Leaving is Returning Book Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from the autobiographical novel “Leaving is Returning” by Robert Kuhn.

SAN ANDRES

I made it.

The panga pulled in down the beach aways from where Marlon and I were waiting. It came near the Hotel Delfines. I was already starting to get drunk on the rum some “friend” kept shoving down my throat. Then I found out it was spiked with crack. I felt the numbness of my lips and throat and went to grab my backpack, which was taken from the beached panga where we were awaiting the pick up. I start running around crazy trying to find my bag. The Colombian skiff was already on the shore. The bartender has it I find out, and he’s got my bag emptied out on the floor. He doesn’t believe it’s me in the ID picture. I look at it. I don’t believe either.

It’s too dark to write. Turn on the light and disconnect from the train you were in.

Stuck in a moment of indecision, whether or not to step outside. Stuck in a moment with the mirror, staring at a maniac.

I finally get the bag back from the bartender, away from Tom the Queer, and hurry down the beach hoping to catch the panga before it leaves. I’m feeling the cocaine and thinking it might not be such a bad thing on a trip like this. By the time I reach the boat, it is just getting ready to launch. I neither hesitate nor ask questions. I ran into the water and jumped up into the skiff.

It was a big panga with a huge hull and two two hundred horsepower engines. It had some muscle.

As soon as I was in, it was a cluster fuck. I could smell Colombian joints being passed around over the thick air of gasoline. I was a worried for our safety. The captain was yelling and messing around with one of the engines that kept cutting off. They were trying to siphon gas out of one of the tanks on deck and into the engine, but they were too rushed and couldn’t succeed. Everyone was flipping out. They didn’t even notice that I was there. They need light to see, but every time someone turned on a flashlight, another yelled about the police. The captain was a big black guy that reminded me of a Rasta Ton Loc. He had a big belly, and a big bass crass voice. He kept shouting for rum, weed, whiskey or beer. “Rum! Weed!” he would holler, and one of the mates would pass it to him. By the time that we got out of the Islita’s harbor, things cooled down a little bit and they realized that they had no idea who I was. “What the fuck? Who the fuck is this?” they yelled. “Cual panga?” someone finally calmed down and asked me. “Para San Andres,” I replied. “How the fuck does he know where we’re going?” one of the crew asked themselves.

Then someone vouches for me, that they saw me standing on the beach when Marlon was doing the negotiating. “Two hundred and fifty dollars,” they told me. If not, they said they would drop me back off on the rocks. We were in such a hurry to get out of there I knew that was a lie. I was a little worried that they might just shoot me and throw me overboard though. “No tengo,” I told them. I told them all I had was about forty dollars, which was still an exaggeration. I knew that I had less than thirty dollars in Nicaraguan and Colombian bills together after the few beers I had at the bar and the forty cordovas I got swindled out of by two crackheads. It costs twenty cordovas a piece. It didn’t matter anymore. I gave them all I had and knew they wouldn’t count it until the morning anyway. They took it, but were not happy. We sped off over the dark, cold sea crashing over the top of every wave in our way. It didn’t matter what was in our way. We were flying blindly. I got the last space in the boat. I was ass down in the bow, with no foot room on a plastic gas tank lodged in between two big plastic gas drums that held sixty gallons apiece. There was gasoline everywhere. My pants were soaked with it. My dick and balls started to burn from it. I knew this was going to be a long hard ride. I already had to pee. I knew I could hold it for a little bit, but the discomfort was rising. The boat cracked down after every wave, and each wave cracked me down onto the plastic handle of the gas tank that I knew would soon either smash my tailbone or shoot up my ass. It was uncomfortable to say the least, a condition that would soon rise to pain and anguish and later to joy and recovery.

Vecteezy Courtesy of Photo By the time we saw the helicopter and the first police boat, the captain of the panga was so drunk that he was slurring his speech and it was difficult for anyone to understand what he was saying. At first, the boats were little more than red lights in the distance. The plane could have been a star.

“Hey, you watch for da plane,” he said. “Keep eye on dat boat. Where de boat gone?” he stammered. “Gimme de gun. Get de guns!” he slurred. One of the crew jumped past me into the hull, pulled out a black canvas bag and handed it back behind me. I didn’t look back to see what type of guns they were. “Keep watchin’ da plane! Whe de plane? Whe de plane?” We were getting much closer to the boats now. I feel certain that if they were looking, they could have seen us. We took it nice and slow, trying to sneak away without them hearing or seeing the white of our wake in the black sea. I was just waiting for a big spotlight to shine right on us. We were so close we could see the lights on in their ship. There was no light at all on in our panga. They put away the GPS when we got close like this. They weren’t even smoking. I was wondering what else there was down in the hull and if I would be expected to shoot if things started to get hot. By this point, I’d already pissed in my pants once and feeling it warm and pleasant, decided to let the pressure go again.

Interested in what happens next? Find his book at Barns & Noble, Amazon, or from the publisher at www.weaselpress.com/shop/leavingisreturning