridge. My QM3 plotted a
course and said it was about 6 hours away at 15 knots. We should be fine on gas and it will get us there
around sunset. I wanted some daylight
but thought running out of gas was not such a good option.
“We need a plan.” XO
was Johnny on the spot. I thought he already had one and I was right.
The district said there would be about 7 to 10 migrants on
the island. We had 17 people on
board. XO’s plan was straightforward. Launch the boat with our primary boarding
team and the Bahamian sergeant with a total load of seven people. They would do an initial sweep while the
small boat came back to embark an additional four people to sweep behind the
primary team to see if they flushed any migrant into the open. With the boat
crew that left six people on GRAND ISLE.
Not good at all. The Chief and I would be the EPO and OOD with the
remaining four people there in case of an emergency. What emergency six of us could respond to was
beyond me, however. With both landing team
fully armed, we cleaned out the armory of side arms and sent an M-16 in the
small boat.
Well…that was our plan.
I never did tell the command center how many people would be left aboard
GI…they couldn’t help and the less they knew the less they would try to
micromanage the operating.
We arrived just at sunset and by the time we got in a
position to launch the boat it was dark.
Great.
We were close enough to Cuba to hear radio transmissions and
at one point I was pretty sure they were talking about GRAND ISLE. We were quite outside their territorial sea
but did not relish meeting a Cuban gunboat at night.
Great.
GRAND 1 was away to starboard enroute Cay Lobos. We had sent several of our coded radios and
we should be close enough to maintain comms with the landing party. The back up team was at the rail and waiting
the small boat’s return so they could join in the search.
“GI, Landing 1…safely ashore. No sign of anyone but there is
a boat on the beach. We are moving inland.”
“Roger. Landing 2
will be away and enroute shortly.”
Now all I could see was the flashlight beams slowly making
their way along the beach; the radio quiet.
Landing 2 got away without a hitch.
I was glued to my bionos and looking at the island when all of the
flashlights starting making wild movements and a breathy call came over the
radio.
“We have movement and have spotted a migrant!”
“Roger that, Landing 2 is there.”
And how. Their lights
immediately assumed the frantic gyrations I just saw and congregated close to
what I assume is the first landing team.
Long silence…and trust me…one of the most difficult aspects
of command is the waiting. I was not on scene; my XO was in charge. I wanted to know what was going on, how they
were—but it was his call.
“GI, Landing 1. We
have 5 migrants. They say that is all
there were. We want to sent them back.”
“Roger that.”
At this point the logistics get a bit dry but the short of
it is we needed to make multiple runs with the migrants keeping enough security
on the small boat and then the cutter to control the situation. We had set up the fantail for the migrants;
it wasn’t going to be comfortable but we would have blankets, a tarp to help
with the spray, and food and water.
Once the whole gaggle was safely returned the junior office who
was a Spanish speaker took each of the migrants to the foc’sle and did an impromptu
interrogation. I couldn’t hear him but
watched him and could figure out what was going on. It took a few round but he found his
mark. He took a pack of smokes out of
pocket and offered one to the migrant.
He gave him a lighter. It was like watch a cop drama on a Saturday
night.
An hour or so later he and the XO met me on the mess deck
and told me they thought two more migrants were ashore. I knew we would not find them at night so we
made a show of heading north with Cay Lobos astern and I hoped the migrants
thought we were leaving.
Just over the horizon we extinguished our running lights and
waited until morning. I reported to the
command center what we had found and finally got some sleep.
The crew got up 0400 and launched our primary boarding team just
over the horizon and they followed us back to the island. The plan was to have them dash ahead once the
island was in sight and surprise remaining.
The remaining migrants didn’t even make an attempt to
run. With little effort we got them aboard. We contacted the command center had arranged
for the Bahamian Immigration Officers to take custody of the Cubans in Nassau.
Before the Landing team finished they radioed:
“GI, Landing Party.
What do we do with the boat?”
Easy one.
“Scuttle it.”
“Roger that.”
This may have been one of the time I needed to ask a few
more questions. I thought they would put
some holes in the bottom and be good.
They thought: “BURN IT!!”
Have you ever seen fiberglass burn, fiberglass that has been
doused with gasoline, and then shot with a flare. Well besides from being spectacular it puts
enough black smoke in the air to violate most EPA regulations. And there is the “hey were are just north of
Cuba” thing too.
After politely informing my landing team the need for
alacrity, we brought them back aboard and slow steamed to Nassau in order to
keep a calm ride for the migrants and to conserve fuel…we were a litte low.
I went to the fantail and brought my translator; I told them
what was going on. For each of them it
was routine. They had all been caught previously and returned to Cuba. I asked them what would happen. They said they would get a small fine, spend
a night in jail, and then try again as soon as they could.
Remember…we were at the end of the patrol. If we made it to Nassau on time we would only
have a day left. We would need to top
off fuel then head back to Miami, top off fuel again and hug the coast
home. Unless you have a crazy engineer…
“Sir.” In his English accent.
“Yes Chief.”
“We can make it home without getting more fuel.”
“What??” A straight
shot home would take us 600 miles offshore.
The Atlantic in December is unforgiving and unpredictable at best. If we hit any trouble we were on our own.
“Captain, I talked to QM1 and XO…we have enough gas to make
it home.”
And that…is a tale for another story…
