Passengers aboard the small boat began yelling in a foreign language and jumping overboard into the harbor, making a swim for the shoreline.

“They fired a blank as a warning shot,” Gun said. “Sounds different. No splash either, see?”

Poorly dressed men and women fell into the water like cascades. Coast Guard and Miami Harbor Patrol skiffs buzzed around the scene to pull many of them out. Life preservers flew amidst the frantic screaming and pleas of, “Asylum! Azil! Asylum! Azil Politik!” Countless police lights hunted for illegals in the dark water.

I stopped watching the tragic event and focused on my own bad situation here. Steamy vapors seemed to hang around and some almost stuck to me. I paused behind a ladder and listened while Gun began telling a story to a large man with a pointy shaved head.

“Carl, I kid you not, on this occasion it was either me or this shark. He just would not leave me alone,” Gun explained, and rubbed his foot across some wet dirt on deck. “I tried to shoot my spear into his head. A one-timer—Swooossh—then blood everywhere. I couldn’t see. But, it wasn’t a good kill shot. I got all gut.”

The man looked delighted, and laughed. “Not a good kill shot!” he repeated.

“So…the fish remained impaled on the spear shaft,” Gun continued in his coarse voice. “Very lively.” He had a small smile as he enjoyed telling the story. “So, I take the fish in a headlock, under my arm like this—like a big loaf of bread like this, stabbing it between the eyes with a knife.” He showed us with jamming twisting motions but I turned away, imagining the fish’s agony. “Pushing it into his brain.To kill him humanely.” When I looked back Gun was stroking his beard, amused. “It was two 6-footers. Reef sharks. One was the girlfriend.”

“Well, God, no, they sure weren’t nurse sharks!” said the man named Carl. He had a small beak nose and large black eyes.

Hearing this violent story with more desperate action in the harbor was creepy. “Had to cut his head off in pieces before the pecker finally died,” Gun spoke in a thoughtful tone. “He still wiggled after the head was completely off. But, that was not the scariest thing on the trip.”

“Another trip from hell?” a strong voice surprised me from behind. “Heard about you.” I turned around but smacked right into a tall African-American guy with a massive build. His glance resembled minimal acknowledgment instead of a greeting.

The black man walked by with a sober face, like armor. “Hello, I’m Killis…” he presented himself to the group. Nobody shook his hand right away, as if waiting for him to extend his hand first or he was waiting for one of us to do so. Then we extended hands at almost the same time.

“Gun Gunderson, the Captain.”

Carl wiped something off his hand before introducing himself. “Hi, I’m Carl Iman. Didn’t we meet once? It was a day dive at Paradise Island?” Killis seemed to agree with a nod of recognition toward big Carl.

Radio chatter in English and Creole crackled back and forth from police boats, punctuated by shouts of “Asylum” and “Azil Politik!”

“Anyway, we almost died several times,” Gun resumed his Trip from Hell yarn. “The boat was taking on water the whole way.” He acted so unconcerned it struck me as reckless. It also gave me a strange feeling of security, though, with Gun in charge even a leaking boat might not mean death.

The black guy studied the ongoing refugee spectacle taking place ashore and in the water. “What did I miss here?” he asked.

It almost sounded like a rhetorical question which everyone hesitated to answer. Strobing red, white and blue lights shot up the night.

“What it looks like,” replied Carl. “Boatload of Haitians tried to beach themselves.”

Killis acknowledged that much with a half-nod. “You think some’ll get away?”

“Sure,” cheerful Carl replied. “They’ll be rounding ‘em up for days!”

Gun winked. “Some will still make it.”

A gorgeous ship more than twice the length and three times the height of ours appeared in the harbor mouth, lit up full of dancing, happy faces.

“That boat’s rigged for merriment,” I noted, struck by how swift she moved and looked.

The police squawking in the background and cries for help began to die down. Gun ignored the sleek yacht gliding into full view. As she cruised by a couple hundred feet away I wanted to be on that boat. A thin man with facial hair was visible on the open stern pulling the arm of a smaller woman, and she yanked hers away. Another man stepped in between them and made hand gestures of “Let it be... It’s OK... Cool it out.”

Laughter roared from the yacht’s high bridge. Manning the helm was a tall guy in euro-briefs with an overhanging belly, flanked by two barely-dressed beauties.