Walt Jenkins sat for lunch at a local tavern on the southern end of the island. He ate jerk chicken and plantains and washed it down with a Red Stripe while he watched the efficiency of the crane operators and listened to the creaking of the ships. There was only the infrequent tourist in the Jamaican parish of Westmoreland. Far removed from the sandy white beaches and pristine resorts, not much happened in Westmoreland to attract vacationers. The tiny parish was a hub to the commercial industrial workings of the island. After tourism, Jamaica’s economy was fueled by the export of bananas. Much of the island’s exportation business happened here at the Savanna-la-Mar port, where tankers docked and cranes lifted thousands of crates of fruit onto ships for transport to foreign lands.

On the north side of the port was a small marina where recreational vessels were moored. There were not many. Wealthy tourists chose other, more scenic and practical locations to park their massive sailboats and yachts. Montego Bay and Ocho Rios were among the most popular. There was a sought-after harbor on the north side of Negril that required clout to secure a slip. But here in Westmoreland, the marina was occupied by small motorboats and fishing vessels that had stopped for service. It was, Walt promised, the perfect location for the delivery.

He finished his lunch and nursed a second Red Stripe, the whole time checking his watch and watching the marina. After thirty minutes he saw the sailboat appear out of the west, its sails full and majestic. A sailing novice, to Walt the boat looked far too big for its purpose. He paid his bill and walked out to the dock, watching as the boat drew closer to land. The sails came down and the boat took a more direct approach toward him. He stood at the end of the pier and waved as the crew of four expertly steered the boat into the slip, roping it off and securing it before Walt could think to offer a hand.

He read the name of the boat, stenciled on the stern, and confirmed that this was, indeed, the boat he was waiting on. The crew looked haggard. All four men sported thick beards and shaggy hair that sprouted from beneath their hats. Their skin looked bronzed and windburned.

“Gentlemen,” Walt said, “looks like you’ve had a helluva journey.”

The captain of the crew jumped onto the pier, removed his hat and sunglasses, and wiped his hand across his brow to clear the perspiration.

“Let’s just say the flight home is going to be a lot easier. You Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir,” Walt said, handing over both his American driver’s license and his passport.

The captain took the documents and secured them under the clasp of his clipboard. He scribbled information from Walt’s ID onto the delivery slip, checked a few boxes, and handed everything back to Walt.

“Signature at the bottom.”