By Gracie Davis
“The Company” follows a married Ohio couple's journey as members of a Fort Lauderdale marijuana smuggling organization in 1981. Through a nostalgic lens of the past, we venture into their unique perception of adventure, camaraderie, and how the most unexpected of life's experiences can become some of the most impactful. From the moment they set sail to the point of their arrests, this now elderly couple reflects on one of the greatest, most influential trips of their lives.
Photo by Subject (in picture)
Photo by Subjects
The glare off the windows of the 1978 Buddy Davis Sport Fisherman only intensified the chaos. Until this moment, that particular span of ocean felt infinite, its emptiness satiating the crew like a life preserver never could for the job they were undertaking. Instead of dreading the desolate sea, they allowed themselves to be enveloped in its ink, welcoming its offer of solitude. For as long as the vast array of stars were the only light source piercing the night, their breaths came evenly and their hoard remained hidden. However, as they can tell you, it’s easy to forget that you’re only one step ahead of the jailer, until you’re not.
The air was sweltering as they stepped off the plane in Fort Lauderdale in 1981. Accustomed to the climate of northern Ohio, Ben and Marnie were practically drowning in the humidity. They were invited down to visit some friends who had rented a house on the canal. Their immediate future held the promise of days spent sailing and fishing with old friends from home and even new ones from Colombia. But everyone knows that vacations are never meant to last, and Ben and Marnie’s only lasted the duration of the plane ride down. While their fellow passengers rushed off towards taxis that would take them to beachside resorts, Ben and Marnie landed on Florida soil ready to work. They had some smuggling to do.
Following a short cab ride to a nondescript corner outside of their friends’ neighborhood, Ben and Marnie allowed a salty breeze to guide them to Blaine and Charlotte’s house on the canal. Maintaining a healthy level of paranoia, Marnie threw several sweeping glances over her shoulder at the empty road behind them before approaching the yard. Palm trees and dense foliage lined the driveway, hiding the docks and the quaint turquoise-colored house from view of the street. Windchimes adorned the porch, blocking out any voices they may have heard coming from inside, and on the doorstep lay several pairs of shoes. Leaving their own as further company, Ben knocked on the door and entered with Marnie on his heels.
A hushed silence and tacky sand dollar clad walls greeted the couple as they crossed the threshold. Their padded footsteps and the muted tinkling of the windchime were the only sounds in the vacant entryway. It wasn’t until Charlotte’s pale face rounded the corner that the silence finally fractured and an assortment of voices flooded the room.
“Isn’t the decor hideous?” Charlotte’s nose crinkled. “I don’t know what those old landladies were thinking.”
“Well,” Blaine started as he greeted Ben with a clap on the back. “As long as they take the money and keep quiet, I’ll look at dead seahorses all day.”
The two remaining men in the room were less familiar to Ben and Marnie but were by no means strangers. Ben had worked with the Captain and Grant in the past, and if they were here, that meant they’d be working together again. The six of them didn’t look like much as they made their way to the dining room table, but the normality of each individual was what made them invisible. It allowed them to carry out their duties under the radar yet still in plain sight. The only risk for exposure was each other.
Once they solidified the details regarding the meeting coordinates and deadlines, Marnie and Charlotte left to prepare their sailboat while the men made their way to the Buddy Davis Sport Fisherman they would be operating. Though it was still relatively early, the docks had been mostly cleared out since the other fishing boats had already left for a day out on the water.
The Captain shifted a large green case in his arms as he climbed into the vessel. Ben was unfazed by the two concealed AR-15s being stowed out of sight in the boat’s cabin. They were simply precautionary in the case of any encounters with modern-day pirates or other less agreeable smugglers in the area, both of which were unlikely but never impossible. These were supposed to be the sole firearms on board and for protection only, but both Blaine and Grant had tucked pistols in the backs of their pants. The two had clearly broken protocol, but there was nothing that could be done at that point. They were on a strict deadline, and any delay could disrupt the entire process. So, instead, Ben merely told them they were a pair fucking dumbasses and continued loading the Buddy Davis. And as the boat pulled away from port, Ben spotted that one of the only other people at the dock had binoculars around his neck.
With the cool feeling of seaspray misting their faces, the crew didn’t mind the sun beating down on them. They even welcomed it. The ride from Fort Lauderdale to Freeport in The Bahamas took a few hours, so they spent that time painstakingly prepping the Buddy Davis for the impending shipment. After already completing two successful trips in the past, Ben knew what to expect and expertly laid the sheets of tarp across every surface of the vessel with Blaine and Grant’s assistance. The Captain focused on navigation and checking that all of the high-end equipment was functioning properly. The higher-ups spared no expense on this front, ensuring that their teams had the best gear possible, including a radio with considerable favor towards Jimmy Buffett.
The sun was setting as the bouts of adrenaline rose within them. The 200-foot Colombian freighter was in view on the horizon, so the crew prepared themselves mentally for what was to come. There would be no time to falter or second guess what they were doing, only loading bale upon bale, ton upon ton into their vessel. As the bumpers dropped into the water, so did any trepidation Ben could have been harboring. There was no room for fear. Everyone knew each other so there was a slim chance of a pick-up gone wrong, but this also meant that the only way they could be caught was if someone from within the organization had sold them out. But, no one would be so stupid, right?
Transferring several tons of marijuana from the freighter was a feat in itself, consuming their attention to the point of forgetting about being busted. The utter rush of the experience carried their movements, enabling them to function as an unceasing machine, a conveyor belt of flesh and burlap ever turning until there was nothing left to pass on. But their job wasn’t done—this was only the first leg of an intense journey they would contend with. They were a long way from home.
With the Buddy Davis packed to the brim—cabin, cargo holds, and even the exposed stern—the boat left the mother freighter with every tool needed to succeed. A sweet departure only tainted by the smallest unexplained drop of dread unfurling in the pit of Ben’s stomach. The ocean’s surface was too smooth, too calm—its state in complete contrast with the churning crew. They left the freighter behind and seeped into the embrace of the boundless black before them; a sky bleeding into the depths with only the faint sprawl of stars separating the two from each other.
Ben, Blaine, Grant, and the Captain were responsible for distributing their cargo to four sailboats that same night. Like with the freighter, most of these exchanges took place in a blur. They met at each set of predetermined coordinates and unloaded as many bales as they could fit onto the other boats. Eventually, the Buddy Davis bobbed a bit lighter, and the tarp lining the deck began to resurface. The final sailboat they were to service carried their wives with a crew of their own, but there was no time to be wasted in greeting each other. Marnie, Charlotte, and their team efficiently transferred the rest of the supply onto their sailboat, and after brief goodbyes, they turned back towards the rental property.
It was when they were several hundred yards away that Marnie looked back at the Buddy Davis, its wake rolling across the surface on either side of the vessel like the unfurling of wings before flight. But beyond her husband’s boat and out of sight of his crew, a substantial shadow emerged from the sea. A helicopter had come to clip their wings.
Oblivious to the potential threat, the Buddy Davis only slowed down after a while to clean the boat spotless. Tarps were stripped and thrown overboard; any remnants of illegal cargo were swept and tossed into the sea along with the tools used to collect them; their shoes were wiped clean, and there was no more burlap to be seen. The motor was the only sound as the fishing boat continued to spear through the night. Between the unabating spindrift and the glinting stars overhead, they were euphoric. The whirling rush of the job unrelenting. No drugs had entered their systems, but they were on a high all the same. Wind plastering their hair in every direction, lips split in grins so wide they were blinding in the darkness.
But, suddenly, the motor wasn’t the only noise puncturing the silence. A distinct chopping deafened their ears as an aircraft emerged before them. It was still far enough away that the helicopter could have been unrelated to them, but they wouldn’t risk it. The Captain disappeared into the cabin and soon returned with the case of rifles and promptly threw them overboard. Ben watched the case sink out of sight as Blaine and Grant tossed their guns in as well; they couldn’t afford to leave any evidence behind, regardless of whether the helicopter was coincidental or not. They had enough gas in the tank to flee further into the open ocean but ultimately decided against it. There was no point in causing a scene if the aircraft wasn’t watching them to begin with. They held their breath as the helicopter soared clear past them, not once lingering. However, their collective exhale was cut short by intense searchlights consuming them from the water.
The boat for the Drug Enforcement Administration was smaller than the sport fisherman and only carried three officers. The Buddy Davis was scrubbed spotless, so Ben and his crew didn’t let their nerves show as the authorities searched the vessel; there was no evidence for them to find. The zipties that the officers used as handcuffs dug into Ben’s wrists with every slight movement, and his socks were gathering moisture from the wet deck beneath his feet. But he remained stoic and only answered the officer monitoring them with the fabricated story they had prepared.
“So, what are you guys doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“Fishing.”
This was the only response any of them would give, not even saying a word when baited with the reason for their imminent arrest.
“You guys aren’t as tight knit of a ring as you think,” the officer went on as his partners continued their search. “All it took was the offer of a plea to one of your dealers to get him talking. Saving his own skin at the expense of your lot.”
Only silence answered him, but Ben was stewing beneath his impassive demeanor over the thought of a snitch in their midst. Someone had royally fucked them over. They had been set up to fail regardless of whether the DEA found any evidence with which to detain them. And as soon as the thought crossed Ben’s mind, the other two officers returned with the crew’s confiscated shoes in hand. They claimed to have found marijuana seeds in the soles of their shoes, but Ben didn’t believe it for a second. They had taken every precaution necessary to cover their tracks; no seeds would have been left behind. It seemed to Ben that the DEA was satisfied enough to convict them on what was apparently planted evidence. They may have done the crime, but Ben didn’t see how the authorities would have procured the evidence to prove their guilt. To him, it was a case of guilty until proven innocent. And now, all that was left to do was await their verdict.
The image of the helicopter was pasted in Marnie’s memory as her sailboat docked at the canal house. The aircraft could have been nothing, but she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that it wasn’t. Regardless, there was no way to know her husband’s fate at that moment, and she still had a job to do. Moving past her inner turmoil, Marnie started helping the crew transfer the shipment into the house where it would remain until the vans came to pick it up. Once the vans were stocked, they would be dropped off in department store parking lots for someone to retrieve the next morning. She didn’t know what happened to the supply after that.
Marnie and Charlotte were then responsible for cleaning the house—or Marnie was since Charlotte passed out from exhaustion. She was in the process of trying to figure out how the sweeper worked when the rental house’s landline started to ring. Cautiously, Marnie lifted the phone to her ear, unsure who could be calling because they knew not to talk over the phone. She shouldn’t have been surprised that it was Blaine breaking protocol again, but in doing so, Marnie finally got an answer as to what happened to the Buddy Davis.
After they were escorted back to shore, the crew of the Buddy Davis was immediately brought to the local county jail. They were briefly separated in order for each person to strip and get hosed down of any grime and dignity before entering the cell. During this time, Ben was given the chance to make his one phone call but declined. He wouldn’t be responsible for outing any fellow conspirators and maintained his silence. The four of them reunited as they were crammed into a cell that was already exceeding capacity by about twenty guys. Every bunk was occupied, but the adrenaline high had finally petered out, and Ben’s limbs suddenly felt as though they weighed as much as the shipment that had gotten them caught. Ben mentally hit a wall as his face simultaneously became flush with the floor, eyes drifting closed despite the ever-present racket of his new roommates.
He awoke to someone poking him in the face.
“You got any smokes?” The Captain’s face hovered over Ben’s much too close for comfort. When Ben shook his head, the Captain subsequently found a sleeping stranger nearby and combed through the poor guy’s pockets until he came up successful. With the prized cigarette hanging from between his teeth, the Captain clued Ben into their situation. The higher ups were going to post each of their bails in the morning.
Ben sat alone, his tailbone digging into the cement floor as the Captain went to tell the others. Barely two minutes later, another cellmate he didn’t recognize came to sit next to him.
“You guys are like the Company,” the man began. “Since you’ve gotten here, no one’s ratted on anyone to the authorities. No one’s said nothin’!”
And everyone continued to say nothing. Once their bails were paid the next morning, each of which between $250,000 and $500,000 in 1981 currency, the crew of the Buddy Davis was able to go home to await their sentences. With the help of some very well-paid lawyers, Ben was sentenced to six months in federal prison, but only served three months and thirteen days for good behavior. Marnie and the others who didn’t board that ill-fated boat luckily never got caught, but that was the end of the organization as they knew it. And after those three months and thirteen days, life went on as normal. It was as if their adventure had never even happened. As the decades faded away, memories became murky, but the time they spent in the water so green would never fully disappear.
Photo by Subjects